Room 410, Tuesday afternoon
It felt familiar to write a letter using a quill and ink on the good quality paper he had brought with him from home. Ichabod was aware that the fact that he was even reflecting on this showed how used he had become to modern ways of communication. The letter itself was a struggle to write though, and he doubted that he would manage to finish it today. Most likely this draft would join the previous ones and end up in a crumpled pile, regrettably difficult to burn due to the lack of a fireplace. However, Mary deserved a letter; she deserved to be told that he did not love her and that he would never become her husband.
A sound from his phone offered a welcome distraction. One of the unknown opponents in the game called Wordfeud had made a move, and Ichabod grinned as he immediately saw a most suitable response. This, however, was rejected by the device. He frowned, muttering to himself: "Just because someone chose to remove this word from the dictionary less than a hundred years ago doesn't mean it shouldn't be a legitimate move." He put the phone down and glared at it, crossing his arms.
[open door, open post]
A sound from his phone offered a welcome distraction. One of the unknown opponents in the game called Wordfeud had made a move, and Ichabod grinned as he immediately saw a most suitable response. This, however, was rejected by the device. He frowned, muttering to himself: "Just because someone chose to remove this word from the dictionary less than a hundred years ago doesn't mean it shouldn't be a legitimate move." He put the phone down and glared at it, crossing his arms.
[open door, open post]