The Final Letter

The night draped over the neighborhood like a glittering black veil, covering all in a quiet, vacant still. Not a creature stirred, not a car passed through the damp streets, no branches blew. The only movement that existed came from the metronome like drip, drip, dripping of drops of water from the tips of leaves and edges of rooftops that glistened in the clear of the night. Not a light stood lit in any house. With the exception of one small, oil lamp in the upstairs bedroom of #9 Fawkes Avenue, where a spindly man sat hunched over a desk much too small for him, his overgrown limbs crammed awkwardly around it’s oblong shape. His left hand tore furiously at his blonde, uncut hair, and his right hand angrily scrunched an ink covered paper. He straightened and stretched before tossing it over his shoulder. It landed on a pile with a dozen others. He breathed, filling his massive lungs with air, and sighed, grabbing yet another sheet and dipped his quill into the ink bottle in front of him. 

“My lovely Isabella,” he started, and paused to reflect on the weight of what he was about to scrawl onto this page. For hours he had struggled to get past those three simple words. He could not muster the courage to continue past the delicate letters of her name. Isabella. Perhaps it was because he thought that lovely was an inadequate way of describing her. He could see her now, the eye in the hurricane of his thoughts, brown eyed, dark skinned, lean and well grown into her limbs unlike him, her hair pulled back from her face and falling around her shoulders that were left uncovered by the white dress she was wearing, adorned with colorful patterns all around. Or perhaps it was because he could not bear to think of the immense pain this would cause her, of how it would wrench her heart, even though they had both known that this day would come. The unavoidable was setting in. 

His eyes opened as the lamp started to flicker, its flame bobbing wildly in the windless space. He reclasped the quill between his fingers and stared at the paper once more, expression flitting between determination and remorse. 

“The time has come.” he continued, “You’ve known for weeks and so have I, though, I will admit that I never expected it to be this soon. How I wish I could have spent this final evening with you, but I know that you are busy. The work you are doing should not be forsaken for a petty, selfish goodbye.” His heart stung with the third sentence. He didn’t mean it, and he knew that she wouldn’t believe it. She always could see past his frivolous facades. But she wouldn’t argue, nor would she disagree. 

His expression moved into something more serious, “I know you will receive this letter at a very busy and rather inopportune time, but please, listen carefully. Follow my instructions exactly as they are written down. They are as follows: I have arranged for you to stay at aunt Magnolia’s. There is no need for you to return here for your things. They were moved this afternoon, so please, do not come back here. That would be pointless and stupid. Surely you know that it is for your own safety. There is nothing left for you here.” He said this only because he knew she would want to come back. He could already feel her longing. But he could not chance her risking her life for mere artifacts or anguished memories. There were more important things that needed to be attended to. 

“Once you are there, have Aunt Magnolia show you to the control room. Her house has served as a base in the past, so it is already fully equipped for what we need to do. Ask her to show you how to work the radio. You’re very bright so I’m sure you could figure it out for yourself, but we are short on time. Then, radio King’s Head, and tell them that I have gone. You will check in like this: “Isn’t it strange how much rain we’ve gotten?” And they should answer: “Yes, I now have roses growing from my left shoe!” If this answer is not given, disconnect everything immediately, and send a letter through regular post to Berty, and do not leave the house. But if all goes well, you will receive further instructions from the contact at King’s Head. Your stay at Aunt Magnolia’s should not last more than three days. She’ll make it comfortable for you.” He was aware that he was not being concise, but he could not help it. He wanted to fill every space on the page with words, to give her one last thing of his to hold onto, to try and express how much he cared for her though tiny details. He yearned for the days when being by her side would keep her safe and protected, but now, his very presence, his connection to her was her greatest danger.

A guilty wave washed over him. He wanted to apologize, to tell her how sorry he was. That all this had to happen, he wanted to take the blame, to say that it was his fault. But her sad smile laced with understanding flashed across his mind. She understood the complexity, the severity, the importance, and most importantly, she understood the reality of it all. Her comprehension of just how grave a cause this was had astounded him at first, but he had grown to appreciate it. She never stood in the way of what needed to be done, no matter how hard it was for her to watch it happen. She would tell him not to apologize, that it was silly and senseless to blame himself, but he did all the same. 

His heart lurched, and he was grasped by a sudden desperation. Hope surged through him, and he began deliriously imagining ways to bring her to him once he was settled, ways to hide her as he traveled, ways to escape with her, to go abroad with her, to leave and never return, to protect her once more. He stopped his hand an inch from the page, forcing himself out of his daydream. It was foolish to think like that, to think that he could promise her a return, when he wasn’t sure he’d even be able survive, much less come back. How selfish, he thought, would it be to tell her to hold on. But he knew that she would not let go, and he hated himself for taking comfort in the thought. 

He glanced up at the pendulum clock on the wall. Just thirty minutes remained until he would depart at twelve o’clock exactly. He looked back at the letter, mind searching for a suitable close, “I know there are many things that have been left unsaid, darling, by both you and me. But we both know that it is for the better that they stay unsaid. It will make everything easier in the long run. Even so, there is one thing that I feel obligated to say.” He hesitated, wondering if it was wise to say it. But time was not on his side, “I love you, Issa.” The words stood out on the page, fresh and inky. He considered writing more, down to the very edge of the page, but thought better of it. She would see past the simplicity of the words, they would carry the weight of everything that was brewing inside him. 

With a heavy hand he drew the final sentence across the page, “Take care my darling, please, take care of yourself. Until we meet again, Frederick”. 

He swallowed, and set the plume gently on the desk. He took the paper, and folded it delicately in three, as if he was afraid it might fall apart, and tucked it neatly in an envelope. He sealed it, stamped it, addressed it to the place where she was currently stationed, but left the top left corner bare. There was no need to leave a return address.

He stood, pushing back his chair, and his gaze traveled down out of the open window at the shimmering cobbled streets, and then back to the clock. His fingers traced the envelope absentmindedly, fighting to keep his thoughts from wandering. Now was not the time for dreaming. He removed a small silver key from his pants pocket, and inserted it carefully into the single small drawer found underneath the desk. It clicked in a waltz-like rhythm before sliding open, revealing a glowing rectangle the size of the envelope that hovered, bobbing up and down gently. With a final look at the envelope, he pressed his lips to its front, and pushed it firmly into the rectangle. With a light blue flash and a swelling sort of sound, it vanished. 

A clock tower's chimes echoed in the distance, marking the start. His own clocked joined in, tinkering delicately as if trying to lift the mood of the early morning hours, as if trying to console him. He gingerly slid the drawer closed. It clicked again. He slid the key back into his pocket, and strode across the small room. A rickety wooden coat hanger stood in the corner by the bed, offering up a navy blue jacket and matching cap. He threw them on, and turned to the bed. Laying flat on his stomach, he reached underneath and pulled out a small wooden box tinted red with varnish. He slipped it into the breast pocket of his coat, adjusting so it wouldn’t show.

He started towards the door, then stopped, allowing his eyes to roam around the room for the last time. The chestnut dresser by the window, full of old suits and the remainders of smoke smelling evenings out. The bed where he had spent so many nights laying awake staring at the cracked, water stained, peeling ceiling. The desk where he had sat writing letter after letter after letter, and the paper and the quill and the ink bottle that was nearly dry. The faithful clock that never failed to chime. The tattletale floor that gave away to Isabella his every step all those days he had spent pondering and pacing and solving. The old all-knowing mirror, now hanging broken next to the door, casting distorted reflections of himself about the place. It was all oddly beautiful, especially now he noticed, cast in dark shadows by the feeble golden light. 

Sliding a pair of worn leather gloves from his pocket and taking a last view out of the window, he left the room as the clock gave a final strike. He passed through the lightless hall keeping his eyes forward. He passed Isabella’s room, and for a moment he let the idea of looking inside cross his mind. But there would be nothing left of her there. He knew all he would find was vacancy and chilly drafts. His boots landed heavy with each step as he tramped down the stairs. Remnants of a living room stood around him, old furniture covered in white cloth, being preserved for a future date. He did not know why he hadn’t just sold them. Perhaps he was hoping that someday he would be able to return. A thin, brittle smile crossed his lips. Such thoughts were pure fantasy. He cast an eye out into the street. It wasn’t uncommon for departures like his to be detected and stopped in very violently, very deadly ways. A small table stood close to the door. He felt the ground near its legs, and his fingers closed around the leather strap of an old crossbody bag. He slipped it over his shoulder. It was heavy and full, but compact, its seams straining with the shape of its contents. Scanning the street once more, he left. 

He strode briskly down the street, keeping close to the brick of the houses lined in tight rows. He reached the end of the jagged street, and darted kitty corner across, the splashes of his boots sending ripples through the numerous puddles. As soon as his boot crossed the center of the intersection, a spinning figure materialized beside him. Fiery gold sparks fell from the man as he slowed and fell into step beside Frederick. 

Frederick jumped back, startled by the sudden appearance of the fellow, “My God, Charlie, what are you doing here?” He maintained his brisk pace, glancing around to make sure that they were not being followed. 

“Freddy,” Charlie, who stood a good head shorter than his blonde companion, tripped to keep up with him, “What do you think you’re doing? You were supposed to wait until I arrived to leave!”

“It’s not my fault that you were late,” Frederick growled, “Time stands still for no one, especially now.” He had been told that a contact would appear below his window with the first chime of the hour, and to simply carry on if the contact did not appear after the last. 

“I’m sorry” Charlie wheezed, “I’m sorry, the sparking networks were horrendous. There’s been a hack in the next town over. Good thing we’re getting you out of here while we still can.”

“Yeah,” Frederick grimaced, “I didn’t mean to cause everyone so much trouble,” they turned another corner through a gate and a graveyard, headstones watching their every move. He opened the leather bag, and fumbled blindly through its contents. 

“Look, it’s not your fault, really,” Charlie squinted at his hurried movements, then reached into his own pockets, “It’s not in there. Here, I have it.”

He presented Frederick with a small shimmery silver-blue orb. The light shone pale against their faces. 

Content recognition surged across Frederick’s face as he took the bulb, “Thanks, Charlie, what would I do without you?”

Charlie gave a strained chuckle as they approached the top of the incline, “It’s not me you need to thank.”

Frederick gave him a quizzical stare out of the corner of his eye, “What’s that supposed to mean?” he tugged furiously at the bag's flap, trying to get it to close. 

Charlie beamed, “Issa,” they stopped at the top of the mossy hill. 

“Isabella,” Frederick repeated her name, holding it between his clenched teeth, “Is she alright? How did you see her?”

“I saw her at headquarters. She’s fine, Freddy. She gave me the orb from your desk,” he removed a small package from inside of his jacket, “And this.” 

It was wrapped in browning newspaper and tied with fraying strings. On the top was scribbled, in bold letters, the words “To Frederick”. His heart thundered painfully against his chest, both from the walking, and the new surge of adrenaline that came with this much needed gift. Charlie placed it in his hands, and he held it gingerly between his fingers. Neither knew what was inside.

He moved to open it, but Charlie stopped him, “She said that you were not to open it until you got to your destination,” he smiled grimly, “I’m going to miss you, Freddy.”

Frederick took him into a hug, “Yeah, I’ll miss you too,” they pulled away and shook hands. He felt remorse a second time. He stood observing his childhood friend, memorizing every detail of the still boyish face, the man who hadn’t changed since the eighth grade. He wondered why they had never taken the time to sit down over tea, or gone back home to visit the stream and catch frogs like they had done so often when they were young. 

He looked down at the package in his hands, “You’ll take care of her, won’t you?”

Charlie nodded, “Of course,” he chuckled, “But I hardly think she’ll need it.”

Frederick smiled, wide and genuine. Charlie was right. But knowing that Charlie would be near Isabella still brought him a great deal of comfort. He slid the package into his jacket next to the red tinted box. 

Charlie raised a hand to his face, “You’d better get going, then,” he choked,  “They need you.”

Frederick swallowed and nodded, emotion rising in his throat. There was nothing more to be said, there was nothing more that could be said. It was time to depart. 

“I’ll see you soon,” the words left his mouth like a question. 

“Yeah,” Charlie attempted a smile, tears lining his eyes, “Soon, very soon.”

Frederick knew they were lying to themselves. This future greeting that they had conjured in their minds would never come to be. There would be no next time. 

“Take care of yourself,” Charlie breathed, composing himself. 

“You too, Charlie,” Frederick took a step back, and felt himself over, making sure he had everything he had brought and acquired. 

He gave the blue-grey orb a squeeze, feeling it quiver beneath his fingers. This was it. He was going to launch himself into the inevitable unknown, to do what needed to be done, to right a million wrongs, to sacrifice with the intention to save. He closed his eyes, images of Isabella and Charlie and the house and the town racing through his mind. He turned once, twice, three times, and with a force that seemed to take all the strength he had, he threw the sparkling sphere into the air, and in a showering burst of silver sparks, and a swish of sound, he was gone.