The Last Letter
Emily had never loved. She believed she would someday, though. But she didn’t want the love that could break and shatter, not that which she would regret all her life. She wished for it to be true, something she would cherish and hold all her life, something as true to her as her own heart.
There never is any assurance that a soldier would ever return from battle. Before leaving for the war, the soldiers were allowed to write one last letter—a letter to their loved, their dear, their families; in short, everything they were leaving behind, knowing that it may be the very last thing they ever left behind, the last thing they could ever say. If a soldier lost his life during service, the letter was delivered to the address that the soldier specified; otherwise it would be burnt, leaving no trace of even the abrasive paper the letters were written on.
Wallace was nineteen, an orphan from birth, a low-ranked military soldier. He sat at the coffee table holding his letter in his hands. It had taken him an hour to write it and he knew it was his heart on paper. He had never cried before, even when he had had to leave the orphanage to join military school, right after graduating. He had smiled at the children who looked at him with drenched eyes, but he’d had hope towards a new future. Yet now his future was grim, melancholic at best.
Whose address could an orphan write on the back of the tainted white envelope? He wasn’t sure but he knew he wouldn’t leave without penning an address on it with his quivering hands.
Wallace folded the letter and pocketed it tidily. He took a sip of his coffee, which was as cold as chilled milk by now. He drank, his face impassive, not betraying even a hint of any emotion he may have been feeling. He finished the coffee with a large gulp and placed the mug on the polished table.
“Do you want me to take that?”Said a pretty young girl with a bow on her hair, stretching her arms out benignly. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were bright. Her smile was heartwarming and her voice was as sweet and kind as the white flower that is the first to bloom solitarily in an open meadow.
Wallace did not respond instantly, but seemed to contemplate something. He shifted in his seat, distantly aware of the girl’s gaze scrutinizing his queer behavior.
“How long have you been working here?” Wallace asked, peculiarly and hurriedly, with wide eyes and a blank expression.
“Sorry?” Emily said, surprised, with a curious look. She waited for him to follow his sentence with something more explanatory, but he didn’t. “Today is my first day, really.”
“Do you see those other soldiers?” he said, reaching out pointing at his mates, vociferously conversing over their mugs of coffee.
She nodded, still quite puzzled.
“They’re talking about the lives they are going to leave behind. And, to be honest, that’s something I wish I could have—someone to write back to while I’m gone. But that to me is impossible. My folks are dead and I never had a family.”
This time Emily stayed mum, mainly because words failed her, crippled her inadequate.
“I know it’s a lot to ask, but would you mind if I sent one back here to you?”He said, clasping and intertwining his fingers, anxiously. His eyebrows rose expectantly.
