Where Have You Gone

Chapter 3️⃣8️⃣

The sun had just begun to dip beneath the skyline, casting long amber streaks across the walls of Freen’s apartment. She sat at the small writing desk by the window, a blank sheet of paper before her, fingers poised over a fountain pen that trembled ever so slightly in her grip.

Letter two was delivered. Irin had confirmed it—Becky had found it that morning. And though Freen hadn’t been there to see her reaction, she didn’t need to be. She felt it. The unspoken thread between them, invisible and unbroken despite everything, had tugged at her all day.

She opened her notebook and reread what she had scribbled earlier.

No pressure. No names. Just truth. Just her.

Bright’s voice echoed in her memory: “You sure this won’t hurt her more than it helps?”

She wasn’t sure. Not really.

But the way Becky used to tilt her head when listening to rain, or how she reached out instinctively toward warmth—those were the things Freen remembered. Things she had once lived alongside as Sam. And now, as herself, she had to find a way to speak to Becky’s heart without betraying it.

She put pen to paper.

---

Freen paused, the pen hovering.

She didn’t want to push Becky toward the surgery. That had never been the point. It had to be Becky’s choice.

But maybe, if she kept sending these letters—each one a hand held out in the dark—Becky would begin to reach back.

Freen folded the letter carefully, slipping it into the familiar ivory envelope. No name. No return address. Just clean paper, quiet hope, and words she could only write from afar.

She glanced at the clock—6:37 PM. Just enough time to drive by the house and leave it.

She grabbed her coat and keys. As she stepped outside, the wind lifted her hair, and for just a second, she imagined Becky standing in the doorway, waiting.

Freen shook the thought away and moved quickly into the evening.

Tomorrow, Becky would find the third letter.

And maybe… it would be the one that opened the door.

The café was quieter than usual, the usual chatter dulled by the overcast sky outside. Irin arrived right on time, her coat still damp from the drizzle, a knot of unease in her gut. Freen was already there, seated at their usual table by the window, a half-empty cup of tea in front of her.

Irin slid into the seat across from her, eyes scanning Freen’s face. The circles beneath her eyes were darker now, her posture tenser.

“You look like you haven’t slept,” Irin said quietly.

Freen offered a weak smile. “I’ve been writing.”

“Letter three?”

Freen nodded, slipping a small envelope from her coat pocket and placing it gently on the table between them. “She’ll find it this afternoon.”

Irin didn’t touch it. She just looked at Freen, long and searching. “Are you sure this is still about Becky’s healing? Or are you trying to bring yourself back into her life through the back door?”

The words hit like a slap—but Freen didn’t flinch. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Maybe both.”

Irin softened, sighing. “She’s fragile, Freen. You know that better than anyone. Every letter you send pulls her closer to something she hasn’t even decided she wants yet.”

“She wants more than this,” Freen said, her voice low. “She’s just scared to want it.”

“And you think she’ll suddenly wake up and say yes to surgery because of some poetic mystery letters?”

“No,” Freen said firmly, “but I think she’ll feel less alone. And that matters too.”

Irin studied her, then nodded slowly. “Just promise me you’ll tell her the truth—soon. Before the letters become a wall instead of a bridge.”

“I will,” Freen whispered. “I just need her to choose the light before she knows who’s waiting on the other side.”

---

Back at the house…

The wind rustled through the trees as Becky stepped out onto the porch, Anne’s soft footsteps trailing behind her.

“Look, Becky! The swing’s dry again!” Anne chirped, running off with her usual boundless joy.

Becky smiled faintly, one hand on the porch railing. The afternoon smelled of wet leaves and warming pavement.

And then… she felt it.

Under her palm, tucked between the slats of the wooden railing—paper.

Her fingers froze.

Another letter.

Third one.

She didn’t wait. Inside, with Anne distracted and Richie upstairs on a call, she returned to her room and placed the envelope beneath the reader.

The calm voice spoke:

---

“Grief has its own seasons. Some days it rains for no reason. Some nights it feels impossible to breathe. But there’s something beautiful about the way you keep going—quietly, steadily, even when you don’t want to.

That kind of courage? It’s rare. And it’s yours.

You may not see it yet, but there’s a world waiting for you—not the one you lost, but one that still holds room for love, for beauty, for light. And maybe… for healing.

Not because you’re broken, but because you deserve to feel whole again.

Even if it’s scary. Even if it hurts.”

---

Becky sat in silence long after the voice had faded.

Her fingers lingered on the page, brushing each corner like it might hold more answers than the words themselves.

Who was doing this? And why did these letters make her feel… understood?

She opened the drawer and placed the third letter beside the others, carefully aligned. Her heart beat faster, louder.

She couldn’t deny it anymore—these letters were guiding her somewhere. Not forcing her. Just… inviting her.

And for the first time in a long time, Becky didn’t immediately shut the drawer.

She left it open.

Just a crack.

As if she were waiting for the next one.