Where Have You Gone

Chapter 3️⃣7️⃣

The next morning arrived cloaked in mist, the kind that made the world feel smaller, quieter. Becky lay in bed listening. Not just to the house—the hum of the refrigerator, the soft snore from Anne’s room—but beyond it. Listening had become her way of seeing.

A soft tap came from the front door. Not a knock. Just a gentle, deliberate tap. Becky frowned.

The silence of the house told her Richie and Anne weren’t up yet, at least not that Becky had noticed.

She made her way carefully to the door, barefoot, every step measured. The air outside smelled like musk and floral, the notes of smell was comforting. A newspaper rustled somewhere on the neighbor’s porch.

Then she felt it.

Paper. Slipped neatly under the doorframe.

She knelt slowly, her fingertips brushing the envelope. Thick, slightly textured. Expensive. No sound, no footsteps, no car pulling away.

She stood with the letter pressed to her chest.

Back in the kitchen, she found the small smart reader Irin had given her weeks ago—she hadn’t used it much. Stubbornness, mostly. But now, with the paper in her hand, curiosity nudged her past her pride.

She slid the letter beneath the device and tapped its surface.

A quiet beep.

Then the voice:
“For the days you feel like closing the door and never opening it again—know this: you’ve lived through storms. You’ve stood in ruins and still found the strength to reach for light. You deserve to see the sunrise again. Not because of who you’ve lost… but because of who you are.”

The machine fell silent.

Becky stared straight ahead, heart thudding. The voice wasn’t familiar—it was just the AI reader—but the words… they hit too close. Too precise.

Who would send this?

A friend? A counselor?

But no name. No signature.

She touched the page again. No Braille. Just ink and mystery.

Down the hall, Anne stirred. Richie’s heavy steps followed soon after. Becky stood frozen, the letter still warm in her hand.

“Becky?” Richie’s voice echoed from the hallway. “You okay?”

She swallowed, slipping the paper into the drawer beside the coffee pot.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I’m fine.”

But she wasn’t. Not really. Something had shifted. And not just inside her.

Someone knew.
Someone had sent her a letter that read like they’d peeled her open and written what they found inside.

And whoever they were—they weren’t done.

Two days passed.

The first letter hadn’t left Becky’s thoughts. She hadn’t told Richie. Not Irin, either. Something about it felt too fragile, too private—like if she said it out loud, it might vanish.

She’d read it again each night using the smart reader, memorizing its rhythm, its cadence. Whoever wrote it knew exactly where to press.

On the third morning, it happened again.

Another soft tap at the door.

Anne was in the middle of breakfast, happily crunching cereal, and Richie was upstairs showering. Becky stood still in the hallway, listening.

The silence beyond the door throbbed like a heartbeat.

She opened it slowly.

Nothing.

Just the cool spring air and the faint scent of rain in the dirt.

But her hand found it—tucked beneath the doormat this time.

Another envelope.

Same thick paper.

Back in her room, she locked the door behind her and slid the letter under the reader, her fingers trembling.

A pause. Then the voice:

“They tell you to move on, but they don’t understand what it means to hold love in your hands and then be asked to let it go. You haven’t failed, not by grieving. You haven’t broken, not by being afraid. You’ve survived everything so far, even the day you thought would end you. That’s not weakness. That’s strength.”

Becky felt the air squeeze out of her lungs.

She didn’t cry.

But her throat ached with the effort not to.

Her fingers drifted toward Sam’s photo—she knew its place by heart. She traced its edges, the way she always did, gently.

It felt like Sam. But the voice in the letters—this wasn’t Sam’s handwriting. Not literally. But it knew her. Deeply.

Who was doing this?

Was it Irin? Was this her way of guiding Becky toward the surgery?

Was it Richie?

No… the voice in these letters didn’t push. It didn’t lecture or plead. It understood. It sat beside her in the dark without trying to fix her.

And that felt… different.

She replayed the letter twice more. The words rooted inside her like seeds. Warm. Persistent.

Later that night, she slipped the new letter into her desk drawer beside the first.

She still couldn’t see.

But something—someone—was beginning to show her the way.