#OriginalFiction – November 17, 18, 19

She pointedly looked away from her brother and picked up the first letter. She would not admit it, but she had been hoping for a stack of cash, too. While the supposed new tourist trap would bring money in to their family’s diner, starting with the construction crews brought in to build it, she knew their mother could use some extra money even sooner than that. And while she would not have been able to spend the money until she had found its owner, she could have hoped for a portion of it as a reward.

But, instead of money, it was this stack of papers, letters it would seem. Well, at least it should be easier to find the proper owner of the letters than it would be random cash. She focused on the letter. She would read just enough to figure out who they belonged to.

June 7, 1917

My Dearest,

I think of you every day and pray this letter finds you safe and far away from any fighting. I follow news of the war in the papers as best I can, but Father thinks it unseemly for a young woman to pay too much attention to men’s business, so I have to try and sneak looks over his shoulder or read try and read the front page while he is engrossed in his coffee and the business section. I do not know much, only that every day young men are dying, and I can only hope that you are not among them.

You have asked me to write about my days. You say it helps you hold on to thoughts of home to hear about the simple, every day events. Well, simple is the correct word for it, lately. Father has cracked down on me going to parties. I am allowed tea once a week with C or M, but only if Mother is invited, too. Otherwise, I am to spend my time with Mother, learning how to manage the household. And if I am not in lessons about how to plan a menu for a dinner party (not that we have hosted any dinner parties in months) then I am to be working at my embroidery.

Still, I do accompany Mother shopping, and between that and the tea, I do hear the local news. Rumor has it that RC has asked Mr. B for permission to marry E, but no engagement has been announced, and some say he has yet to gather the courage to actually ask her.

C mentioned at tea last week that her cousin LT, the one who got married just this past March, is already expecting a child. I think she was trying to hint that there might have been a reason for a spring wedding, instead of a summer one, but our mothers were sitting nearby, so we could not discuss anything truly interesting. Instead, we talked about the possibility of knitting a baby blanket.

Right now I should be downstairs reading my Bible while Mother and Father talk about their days. However, I pleaded a headache in order to have some time to come up here and write you. However, it is growing late, and Mother will soon be in to check on me. Father will be furious if he catches me writing you, so I must end this and put it away.

I pray nightly for your safety and hope daily for any news from you. How I wish I could receive your letters, but you know how Father is. Please continue to send news via your cousin. I know that once you return, a hero of the war, Father will not be able to refuse our love.

With Love,

Your Darling Girl

She frowned. There were no names. Not in the greeting. Not in the closing. Not even in the body of the letter. Only initials and endearments.

“Well?” She looked up to find Dorian still in her room, staring at her. “Who does it belong to?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t say.”

“What do you mean it doesn’t say? It is a letter, isn’t it? Who is it to? Who is it from?”

She sighed and handed him the piece of paper. “It doesn’t say. See for yourself. Whoever wrote it was apparently so afraid of being found out that she didn’t use any names.”

She watched Dorian as he scanned the letter. “Well, that’s just stupid.” He held it back to her. “But, it’s not like there isn’t a whole stack of other papers. There has got to be a name somewhere in there.”

She looked at the stack of papers. She estimated it was at least 3 inches thick. Hundreds of letters. How much time would it take her to go through every single one, searching for names? She wondered how much time she would be able to spend going through them that weekend. She had already told her mother she did not have homework, so there would certainly be chores assigned around the house, as well as her regular weekend shifts at the diner.

The problem was that the magic was often unrelenting. Once it had set her on a task, it would harass her until it was completed. It would not be anything noticeable to other people, but just like last night the news of the land sale came to her, she knew her next few days would be full of people randomly mentioning old letters, or relatives who had served in World War I, and other such. But none of it would be useful. The people would be talking about their own letters from high school pen pals, or the person with the WWI veteran relative would be someone who had moved to town in the last 30 years, long enough to be considered a resident, but not someone whose family had been her long enough that the letters could belong to them.

She ran a hand through her hair. There was nothing to do but start reading. “Thanks for your help, Dorian. You really can grab your money and go.”

“Oh, just hand me half the stack already.”