Will occasionally gets postcards in the mail.
No name. No address. No matter where he is.
Always of art.
Postcards of paintings from all around the world.
He likes researching them and learning about the artist, what the paintings mean, where the paintings hang now.
He knows she wouldn’t be there if he went, but he still looks into the cities that the galleries are in. Reading about the history and imagining her telling him about it. Imagining her exploring. Learning. Existing freely.
He doesn’t tell anyone because he knows she trusts him not to. Trusts him to not try and find her.
He likes to think she still checks in with him as occasionally the meaning or subject of a painting will hit too close to home with him and whatever the current thing that was bothering him.
He wishes he could write back. Wishes he knew how to check on her as she checks on him.
But since everything ended, his powers lay dormant. Only evidence they still exist are the small ‘electrical faults’ that are perfectly timed with big emotions and always end in a nose bleed.
