I have been trying to reach you for four months. Your office says sabbatical. Your number goes to a voicemail that no longer takes messages. I drove past your house: it is dark. The mail is not collecting. I am beginning to be worried. I have stopped being worried. I know where you are.

The administrator said you said you were going somewhere you had been before. I spent weeks thinking about that. I kept coming back to it. A place you had been before. Not a holiday. Not research. A place you had been before that was worth going to again, urgently, without leaving a forwarding address or telling anyone.

I showed you the star map in October. You looked at it for a long time. You said: "Do you know what these coordinates spell?" And then you said I had to work it out myself. You left. You never came back.

M., I think the coordinates led you to the same thing they led me to. I think you have a garden too. Or a corridor. Or a basement with stone walls and a script you can almost read. I think you went in. I think you went in without telling anyone because you knew that telling someone would change what you found, or make it frightened of you, or make you frightened of yourself.

I am going in tomorrow. 2022-02-14. I have been delaying for long enough. I want you to know — wherever this letter doesn't reach you — that I'm not going in afraid. I'm going in curious. I think that's the right way to go. I think you figured that out before me. You always did think faster.