I could debate the answer to your question until the end of May—maybe I'm an illusion along with the rest of the world; maybe nothing's real outside of the Tower, or your room, or your head. 

Maybe I'm real and you're just a character in a fable I'm reading before bed; maybe I leave myself questions each night, pretending that they've come from someone in need of saving (a handsome boy imprisoned by his evil father, perhaps?)—it certainly sounds like I made all of this up.

Maybe that's what you're really afraid of.

I'm outside; I see the world; I describe it to you. I'm your eyes; I see what you've longed to see your whole life.  Only the story I've been telling isn't all poppies and sunlight, is it? The world I see, the world both of us live in, is no dream.

We both exist; my brother exists; my parents, far away to the north in their hellish Red Camp, exist.  Your father seems like an entirely implausible character, doesn't he? How could one man have set in motion all of these events; the burning of the city, the arrest of thousands, the systematic starvation of children? I've asked myself how this can be real just as you have.

You're alone in your room, high in the Tower. Your father has the Land to run, your teacher has never been friendly, and your mother is loving but increasingly withdrawn.  Most days it's just you—you and these notes (notes that I'm praying you're keeping secret).

It won't be like this forever—I'm not talking about when you take over for your father.  My brother means to bring down the Tower a lot sooner than that, Theo.

When we were young, before our world fell apart, Graden would spend hours plotting out elaborate games of war for the children living on our narrow street.  As the oldest in our family, my brothers and I hung on his every word—we followed all of his commands. 

Together, the four of us battled the other neighborhood children; we staged ambushes; we fought with all our might; our stick swords clashed with those of the enemy. When opponents begged for mercy, we dipped the tip of our swords in the ash of yesterday's cook fires and smudged their foreheads with an X. This was the mark of the dead; anyone baring it was relegated to sit on the sidelines, elbows upon knees, for the rest of the game.

Even though we were far outnumbered, even though there were older kids amongst their ranks, my brothers and I always won.  It didn't take too many of these skirmishes for the other kids to switch loyalties, pleading with my brother for a spot in his army.  At twelve years-old he had already gained a following willing to fake-die for him.

Now he has a real following—an actual army filled with soldiers who would truly give their lives for him and the cause he stands for. 

Graden is a natural leader; he's a survivor.  If your father knew who he was, what he's capable of, he'd be more afraid than he is now. 

Do you want to know if this is real?  Wait until there's a revolution at your door.  It won't be long.