№ 00 — october 2025
I keep finding things and not knowing who to tell.
So I started writing them down for you.
A kettle that whistles in B-flat. A cardigan that
smells like rain. A paperback I dog-eared on a
train. None of it is urgent. All of it is true.
— J., for you.
scroll into the weather
№ 01 — kitchens
Dear M, this kettle hums while it heats, then sings when it's ready, and somehow it sings the same note every time. I think you'd like it most on Sundays, before anyone else is up.
— J., for you
№ 02 — books for trains
Dear you, finished it on the 17:43 to nowhere. The last page made me put it down and look at the window for a long time. Take it with you when the weather is grey.
— J., for you
№ 03 — perfumes for grief
Dear M, I think you'd love this one — burnt sugar, library dust, a faint ghost of someone else's fireplace. I'd say it's perfect, but only in the month when the trees forget themselves.
— J., for you
№ 04 — umbrellas
Wool that remembers. Big enough to be the weather, small enough to be a person. I'd lend it to you and then forget I had.
— J., for you
№ 05 — lullabies
Two-and-a-half minutes long. Played at low volume, it dissolves the room. Played at any volume, it dissolves the day. I don't know who wrote it. I think they wrote it for you.
— J., for you
№ 06 — kitchens
A wide ceramic, glaze the colour of the sea seen from the air. Holds nine apples or three afternoons.
— J., for you
№ 07 — perfumes for grief
Pepper, cut grass, the inside of an old wooden drawer where someone kept good letters. Wear it on the day you don't want to be recognised.
— J., for you
№ 08 — books for trains
A novel that fits in a coat pocket and asks for very little of you, but gives a great deal back. Don't read the back cover.
— J., for you
№ 09 — lullabies
Dear you, between 02:14 and 02:31 on a Wednesday, this radio plays the music a friend would have chosen for you. The rest of the time it is content to be a polite small box on a kitchen shelf. Bring it home and don't tell it what to do.
— J., for you
№ 10 — umbrellas
Pink as a held breath, opens with a soft click, closes with a kinder one. I tested it in the small storms in my head; it kept me dry there too.
— J., for you
№ 11 — kitchens
Plain. Honest. Old. Stains the colour of August. Holds the memory of every winter you ever cooked through.
— J., for you
№ 12 — lullabies
A small folded paper that, every morning, says something slightly different and slightly truer. I cannot tell you where to find one. I can tell you to keep looking.
— J., for you