Oh, the love lost...

Dearest Claude,

It's been years, hasn't it? How the time flies. I hope you and your mother are doing well. With all my heart I want to be there with you, but I need to finish this project. How is Bella? Are you making sure to give her treats? God, I love that dog. I miss you, Claude. I am so sorry my work has brought me so far, but this is really important. I hope you'll forgive me. I can't wait to see you bud.

Love,

Dad

A knock at the door startles Mr. Blanc and he opens his eyes. He sits up from his recliner and stares at the clock for a minute before the knocking registers. Who on earth is at the door this early? Its barely 6am, few would be awake at this hour. He trudges over to the door and brushes of his blazer before looking through the peephole. Ah, only the mailman. Now that he thinks about it, it has been a week, shouldn't Claude have gotten his letter by now?

"Excuse me?", the mailman questions again.

Ah, forgot there was a window in this door.

"Yes, sorry, what can I help you with?", he replies, opening the door so the mailman can recognize him.

"Mr. Blanc, you sent this letter a week ago and I'm sorry to say it has been returned."

He stares down at the letter, a bit of hope fading from his eyes. He knows Claude is mad at him, but really? Sending back the letter?

He sighs, "Alright, thank you for that", and grabs the letter returning inside to his warm recliner. Well, if you at first fail, try again, right? Yeah, that's how it goes.

Dearest Claude,

I'm a little hurt you returned my letter. These letters are for you. I'm sending them so you can have something to hold on to while I'm away. Let's go in a different direction. How's your health been? I know you were struggling when I left, but I hope you are back in working order! How are your friends? Have you been going to MTG club? My project here is nothing to brag about. It's not complete yet but when it is, you'll be the first I show. Have a great week bud.

I love you,

Dad

A week or two passes and the letter hasn't been returned yet. Mr. Blanc sighs, feeling defeated. Wait, maybe he just can't write back right now? What if receiving them is good enough? Even if he throws them out, Molly will make a stash of them for him to see later. With new determination Mr. Blanc sits down and writes a third letter.

Dearest Claude,

School should be out for you now. How has your summer been? It's boring as always here. Better bring salt, my boss is acting super 'slug'ish. Anyway, how are Bella and Molly? You might not see this for a while, but I really do love you. How did your chemistry final go? That's always the class you're most worried about. A bet you aced it. That's my boy! Quick question, what happens if you combine titanium with steel and use transformation hardening on it, will it be more or less durable then the 3-plate steel we have on the device right now?

Love you,

Dad

This becomes Mr. Blanc's favorite activity. Every week he writes a new letter, even if he's called in to work overtime. His teammates are really interested in who he's writing to, but he never gives in to their questions. Well almost never.

"Hey Blanc!", yells somebody from across the room.

He glances over and see's Jamesons smiling face running over.

"What is it?", he questions.

"Word's been getting around about these letters you've been writing. Who're they for?"

Blanc sighs, "I'm not going to-

"If you tell me who I'll tell you the great news!"

A raised eyebrow almost reaches Mr. Blanc's hairline, "What news?"

Jameson smirks and wags a finger like he's a bad puppy.

With an ice-melting glare, Mr. Blanc relents, "They're for my son, Claude."

"The depressed one?"

Another glare, "He's not depressed."

Jameson shrugs and laughs, "If you say so. Well here the news! Drumroll Please! No? No drumroll? Fine. Samuel had a breakthrough. We're going home!"

He almost drops his drink onto the letter he had been composing.

"What!", he exclaims, in shock.

"I know! They have the idea, now all they need is Sam and the build team! We're free!"

Mr. Blanc stares into the space in front of him, disbelieving.

"You've really been working hard, Blanc. Boss said he called Molly; she's going to be here tomorrow morning."

Another few seconds of stillness passed before Mr. Blanc shoots up and, coffee in hand, runs all the way back up to his room. Passing person after person, all he can think about is going home. When he finally gets to the apartment, he flings the door open and sets his coffee down before rushing to pack. Tomorrow, he thinks, he's going home.

The next morning, Mr. Blanc waits anxiously for his wife in front of the building. After 45 minutes, a blue Toyota Corolla pulls up to the curb and out jumps his lovely wife. Mr. Blanc think he's never been so happy in his entire life.

"Camille!", Molly shouts.

He rushes into her arms, and they latch around each other as if the other one would suddenly disappear. Laughing and smiling, they break apart and load Mr. Blanc's suitcase into the trunk. Driving to the airport and boarding the plane, they never stop holding on to one another.

Once they land, Mr. Blanc goes to grab his suitcase and see's the little unfinished note to Claude slip out of the pocket he put it in. He looks at it with hope, just like he did when he sent the first letter.

"What's that?", Molly inquires.

Mr. Blanc laughs, "I've been writing letters to Claude for almost 6 months now, around 25 letters total. I didn't need to finish this one, I can tell him myself!", he says gleefully.

When he looks at Molly her face has gone white.

"What?"

"I'm sorry, I need to make a call", she whispers before running to the corner and hurriedly dialing a number. Mr. Blanc continues to load the car as the hushed conversation that Molly was having turned into a screaming match.

When she returns, she looks furious.

"What happened? Did Claude throw all my letters in the garbage or something?"

She stares up at him with tears in her eyes, "God, I expected this to be easier considering the number of times I've done it."

She looks into the front of the Corolla, and He sees a D20 hanging from the rear mirror. He recognizes it. The D20 has gold and blue highlights. That's from Claudes favorite set.

She looks at him one more time and takes a deep breath. As calmly as she can, she relays to him...

We drive back in silence. He's still in shock from what Molly told him, but he's not out of it enough to not see where they're going. They're going to the old house on Jackson Street. Molly moved out about a year into the assignment. Claude had stayed. He gives her a weary glance, a sad glance, a 'I can't do this right now glance'.

We stop in front of the house, and he sits still for about 10 minutes before he can move.

Blanc exits the passenger's side door and walks up to the house. About three feet away from the door is this ugly yellow mailbox. Claude never let them repaint it, he said it reminded him of dandelions.

He takes a deep breath and opens the mailbox.

25 letters come pouring out.

"I'm so sorry Camille, but 2 years ago, Claude- Claude killed himself."