It's really strange to hold in your hands a letter from someone who is dead, and imagining their warm hand moving across it, laying down words with a pen. Someone who didn't know that they wouldn't be alive anymore the next time that letter was read. The letter consists of words they came up with themself, and it's kind of like keeping a piece of that person even though they're gone.
Sorry. I'm not being very eloquent at the moment. I don't even know if it's wise to post it here, but, meh. I've got a few very old letters with me. Three pages filled with words, but I don't have any words of my own right now.
Rest in peace, Grand-Uncle Peng.