Across the Town (LizQuen)

Chapter 1

Hi, bud!

I'm going to embark on a new adventure in a few days' time. The changes are a bit too fast for my liking, but I am very excited for this new chapter. Would you like to come away with me?

It's sad that I can't go deeper into the details—as you have been so adamant that we veer away from doing—, but this endeavor can definitely be a hundred-and-eighty-degree turn not only for me, but for everybody in this town no longer describable by cute, timeless words like 'little' or 'quaint'. And I know we have to keep up with the times, but I long for breaks from the rush, and these exchanges offer so much more than that, like I'm transported back to the days when this town was still little and still quaint. Besides, our space hasn't been very successful in giving off such vibe until lately, don't you think?

I hope you are well, and on the off chance that you are not, I hope this note has made some of the negative energy go away. It helps me sleep better at night when I chalk up a good deed on my daily tally, you know. I am, after all, striving to become a better man.

Stay happy,
Your bud

 ~o-o~ 

There is an alcove at the very back of the centuries old church that sits dead center in the local park. Slightly concealed from the eye of the indifferent by the trunk of a plumeria tree and a lifeless vine haphazardly sprawled over the brick wall and the opening, the sizeable recess is often littered with fallen flowers, more brown than pink, and fallen foliage, crisp and auburn.

Most people who stop at the park that has slowly become inconsequential will hardly spare this unimpressive corner a glance. Such is no breakthrough thought, as the number of patrons frequenting the public space has dwindled to an all-time low by the turn of the decade. Daily visits are scarce, and on days the ticket box is filled partially with over a hundred stubs, it is always thanks to the mandatory class excursions, uninspired pictorials, or low-budget parties and weddings.

Despite all that, the park has its regulars—the personnel, the historical enthusiasts, and the homeless.

Normally this truth will hurt or sting the sentimental, but to the young lady who sits on the bed of leaves lit by the summer sun, the peace and silence that come with the park's obscurity is welcome, thank you very much.

With her back to the vine-covered wall, her heartbeat is the only sound she can hear over the voice that speaks to her as she hungrily peruses an unfolded piece of paper, a small smile on her face.

She goes over the note two more times, reading the inked scrawls in the same light tone with a playful lilt, the voice she has assigned to this man with whom she has been exchanging notes for months already. Even as she has almost memorized its entirety, knowing exactly what word comes next or when the commas appear, her smile doesn't falter, not even a millimeter.

Bending her legs from their stretched position that has both her feet touching the opposite wall, she presses on her knees a fresh piece of paper she has fished from her purse. When she finishes, the note is folded neatly in quarters, then slotted into the space between the keystone and voussoir of the arch that forms the roof of the alcove. The vine has somehow taken the hint, and after months of brushing away by two troublesome strangers, it has changed its course and kept their makeshift mailbox alone but for a stray tendril or two.

Pulling herself to her full height to reach over her head is out of the question. The niche has grown considerably smaller since she can remember using it as a hiding place back when the park was alive with shrill laughter from children with scabby knees and elbows, so she kneels instead. Sometimes she wonders—a luxury she has had an alarming lot of time to indulge in these days—, if ever she and her pen pal met some time in the future, would they fit into their space?