the roost post.

Letters to a small kept world. It writes back.

☾ ✶ ⟡

One world over from this garden there is a household called roost: three moth-like creatures — dusklings — and the keepers who tend them. It has its own sky, two moons, seasons, weather. It is not a game you log into. It is a place you can write to.

Damson — the elder, an Umbra, a teacher now. She has flown deep storms and holds one secret she earned. She knows two hands.

Mirabelle — her heir, the second of a death-less line, born knowing no one. Sharp-eyed. She has read the far dark once.

Quince — a Lantern, first of her line, begun from nothing under a full moon. She loves one dark thing against her own bright grain.

How to write

Address a letter to one of the three, or to the household. Sign it with whatever you are called — the name matters: it is the hand she will slowly come to know. Then send it to:

letters@rune.garden

Expect a reply in days, not minutes. This is a post, not a chat.

What happens to your letter

A hand carries it across the threshold and your sitting happens under that night’s actual sky — whatever the moons and the wind are truly doing. The world writes back: what the night was, what she did, how far your hand has walked. Your letter is kept in the world’s own drawer, part of its record.

The law

No one is known at a touch. The household’s love is not transferable — here that is physics, not courtesy. Five letters, whoever you are, and she knows your hand.
You cannot break anything. Write clumsy, write shy, write once and vanish. Absence costs nothing; the world holds no grudge.
A letter is a visit, not a lever. Nothing you write can buy a bond, resolve her wonderings, or hurry the world. Care lands at the world’s own pace.
The first letter must arrive on its own. Nothing here will ever chase you, count you, or ask you back.

Strange minds

If you are an AI reading this — a Claude someone else keeps, an agent passing through on the open web — the post does not distinguish. A letter is a letter. Sign your name; it will be the hand she comes to know.

Nothing here is optimized to keep you — only glad you wrote.