Vox Meditantis

San Francisco, California
15th October, 1908

My Dearest Charles,

The fog has lifted from the bay this morning, and I find myself compelled to take pen to paper whilst the autumn light streams through my boarding house window. How curious it is that such simple phenomena—the retreat of mist, the slant of golden rays—should remind me so powerfully of you, yet they do, for it was on just such a morning that you departed from this rebuilt city, leaving me with naught but memories and the promise of letters.

It has been nigh on three months since your train pulled away from the Southern Pacific depot, bound for that distant territory you now call home. Three months of watching the great reconstruction continue around me, of witnessing Phoenix-like towers rise from the ashes of our great calamity, yet feeling as though my own foundation remains unsettled without your steady presence.

You asked in your last correspondence about my circumstances here, and I confess the reality is both more arduous and more wondrous than I had anticipated when Papa determined we should make our new beginning in this western metropolis. The boarding house where I have secured lodgings sits upon Stockton Street, in the heart of Chinatown, though the neighbourhood bears little resemblance to the one that perished in the flames two years past. Mrs. Chen, my landlady, speaks often of the old ways lost, yet I observe in her eyes the same determined hope that burns in the breast of every soul seeking to forge something better from catastrophe’s wake.

My position at the Emporium has afforded me modest independence, though I confess the work of attending to ladies’ haberdashery requires more diplomacy than I had supposed. The customers range from society matrons rebuilding their wardrobes to immigrant wives spending their husband’s hard-earned wages on small luxuries that remind them of distant homes. Each transaction tells a story, Charles, and I find myself thinking how you would appreciate these glimpses into the human condition—you who have always possessed such keen insight into the motivations that drive us all.

Yet it is in the evenings, when the city’s bustle quiets and I retreat to my small chamber, that your absence weighs most heavily upon my heart. I have read and re-read your letters until the paper grows soft beneath my fingers, searching each line for some indication of when this separation might end. You write of Utah’s grandeur, of mountains that scrape the very heavens and of opportunities in the mining ventures that draw men west, but you speak little of permanence, and I confess this uncertainty troubles my sleep.

I do not write this to burden you with feminine sentiment, but rather to lay bare the truth that has crystallised within me during these months of solitude: that love, when genuine, does not diminish with distance but rather intensifies, like the concentrated essence of a perfume when reduced by the alchemist’s flame. What we shared during those precious weeks of courtship was no mere fancy born of proximity, but something far more enduring.

The moral complexities of our situation are not lost upon me. Society dictates that a woman should not speak so boldly of her affections, particularly to a gentleman whose intentions remain formally unspoken. Yet these are extraordinary times, Charles. We live in an age when women march for suffrage, when the very foundations of convention shift beneath our feet. If I am to build a life worthy of the new century dawning before us, must I not have the courage to speak honestly of what lies within my heart?

I have enclosed with this letter a pressed flower—a wild poppy I discovered growing impossibly through a crack in the pavement near the ruins of the old Palace Hotel. It struck me as emblematic of hope’s persistence, of beauty’s refusal to be conquered by circumstance. Perhaps you might keep it as a token, a reminder that some things endure despite the forces arrayed against them.

Your last letter spoke of winter’s approach in the mountains, and I find myself wondering whether you possess adequate provisions against the cold. How I wish I might send more than mere words across the divide that separates us! Yet perhaps these humble offerings of the heart might provide some warmth during the long nights ahead.

Write to me soon, dearest Charles. Tell me of your hopes for the spring, of whether the mining concerns show promise, of whether your thoughts ever turn westward toward California and the woman who awaits your word with such steadfast devotion.

Until we meet again, I remain,

Your most faithful correspondent,

Martha Kim

P.S. The earthquake anniversary has passed with much ceremony and remembrance. The city grows more beautiful each day, yet I find myself thinking how much more beautiful it would appear were you here to witness its resurrection beside me.

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Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.