Dear Circe,
If you're reading this, then that means I didn't make it. To be honest with you, I knew I wasn't going to make it out of that warehouse. But that doesn't make writing this letter any easier. Actually, I've written quite a few letters in the past few days and this one is still the hardest.
I had a lot of paper and a lot of free time. So when I say I was writing letters, I mean I was writing a lot of letters. Over a hundred, I believe. And most of them are for you.
Sometimes you'll get a letter from me for Christmas, some for other random holidays, but you'll get a letter and a card from me every birthday.
I want you to pretend as best you can that I'm still there. That I'm just on a business trip or something in a foreign country and I just can't come home yet. That's how I wrote those letters; as if I were coming home. And I think, at some point, I will come home. Just not in the way you expect.
But that almost seems like to much to ask. Don't stop your life for me; just try when you read those letters to pretend. That's all.
-your chevalier
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There was a letter waiting for her patiently in the mailbox when she returned home. Finding that it did not have a return address, gut seized when she recognized the hand writing almost instantly.
Quick to enter her home, keys were haphazardly tossed aside into the awaiting bowl before the motion was made to sit upon the couch. Studying the letter within her hands, she flips it over between shaking fingers before carefully breaking the seal.
She's afraid to see what was written, what he had to say. But reluctantly she unfolds the paper and begins to read. Throughout the letter she feels her throat tighten, his words seemed easier said then done at this point.
Even so, she rereads the letter multiple times before folding it back to how it was and slipping it into the awaiting envelope. Moments pass as she sat there, thinking of how much time he must have put into this letter and the ones to come not knowing if she should start dreading holidays.
