May this letter find you.
Do you remember when you first held me as a newborn?
I do not, for I was too young. But mother has always spoken of it, how you looked like a stunned bird, not knowing whether to drop me or eat me. I always wondered what it was like to be held by you as an infant, it must be the most peaceful thing in the world.
Do you remember when you first brought me to your ship?
I do not, not really. I only remember some loud sounds and screams. But father spoke of the steel giants that came from the sky, how you protected us, how you fought them back and how you took us away on your ship. You sacrificed most of your Canopteks to hold the line, and broke hundreds of them. You’re a hero to us, all the older folks spoke of it.
Do you remember the doll you gave me when we first arrived here?
I do, I actually do. A little me, when the adults are busy building a new town in this world. It’s the first gift I ever received, and I still have it. Dropped it in the mud a few times, but I always tried to keep it clean and in one piece. The other kids were always jealous of it, but I never let them touch it.
Do you remember the first time we practiced shooting?
I do, I do. I remember how we had to resize an uniform from the old army, how you could simply take one from the storage yet chose to politely ask the captain, how you took out the helmets of those steel giants you collected when we left the old world, how you picked me up onto your shoulders, high up, safe and steady. I held the rifle and steadied it on your headpiece, it’s surprisingly a good fit. It took a bit to shoot through those helmets though, but we did it. You were so proud of me, I’ve been keeping the practice since then.
Do you remember the mask we sculpt for each other?
I do. Picked up sculpting just to make one for you, took me a year of learning and getting nipped on the fingers. I still remember how you liked it so much, and sculpt a mask of my face. You couldn’t show expressions with that metal face of yours, but I can always tell your mood from all the signs. I still kept them both, wiped them clean every night before bed.
Do you remember that time I asked you to make me into a Pariah?
I do. It was the worst mistake of my life, a young woman’s stubborn, stubborn mistake. I thought I could become one of you, to stay with you forever, to love you forever. But you knew better than me, inside that metal shell of yours, what a fate worse than death it is. You spoke of it, of your old home, when you were dragged to the furnace by your tutor, and I poked right into it. You tried to protect me, yet I was so angry and hurt, I ran away and abandoned you in an undignified tantrum. If only I could reclaim all those lost years without you, I would do it in a heartbeat.
Do you remember my husband, Tassilo?
Oh, wait, you won’t. I met him after I left you, I thought he could fill something in me, to fill the emptiness of the lack of you. But he could not. He’s not a bad man, had two kids with him, but I could never feel the connection after the first few months. We divorced, he took the children. The fault was mine, not his. We still meet each other, though, just not as a couple.
Do you remember when I came back to you?
I do. You’re barely half an hour walk from my house, yet I was such a stubborn woman, and never visited for decades, until father and mother passed away. It was the happiest day of my life, coming back to you again. You held me so dear, like how Aunt Taēsi used to hold you as a child of flesh and blood, I’m sure.
Do you remember when I read the books I wrote to you?
I do. They weren't good books though, barely broke even selling them, yet you listened so carefully. You always asked questions, the relationships, the worldbuildings, the plots. That one time when you caught me making a plothole just from remembering how much Švejk paid Alexios fifteen chapters before. Made me much more careful, and actually sold quite a bit better for my new books.
I remember everything I could, every moment of my life together with you, I cherish them all.
I do not have many days left, this flesh and blood body of mine, unlike you. I could ask you again to make me a Pariah, but I know better.
So, this letter is a goodbye for me. If heaven exists, I will be waiting for you there, with mother, father and Tassilo.
