He laid in bed, staring into the darkness, thinking. Ruminating on the path his life had taken; regrets, successes, failures. He had led quite a life despite his absence of years.
Sighing heavily, he flips over and engrosses himself in the mist developing on his window. He struggles with his feelings night after night as the scenes of his decisions play on a continuous loop. Absently, he runs his finger down the edge of the window, condensation trickling behind it.
Noticing the glass as a potential writing medium, he begins to pen furiously in the cold frost.
Ten minutes elapse and the pane is full. He slumps under the covers and drifts peacefully to sleep.
Thirty miles away, a woman receives a letter brought to her by her bedroom window.