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This switcher only changes the instructions — the reading is always in English.
In bold: key vocabulary. Tap any word in the text to see its definition.
Ines found the first letter on her doormat in March. It was addressed to a Mr. Henrique Dias, who had lived in her apartment in Porto before her. The stamp was Canadian, and the handwriting was round and neat. Ines was a bookbinder, and she could not resist reading something so carefully written. She read it twice, and then she wrote back.
"Dear Claire," she wrote. "I'm sorry to tell you that Mr. Dias moved away three years ago. I have no idea where he lives now. But I read your letter, because I didn't know what else to do with it. You wrote about the fog on the coast of Newfoundland and the smell of fresh bread in your village. I've never been there, but I can almost see it."
Two months later, an answer arrived. "Dear Ines, thank you for your kindness. I'm a little embarrassed that a stranger read my letter. But I have to confess, I've enjoyed writing it, so I'd like to continue, if you don't mind. Tell me about Porto."
So they wrote. Claire described the harbor where she repaired fishing nets and the storms that shook her windows. Ines wrote about the tiles on her street and the old books she repaired. They told each other about their childhoods, and their failures, and their favorite songs. Each letter took three weeks to arrive, which meant that every question had to wait for its answer, and every answer felt like a small gift.
By winter, Ines realized that she was checking the doormat every morning. She had never written so much to anybody, and she had never felt so understood. In December, Claire sent a photograph of herself standing on a rocky beach with a scarf over her hair. Ines put it on her desk, next to her glue and her scissors.
In the spring, Ines wrote: "I have never said this to anyone, and it feels foolish to say it on paper. But I think I'd like to meet you." She posted the letter, and then she worried for weeks. Claire did not answer.
On a rainy afternoon in June, somebody rang the bell of the apartment. Ines went down and opened the door. A woman with a suitcase and salt-stained boots stood there, smiling nervously. "I got your letter," said Claire. "But it was faster to come and say yes myself."
