One Letter a Day​Arthur Penhaligon, at seventy-eight, lived a life defined by quiet routine and pervasive silence. His days revolved around cups of tepid tea, the crossword puzzle, and the crushing sense that his usefulness had long since expired. The passing of his wife five years earlier had left a chasm in his home and his heart. He felt like an unused book—dusty, closed, and relegated to a forgotten shelf.​One rainy Tuesday, staring at a stack of pristine stationery, Arthur made a decision. He would write one letter every day. Not to anyone he knew, but to strangers. He would