Page 71 of Somewhere Without You
Dearest Emily,
The lantern burns low tonight, its flame flickering against the canvas walls as if it, too, is weary from all this waiting. Outside, the wind howls across the camp like a restless ghost, stirring up the scent of ash and cold earth. Most of the men have turned in, their breaths rising in clouds as they sleep, but I find myself awake once again. . . thinking of you.
It is a strange thing, to write to someone I have never met and yet feel tethered to in ways I cannot explain. Perhaps it is the nature of war that makes men speak truths they might otherwise carry to their graves. Or perhaps it is something else entirely. Something older. Something deeper.
You asked of Finnigan, and it’s no simple thing to put him into words.My brother is as steady as an oak, firm-rooted and resolute in a way I have never quite managed to be. And yet, for all his steadiness, he is not without heart. I’ve seen him risk himself for men he hardly knew. I’ve watched him carry the wounded and bury the dead with the care of a brother. Where I tend to overthink and carry the weight of things too long, Finn moves with quiet purpose. Men follow him not because he demands it, but because he embodies a kind of strength they can trust. When we were boys, Finn was always the first to leap from the riverbank, the first to climb the highest branch, the first to throw a stone simply to watch the ripple. He was bold, not for the sake of bravado, but because the world seemed to welcome him. He has a fondness for stories, particularly the old ones told by our grandfather on winter nights, about kings and warriors and far-off lands. I recall how he’d sit at the hearth, eyes wide, absorbing every word as though it were truth carved into stone.
Though younger by three years, he leaves behind a wife and a small child. Emily, the thought of him not returning to them haunts me more than any bullet or blade. Of all the horrors this war has shown me, that possibility remains my greatest fear. To know him is to know loyalty in its truest form. And to lose him. . . I dare not let my thoughts go that far.
I must confess, when I first laid eyes on your photograph, something stirred within me, a sensation I can neither explain nor dismiss. Itwasas if your eyeswerenot new to me.Asif Ihadseenthem before, though in what world, in what lifetime, I cannot say. The clarity of the imagewasso strikingthatIfeltas if Icouldreach out and touch you. Itwasalmost as though youwerestanding before me, so vivid, so real. In some confounded way, youweremore than a photograph, as though the image itselfwasalive.
Andthe color, how astonishing toseeyou in such richness! The way the hues of the light captured your beauty, the way your skinseemedto glow with a fairnessthatmade me pause, in awe.Andyour eyes. They are a depth I cannot begin to explain, rich and alive with something untold. I find myself transfixed by them, unable tolookaway.
Is it possiblethatsuch a thingcouldbe?Couldit bethatmy soulhassomehow wandered between worlds, orthatI am already lost, trapped in a strange limbo between time? I do notknow, Emily, but what I doknowwith certainty is this. Iknowyou. Notjustin my mind, nor in the words I write to you, but in something far more familiar. My soulknowsyou. It knows the warmth of a summer rain that lingers on your skin. The sweetness of honey in your hair. The constellation of freckles across your cheeks. Iknowthem as though I’ve touched them, kissed them. I’ve held you in a way this life does not remember.
Please, do not think me mad, nor forward in my affections. I amsimplya man whohasnothing left to lose and no time for silence.BeforeI ride out again, Ifeltthe desperate need to speak the truththatstirs deep within me.Ifyou do notfeelthis strange connection, this pull between us, I will understand, though my heart aches at the thought. Perhapsit ismadness, butthenagain, how else can one explain the way the universe bends, folds, and carries us along in strange currents we cannot control?
I leave tomorrow, and I may be gone for several days. We are surrounded, with no food, no medicine, and precious little time. Our plan is bold, almost reckless. We ride into confederate lines to negotiate what peace we can. The general and several officers will accompany me, and Finnigan will stay behind. He does notknowof you, nor of the letters we’ve shared, but I have instructed him to write to you should I not return. My satchel, with all my thoughts of you, will remain with him.
Whatever happens, Emily, I want you toknowthis. Isawyou. Isawyou as though youwerea part of me, a part I did notknowIhadlostuntil I found you.Andsomething deep within me, something I cannot explain, remembers you.
Yours beyond time and space,
James
Forty
Isatontheedge of the bed, reading James’s letter again and again until the ink blurred into indistinct swirls and the words lost their shape.
I hardly knew this man, but I couldn’t deny the familiar pull between us, no matter how crazy it made me feel. Everything about this was insane. Then again, so is writing to someone who died over a century ago, but here we were.
Still, I couldn’t shake the sense that James was right. That somehow, impossibly, Ididknow him. Not in memory, but in the marrow of me. In a place that didn’t reason with logic or time.
I set the letter down, then picked it up again.
My soul knows you. I’ve held you in a way this life does not remember.
The words sliced through me.
I pictured Logan—his hands tracing over my body, the heat of his mouth against mine. Guilt surged so sharply in my gut I thought I might be sick.
This was crazy. All of it. How had I found myself needing tojustifyfeelings that had no place in reality? James didn’t exist. Not anymore. He was a ghost.
Logan was here. He was real. He was alive.
And yet. . .
I couldn’t deny the pull I felt every time a new letter appeared. Or the quickening of my pulse at the sight of my name written in James’s hand. The unshakable feeling that the life I was living without him was somehow. . . incomplete. Like I was reading someone else’s story.
I refolded James’s letter and set it gently on the nightstand. He said he’d be gone a few days—maybe that would be enough time for me to clear my head.
But what if it was too late by then?
I grabbed my phone and dialed Katherine without hesitation. Fuck the risk. Fuck Jackson. He already knew where I was and I wasn’t about to continue letting him decide who I could talk to, and when.
The line rang twice, then went straight to voicemail.
“This is Katherine. Leave a message.”
