Chapter 8
801words
Visiting Grandma Williams had become a routine.
Every Wednesday afternoon, Jack and I would navigate past those two increasingly fat orange cats and knock on the door that was always open for us.
The house was forever filled with a warm scent of lemon tea, cinnamon, and old books. Grandma Williams would sit in her special rocking chair, telling us stories from her youth. She told us how she and Mr. Williams fell in love at first sight at a dance, and how during wartime she made herself a new dress with just a small piece of fabric.
“Life, well, it has its ups and downs,” she said once, looking at the gloomy sky outside while stirring the tea in her cup.
I started helping her water the geraniums on the windowsill, listening to her chatter about the name of each potted plant. Jack was responsible for repairing the creaky porch steps; he was intensely focused when doing these things, as if born for the task.
“You two,” Grandma Williams looked at us, her eyes as soft as the wool cardigan she wore, “are just like my own grandson and granddaughter.”
My heart felt like something gently bumped into it, and a strange, bittersweet emotion welled up. I didn’t know how to respond, so I could only lower my head and drink my tea, the scalding liquid warming all the way to my stomach.
Leaving Grandma Williams’ house, Jack and I walked back to our secret base.
The air there was still cool, carrying the smell of dust and old wood, but it no longer made me feel suffocated.
I opened the black notebook and stopped at the fifth line.
I wanted to write them a letter.
Not an accusation, not a questioning, and not an attempt to hold on.
“Don’t know how to begin?” Jack’s voice came from beside me. He could always easily see through my thoughts.
I nodded, twirling the pen between my fingers. “It feels like saying anything would be excessive, yet also like everything should be said.”
“Then write what you most want to say,” he placed my history textbook on his lap, like a strategic advisor. “Don’t think about how they’ll react when they read it, just write as if it’s for yourself to read.”
He helped me deliberate over the wording, organizing the tangled mess of emotions swirling in my head into clear text. His choice of words was precise yet gentle, always finding the most appropriate term.
“How are you so good at this?” I couldn’t help asking.
“Occupational habit,” he answered without looking up. “I’m going to be a novelist in the future, make a living from it.”
I looked at him, this self-proclaimed novelist from the future, head lowered, helping a girl who was about to die write a farewell letter to a family on the verge of falling apart.
This itself was like an absurd yet sad story.
Finally, these few paragraphs remained on the letter paper:
Dad, Mom:
I know you’re going to separate.
I used to think it was my fault, but now I seem to understand a little. Everyone should, and deserves to pursue a life that truly makes them happy. You too.
So, don’t feel sorry because of me.
Thank you for giving me life, for letting me stay in this world for sixteen years. Although the time wasn’t long, I’ve only recently discovered that this world is truly beautiful.
I’ve seen green trees and red roses, seen the warm smile of the neighbor’s grandmother, and also heard very beautiful songs.
That’s enough.
Love you, Emily.
I folded the letter neatly and placed it in a clean envelope.
That night, I tiptoed out of my room. The entire house was eerily quiet; in the darkness of the living room, the furniture loomed like silent giants. Holding my breath, I walked to the door of my parents’ bedroom. The door wasn’t completely closed, leaving a small gap.
That night, I tiptoed out of my room. The entire house was eerily quiet; in the darkness of the living room, the furniture loomed like silent giants. Holding my breath, I walked to the door of my parents’ bedroom. The door wasn’t completely closed, leaving a small gap.
I gently pushed the door open. Moonlight shone through the window, casting a silver-white patch of light on the floor. They were sleeping deeply, their backs to each other.
I walked to the bedside table and quietly placed the letter under the lamp.
After doing all this, like a thief, I quickly and silently retreated.
The moment I closed the door, I leaned against the cold wall, and my heart finally began to beat rapidly again.
