Page 49 of Somewhere Without You
You are right, writing to someone in the futurefeelslike madness.Andyet, your letters are a strange comfort in a place where comfort is scarce. Like you, I cannot explain how they find their way to me. I place mine in my satchel, and by morning, they vanish, replaced by your words come nightfall. Itfeelslike witchcraft, butthereis no malice in it, only mystery. I cannot explain how or why this happens, but I have chosen not to fear it. Too much of my world already defies reason.
What I doknowis this. You are no hallucination.Ifyou are, you are a vivid one, and far toocleverto be conjured by a weary soldier’s mind. War carves loneliness into a man’s bones, andevenan unexplainable presence such as yours is a welcome reprieve. I find myself looking forward to your words with an anticipation I canhardlyadmit aloud.
Iwassorry to read of your husband. Let me assure you, such cruelty is not strength, but cowardice. I have seen what true couragelookslike, andit isnot in the handthatstrikes. A man’s duty is to protect, not to control or harm those he is sworn to cherish. I admire your courage, forit isno small feat to leave behind such cruelty and step alone into the unknown.
Allow me to take a small liberty.Ifwe are to continue this unexplainable friendship, I insist upon you calling me James.Andmay I be so bold in asking to call you Emily? Itfeelsstrange to refer to you soformallywhen your words have already taken up such space in my thoughts.
Asfor me, I am an educated man. I carry a worn copy of Plutarch’s Lives in my coat pocket, and I read it when sleep won’t come. I have no children, for Charlotte passed before we might bear any.Beforethe war, Iwasa carpenter. Now, I leadgoodmen into battle, and each day I pray I will not lead them to their deaths. I miss the simple things, such as walks at dawn, and the sound of a banjo on a warm summer night.
My younger brother, Finnigan, fights beside me. He is the only family I have left, and a steady light in this ever-changing hellscape of blood and mud. Ifwe are to be honest with one another, I must confess, hehassavedmy life more than once. Without him, I fear grief would have claimed me long ago.
Perhaps our correspondence is a miracle, or perhaps it’s the ramblings of two souls unmoored in time.Eitherway, I will write again, if you’ll have me. Ghost or not, your ink is real. Your words are real.And in a world so full of loss, that feels like something worth holding onto.
Until next time, Your faithful friend,
James P. Walker
P.S.What, pray tell, is a sci-fi movie?
Five days. That’s how long it had been since Logan and I last spoke over lunch at Connie’s. Five days of unanswered calls, and unread texts—despite all my efforts.
I tried to distract myself with meaningless tasks, but nothing stuck. Anxiety curled in my stomach like a serpent, gnawing from the inside out until all that was left was dread.
I never should have told him about Jackson. I knew better. And yet, I did it anyway. How could I have been so careless? Yes, there was history between us but that was a long time ago. I knew Logan as a boy, not as the man he’d become. It was entirely possible that he’d gone off and done something stupid—like confront Jackson. Or. . . was it me? Had I changed so much he could no longer see the girl he once knew in the woman I was now?
My thumb drifted along the edge of James’s last letter, my eyes drinking in the elegant curves of his inked script. I couldn’t decide which was worse. That James, fighting a war in another century, still carved out time to write to me. Or that Logan, who was just across town, couldn’t be bothered to return a single call.
I needed to move. To get out. To stop sitting here, replaying what was already said and done. I needed something simple, something solid—anything to calm the rising panic in my chest. Charleston was only an hour away. Maybe the drive would help.
“Want to go for a ride?” I asked Winston.
He lifted his tail just enough to give it a slow, approving wag.
An hour later, we stood at the foot of the Charleston Public Library. Its towering brick exterior cast a long shadow beneath the sharp West Virginia sun.
I gripped Winston’s red leash and crouched until our noses were nearly touching. “I need you to be on your best behavior, okay?”
His response was a wet, unapologetic lick across my cheek.
“Good boy,” I praised, wiping the drool against my jeans with the back of my hand as we climbed the wide stone steps to the heavy wooden doors.
Inside, the air smelled like old pages and dust. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, warming my back as I stepped into the spacious entryway. The woman at the front desk looked up with a polite smile that quickly vanished when her eyes landed on Winston.
“I’m sorry, but dogs aren’t allowed in the library,” she said, peering at me over wire-framed glasses perched precisely at the bridge of her nose.
I looked down at Winston. He tilted his head, as if to say,Who, me?
“He’s not my dog,” I said slowly, the lie forming as I scrambled for an excuse. “He’s my emotional support animal.”
“Whatever he is, he can’t be in here.” She pointed to the desk sign—a red circle with an X over a cartoon dog.
I chewed the inside of my cheek.Think fast.
“I understand, but Winston isn’tjusta pet,” I pressed. “He’s a service animal.”
Her gray brows drew together. “And what service does he provide?”
Damn it. I hadn’t planned to get this far.
