September 3rd
Dear Athan,
Do you remember the way summer used to smell? The way our garden glowed gold just before dinner, how the bees moved slow in the heat? I try to remember it now, but it comes back like a dream I was never really in. Everything here smells like mildew and varnish and something wet that won't dry.
But I have news. Dallas came back. I don't know where he had gone—nobody said anything—but two mornings ago, he just walked into the dining hall like nothing had changed. He sat at the far table and didn't look at anyone until his tray was empty. Then he looked at me.
I didn't know if I should go to him. I didn't know if I was allowed to. But later that night, I found him in the courtyard. He had cigarettes. I didn't smoke. I still don't. But I sat with him anyway, like we used to. He didn't say much, just, "You're still here?" and I said, "Where else would I be?"
He laughed at that. Not loud. But it was a real laugh.
There's another boy too. His name is Quinn. He's small, like a wind might carry him off if he weren't careful. He's new. He asked if I wanted to sit by him yesterday. He talks a lot and has freckles on his nose and always wears socks that don't match. But I think he means well. He says I play the piano like I'm whispering something to the walls.
Maybe I am.
Sometimes I think the piano is the only thing that hears me.
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September 9th
Dear Athan,
Dallas has a plan. He hasn't told me everything, but he says he knows a way out. A real way. One that doesn't end with us in more trouble than we started. He talks about train schedules and fences and how to time our movements between the watchmen.
I'm not sure I believe him.
Quinn says it's romantic, running away. Like something out of those books with castles and swords. But he doesn't understand what it means. Not really. He says he'll come too, but he won't. He can't even climb the stairs without stopping.
Still, I like that he believes it. I like that he thinks we could have a future somewhere with lanterns in the windows and rooms that don't lock from the outside.
I've started hearing something in the piano again. A new song, one I don't remember learning. It comes to me in the mornings when the sun hits the cracked window just right. I write it down in the margins of my letters, but the notes scatter before I finish. It's like the music doesn't want to be remembered.
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September 14th
I saw something in the mirror today. It looked like me but it blinked too slow. I told Quinn and he said I was probably dreaming with my eyes open. But I wasn't.
The mirror in the music room is old and warped. Maybe that's it. But something about the reflection didn't feel... mine. Like it borrowed my face, but not my thoughts.
I didn't sleep last night. I thought I heard scratching under the floorboards. Or maybe it was above the ceiling. I tried to hum the piano piece to calm down, but every note made my chest feel heavy.
Maybe I shouldn't go with Dallas. Maybe he's lying.
Maybe they all are.
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Quinn to Lou (crumpled and folded in half)
Hey Lou,
You didn't come to lunch today. Or yesterday. Dallas says you're just "thinking too hard." I don't know what that means.
I brought you an apple. It's probably bruised now, but I put it in your drawer anyway. I don't know what to say when you look at me like that, like the whole sky's falling inside your head. I think you're smart and kind and not as scary as people say. And if you go with Dallas, I hope you let me know.
Because I'd like to come too, even if I can't run very fast.
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September 21st
Dear Athan,
I've decided to follow Dallas, if only for the first step. He says we'll leave next month, when the guards change shift for the festival. He's drawn maps on the inside of his mattress, covered with ink and hope. I don't think I've ever seen him this alive.
Sometimes I think he only came back for this—to pull me out, to give me something like a life. I wonder what he sees in me. Maybe something I can't.
Quinn says he had a dream where I played piano on a cliff and birds flew in circles around me. I asked him if I jumped. He said no. He said I was still playing when he woke up.
The song in my head is louder now. It hums even when I sleep.
I'm not sure I want to leave.
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September 28th
I think something's wrong with me. I see things move when they shouldn't. Not like ghosts or shadows. Just little things. A book twitching. A pencil rolling toward me when no one's around.
The headmaster called me in and asked if I was sleeping well. I lied. He always smells like candle wax and vinegar. He watched me with eyes like wet stone and said, "The walls talk, you know. If you listen long enough."
I didn't know what to say.
I haven't told Dallas. He already looks at me like I'm slipping. I don't want to give him more reason to run without me.
Quinn thinks the school is cursed. I said maybe it's just me. He didn't laugh.
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October 1st
Dear Athan,
I played for hours today. My fingers ached when I finished, but it was worth it. I played the song that's been following me. I didn't write it down. I just let it happen.
Dallas stood in the doorway and listened. When I stopped, he said it was the saddest thing he'd ever heard. I said maybe it wasn't finished yet.
He's getting restless. He wants to leave sooner. Quinn's getting sick. He won't say it, but I see it. He coughs into his sleeve and it smells like metal. He still comes to sit beside me, even when his legs shake.
I don't want to leave him behind.
I don't want to leave myself behind either.
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Quinn to Lou (written in pencil, shakier than before)
Lou,
I dreamed again last night. You were under the floorboards, whispering things through the wood. You said not to be scared. You said the song was almost done.
I don't think I'll come with you. I want to, but my lungs feel like they're full of fog. Still—I believe you'll get out. And if you do, I hope you write songs that make people cry in the best way.
Thank you for being kind to me. Thank you for looking at me like I mattered.
– Q
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October 8th
Dear Athan,
Tomorrow is the night. Dallas has everything packed. I haven't told Quinn. He wouldn't stop me if I did, but I think he'd try to follow. And he can't. Not like this.
I've hidden this letter inside the piano bench. I don't know who will find it, or if anyone will. But if you ever read it, know that I'm scared. Not of the dark. Not of the guards. But of myself.
The music is inside me now. It plays even when I don't touch the keys. Sometimes I think I hear my name in the middle of the chords.
Maybe it's just the wind.
Maybe I'm finally coming undone.
But maybe that's the only way I'll ever be free.
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Unsent, found folded between pages of a torn prayer book
Estimated: Age 17
Athan,
I don't know what time it is. I don't even know what day. I'm writing this by firelight (I think) but it might just be a candle. Quinn's asleep—he curls up like a dog, with his arms around his knees and that sad little twitch he does in his sleep like he's waiting for someone to hit him. Dallas is out hunting, or so he says. I don't ask too many questions when he's carrying a knife like that. His shoulders are too sharp for questions right now.
But I need to talk to someone. And it's always you. Even if you never write back.
We left.
We actually did it. Not in a story way—not in a clean, noble, triumphant way, no—but in a way that felt like breaking and running and clawing your way through some kind of veil. My hands are still scratched. I think I left pieces of myself on that fence.
It happened fast. Or slow. It's hard to know how to tell it. Maybe I'll just... lay it out.
Dallas came back one evening, later than usual, smelling like smoke and winter. He sat on my bed without asking, like he always does, and pulled a crumpled sheet of paper out of his coat. It was a map. Sort of. More like a ghost of one. Scribbles and landmarks and places I think only he knows. It smelled like engine grease and tobacco.
He said, "We leave in three days. If you want."
I asked, "What about Quinn?"
And he looked at me in that way of his—head tilted, eyes too soft for someone who's seen what he's seen. "You tell me."
So I told Quinn. That night. I didn't know if he'd say yes. He's not built for running, Athan. He's small and soft and walks like he expects the floor to collapse under him. But when I said "freedom," he smiled for real, with his whole face, and said he wanted to see trees again. Real trees. Not the ones from the window.
So we did it. We planned like thieves. Whispered in corners. Hid food, stole matches, memorized guard shifts like we were preparing for war. And maybe we were.
The night we ran, it rained. Because of course it did. The kind of rain that makes everything look like it's shaking. I thought I was going to throw up the whole time. I kept hearing things—footsteps behind us, or voices from nowhere. I told myself it was just nerves, but deep down I knew it wasn't just that.
We climbed the back wall. Quinn was shaking so hard I thought his bones would ring. Dallas had to lift him halfway. I cut my hands on the wire. It felt right. Like I had to bleed to make it mean something.
Once we hit the road, we didn't stop for hours. We ran and ran. Sometimes I think we're still running.
We're staying in an old barn now. It's half-collapsed, but the roof holds up. Quinn keeps drawing on the walls with charcoal. Little birds and stars. It helps him sleep, I think. He talks in his sleep too. Sometimes he says your name. Isn't that strange?
I dream of the school every night. But not as it was. It's always changing now. In my dreams, it's underwater. Or burning. Or full of mirrors where I see my face—except it's not my face. It's someone older, someone hollowed out. The other night, I dreamt the piano was calling my name, but when I sat down, the keys were teeth and they bit me.
I haven't told Dallas. He wouldn't understand. He deals in fists and paths and maps. I deal in ghosts.
Sometimes I hear things when no one's speaking. I tell myself it's just echoes. Or memory. But Quinn says he hears it too, sometimes. Like someone whispering our names through the trees. Maybe we brought the school with us. Maybe it's inside us now.
I'm not trying to scare you, I swear. I just need to say it to someone who once saw me as more than what they said I was.
Do you remember the east wing? Of course you do. That's a silly question. That little hole in the door, the one I used to press my eye against so I could catch glimpses of your face. I used to pretend you were the moon and I was just a boy stuck in a tower, and you'd come for me eventually.
You never did. But I understand now. You were never allowed to. And maybe I wouldn't have wanted me either.
Sometimes I wonder what you look like now. I wonder if we still look the same. They always said we did, but I think I've changed. Inside, I mean. My thoughts are different now. Quieter sometimes, then louder than ever. Like a choir that won't stop.
Dallas says we'll head east. There's a woman he knows who can give us names. I asked him what that meant and he just said, "Freedom looks like whatever you can get." I think he's been hurt more than he lets on. He has a scar behind his ear and sometimes he flinches when the wind whistles through the trees.
Quinn's coughing more. It's not bad yet, but I worry. He's like glass, Athan. Beautiful and breakable. Sometimes I hold his hand when he sleeps just to remind myself he's real.
And me? I'm okay. Better than I was. The sky's bigger than I remembered. The stars look like music.
Sometimes I play the piano in my head. I remember every note Dallas taught me. I hum them softly so Quinn can sleep. He says it sounds like hope. I think it sounds like missing something you never had.
I keep wondering if you still think about me. I think about you all the time. You were always the sun, you know? Warm and golden and far away. Everyone looked at you and saw light. I looked at you and saw home.
I don't know if I'll send this letter. There's no address. No way to know if it would reach you, or if you'd read it. Maybe it's just for me. Maybe all these letters always were.
But if you do read it—if you somehow find this years from now—I want you to know that I tried. I tried to be good. I tried to survive. I tried to love.
And I think that should count for something.
Tell Mother I'm okay, if you speak to her. Or don't. I don't think she'd believe it anyway.
Yours,
still,
always,
Lou