the letter Dew began with

One night she put her phone down and said,

“Can’t there be one that doesn’t want anything from me?”

She’d tried five apps. Every one wanted more.
So I built her one that wants nothing.
No account. No sign-up. No server.

Then she asked the question that mattered most.

“And who can see it?”

Nobody.
It lives on her iPhone, in her own iCloud — no server, no login.
It opens for her beautiful eyes, and her eyes alone.

She used to count days on her fingers,
then worry she’d counted wrong.

“Is it late — or am I losing it?”

And day 22, she cried at a dog-food ad.
Nothing was wrong with her. It was day 22.
Now her phone does the remembering — and tells no one.

And me? I never knew when to just bring tea.

So I taught it to whisper to me — just enough.

“She might want warmth today.”

Never her words. Never her notes. Never more than she chooses.
She never has to explain herself again.

Once, half asleep, she asked,

“Why ‘Dew’?”

Dew is what the morning grass keeps
before anyone else is awake —
unnoticed, unfollowed, and entirely yours.

I wanted her mornings to feel like that.