Legacy

Jar of hope

"Is a man ever truly dead as long as his deeds are remembered?

In truth are we all not merely a collection of deeds and memories?"

Astor

They were moving his life out of the apartment. So eager were they to get rid of everything, two of them dropped one of the massive oak bookcases on the ground. A loud, mournful sound spilled as it cracked. It was pure arrogance for them to think they could carry it in the first place. Four strong men had brought it to his home all those years ago; these young lads stood no chance wrestling with it. The chaos it brought interrupted the scheduled emptying causing the rest of the workers to stand about uselessly. They looked so lost with the now lost script of action. Then the master came back and started shouting. Soon movement flew anew spun on by fear. Still, the bookcase lay forgotten on the dirty streets. It was a protester refusing to yield. Standing firmly as an annoyance to all the workers as they now had to dance around it. In and out, in and out until every last valuable thing had been taken. No, way those vultures would be satisfied otherwise. All that remained after their feast would be the mere scraps too unappealing for even scavengers — the last pitiful remains of a proud man's life.

The sky darkened when the man behind the plunder finally addressed me:

"We are done here. You will hear from the debtors if any bills need paying after the inventory of the apartment is accounted for."

And that was that. A cold, uncaring message, the last insult of the whole day's pain. The nerve of this man. Made one want to commit some unholy act. He had no respect for others' dignity. Nor the sacred nature of the books he stole today. If there were any justice in this world, then that man would be stuck with injustice, a pain deep enough to force him to stand face to face with his inhumanity. No, now was not the time for that. With its gaping lightless eyes, the apartment looked barren. It felt wrong to breach it like stepping into a robed tome, only a single candle as my company. It fought to illuminate the crime scene. Even the beautiful paintings painted straight on the wallpaper had been cut down.

Rummaging through the scaps felt wrong. Still, I had to honor what was left. The moonlight shifted on the walls as I searched. It was picked clean. With the dawn, I admitted defeat. A stoic walk of shame brought me home. Even in his death, I was but still a lesser man to him. Not a single finding of his had I managed to keep safe from his enemies. They were going to make sure he was dead. Not just in body but spirit. His deserved lineage was buried, his pure brilliance never appreciated by the common man. The thieves would keep his secrets. Such a bitter defeat for all who seek the truth of the world. I was the only disciple left of his findings, but in the world of science, I was nothing without his proofs.     

It is in our darkest hour that we find our most prominent inner truths. And it is through these revelations we find the courage to do not what we want but what we must. It is your turn to do not what you want but what you must. I have provided you with the means to keep the world safe in this jar. Do not dishonor the work we did, be ready to safeguard the world against the threats it is never to be informed on.

Garrick Millard

It was a coincidence that I discovered the letter and box. The world had lacked colors since his passing. Bills were the only letters I got, so it seemed like a sensible decision to merely ignore any things sent to my mailbox. It was all horrible and unwanted news and demands. Yes, at some point, the vultures would come, but that was tomorrow, and tomorrow held no concern for me. The only matter left to cherish was if I had enough liquor to splash just a few colors on reality before they came knocking. Whoever said that money could not buy happiness has never tried being starved of colors. I stumbled out one bright morning, forced to by a lack of joy drinks. It was the light that brought my attention to the box. A beacon was honing in on the small, unassuming gray thing. I felt a tingle of curiosity.

No debtor sent boxes to their prey. So who had provided this little enigma? Carefully I took it back into my den to uncover its secrets. Slushed in the old armchair, I studied my findings. Unashamed, I sniffed the letter to reminisce on his smoke-induced scent because even without a signature on the letter, I knew it was him. It was pointless torture, and I knew it. Yet, I kept sitting there with the letter refusing to let it go. The message was the last proof of his existence. That all those years he and later we had spent searching for the truth was not just a fever dream. Stift in the back, I woke up the next morning awkwardly placed in the armchair, as it had served as my sleeping location. I paid it little mind as I tore into the gray enigma revealing a jam jar. The jar was filled with a fungus-like substance; it reminded me of mold, which was odd because jam does not spoil easily. The high amount of preservatives would prevent that. Still, the contained substances did look like a mixture of jelly and some puffy fungus. It nearly looked like the jam had grown spots of white fur. It was puzzling how this jar could have any relevance to the safety of the world. But it was all I had left. I tightened my grip around the container. Whatever this weird jam was, I was going to figure it out. The offering of a new way to honor him would not be wasted.