Dear Elliott,

You died, one day before I turned 10.

I remember on my birthday, watching the news. I remember seeing the story — not a headline, just a note in the ticker: "Singer-songwriter Elliott Smith dies in his home of multiple stab wounds."

It didn't register for a while; I didn't necessarily connect you to your albums, so I can't say I broke down crying or anything. I was only 10, you know?

It's the classic songwriter motto, though, isn't it? Pain is beauty? I would have thought you would have known better than that, you of all people. I thought you knew … well, you said you knew. Called it "deaf and dumb and done." You'd been clean for two years, and I expected better.

It wasn't that I didn't expect people to die; I mean, that's part of life. But you, you were a hero, you were a rock star. You were living the dream. And then you just … I don't know. Maybe the conspiracy theorists are right, maybe you were abducted by aliens of stabbed by a ninja or something. But my creeping conscience says you killed yourself, and that's upsetting.

I looked up to you, Elliott. You were a hero. You were my hero. You wrote the most beautiful songs: "Miss Misery," "Twilight," "Plainclothes Man." I still play them today, sometimes. I sing them in the shower, or when I'm walking alone. Not with other people, though; that somehow seems wrong.

Your work with Heatmiser was … cute, for lack of a better word. Rock 'n' roll, '90s grunge. But your solo work was so touching, and so deep, that no one's matched you since.

Elliott, you died one day before I turned 10. Now it's one day before I turn 16, and I miss you.

Love always,

Katy