The adventures of Kai Gilling continue.
Kai has finally hit his stride. He's found stability in his new ever-moving home by joining the R&R--an organization dedicated to saving those in need. All he has to do is complete training and make nice with...
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Sara Gilling 24 S Landon Street Postal Code: 08754
Sara,
If you're reading this, one of the following has happened:
I lost this notebook by accident
It was stolen from me
I'm mailing it to you in hopes that it gets to you safely
I've given it to you by hand
I'm dead
I'm really hoping it's not the last one, but in the interest of transparency I must say anything can happen out here. I hope whoever or whatever brings it to you can offer a better answer.
I want you to know that I'm thinking of you. All the time. I hope you're thinking about me too, in between conversations and tasks and thoughts, like a train that stops traffic for only a moment during the daily commute.
I hope you are well.
You might not believe that after the last things we said to each other, but I do. I hope that tiny bringer of light, that starbeam, is illuminating your life in ways you never thought possible. I know hope can be a dangerous and deceitful thing in this world, for today and all days upon our horizon, but I hope you are better than you ever were, than we ever had it.
If these really are the last words you have from me, I want to make this clear: All the words in here are yours. When I can no longer keep my thoughts private, when I can no longer carry out my own business, I want you to hold on to them. I want you to read them. If I am still alive, whether in front of you or out meandering across the abandoned land, then these secrets are our secrets. Be mindful. Be careful.
There will be plenty of words inside that can articulate who I am far better than I can speculate here, but for now, I want to share a memory--the memory of you that keeps me warmest. It's from the time when we were kids on the beach, in the days when the ocean was a friend and not an ominous ticking clock. I was ten. You were five.
We were playing that game you used to make me play, the one where we spun around until we were dizzy and tried to run to the water without stepping on any seashells. But they weren't seashells. I knew it at the time, but you didn't. They were chips off crashed ships and flecks of garbage that the ocean had cleansed of impurities. Still, we would run without abandon and admire the shapes we did tread on.
This time when we played, we lined up at the normal starting line and began running for the water, tripping over our own two feet as we tried to control our eyes and limbs. I remember the round feeling long. It felt like I had been running forever. When we finally reached the water, we realized we were further from the starting line than we had ever been.
Someone yelled for us. I don't remember who it was. Dad? Uncle Gunk? Whoever it was, they were mad and frantic and scared.
We took each other's hands and began running. I could hear the water change behind us. We didn't bother to check the ground for "seashells". We could hardly see the path, with our salty, straggled hair crowding our faces. Back when my hair was long.
You yelled out a name I don't have anymore. We screamed. It was partly out of fear, but I think we were just having that much fun.
I don't remember seeing the wave directly, just the echo of it from my peripheral as I turned my head to catch a glimpse. I remember the mist and the foam climbing higher than ten-year-old me could perceive. When it crashed, at first it didn't hit us, but the water climbed up the shore like it, too, was made thirsty by its saltiness.
It swept our feet from under us, trying to draw us back into its maw. I remember swallowing a gulp of water big enough to hurt my throat as it pushed against its walls. I remember you clinging to me because at that moment I was the older one and I could protect you. I remember grasping onto the piece of broken ship that had rooted itself in the ground like a transplanted evergreen. We stayed there until our family came to get us, crying and laughing all the same.
I don't know why my fondest memory is of us screaming at the top of our lungs, of you believing I was big and strong and capable. Maybe I want to live in that moment because I want to believe that there is thrill in the danger, despite it all. Maybe I want to believe that, despite it all, I'm still your hero.
