Dear Terry Pratchett,
I remember my brother and father reacting to your death. I know it’s not long ago, but I only then realised how much some people we don’t even know mean to us. With your books you made especially my father happy when he was young and had to take care of his dying parents. YOU did that. YOU cared for him. I know you didn’t write for him, but to every reader it always feels like that. Now my father doesn’t have that one person who writes for him anymore. I feel like it’s up to me now to do that, whereas I am writing stories, but I don’t think he’ll like them as much as yours. Please tell me I won’t fail to hard. Please.
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