Luce,
I saw you looking at your reflection today.
You were tugging at the streaks in your hair like you do sometimes, twisting and pulling and trying to hide them, and you said something to Holly about dyeing them soon.
I know you don’t like them. They’re a constant reminder of the nightmare that was the Other Side.
But when I look at them… all I can feel is grateful. Grateful that no matter what happens, I got a glimpse of what you’ll look like when you live to grow old.
You know, perhaps better than anyone, what it means to be an agent. What it means to wonder if you’ll ever have a future. Believe it or not, I have hope for one… a future where there is tea and biscuits and decades of photographs on the walls and children’s drawings all over the Thinking Cloth and George over for dinner and your hand in mine.
But if we never get there, at least I have a piece of what it would be. At least I can enjoy how beautiful you look with white at your temples. How perfect you are. And sometimes, when we sit by the fire and I’m almost asleep, it feels like maybe we really did reach that future. Without ghosts, or fear, or doubt. A future where the one thing we know, the truest thing in the world, is that I…
Yours, Lockwood
