Three years. Three years and she still lived in the same apartment,with the same spam mail, the same dented ashwood floor, and the same livelihood. Her skillset was never in short demand, and catching rogue Fables was the most profitable way she could imagine living. After he had died, she had considered returning to the very place she sent them. For all the horror stories of the Farm, they did provide the three necessities of life. Often consistently.

Yet she stayed here, continuing to track and hunt Fables that risked life and limb to escape that place. Alone, save for the dust-bunnies that ensured she never forget the scent of the Dog.

With the last envelope in hand, Thelinia stops in the middle of the bottle littered room. Light filtering in through the shutters highlighted the address scribbled across the letter. Handwritten missives to her residence were always an omen of punitive action on behalf of the Farm, each of which may ask her at any time to abandon her life in the city. But this was penned with a different character, the ugly scratches standing in stark contrast to the delicate calligraphy Rose Red assigned to her own penmanship. It was familiar, but too vaguely so to earn interest.

Grumbling halted, she tears the envelope open and frees two papers from its crude folding. One, a plane ticket, to a city in Oregon she’d never of heard of. Coach. One-way. Turning it over, she finds a note scribbled by the same hand, curtly instructing her be discreet and pack lightly. It also stated to be from Jerrad.

For a moment, a nearly blissful moment, she almost believed it. But her instincts lept to reason such was impossible. Jerrad had been killed on the construction site three years ago, and she had borne witness to every second. He was dead, and some lowlife piece of work was using his name to lure her. Rage collapsed the ticket in her fist, and she turned on the second paper, knowing it must still offer clues to this cruel joke. Then her breath catches dead in her throat.

In the same grotesque writing, the college-ruled parchment read three words;

“Don’t fuck around.”

Thelinia feels a swelling in her chest, and barely notices the crumbled ticket fall from her hand. Her boiling blood stills entirely. That undefined familiarity was suddenly and explicitly defined; Jerrad’s handwriting. How could she forget? How could this be? It was impossible. Her eyes examine the words over and over, searching for sign of fraud, of any validation to her waning disbelief. But everything pointed to it being the real thing, from the penmanship to the telltale phrasing.

Her knees buckle under her. It was him.

Legs quivering, she half walks and half stumbles to a seat on the couch. She continues tracing the words with her stare, breathless, until her throat chokes on air and burns her eyes. A hand goes to cover her lips, but a sharp gasp has already escaped them.

It’s him. He’s alive.

When the words fade into a teary blur, Thelinia clasps the letter to her chest, refusing the loss of vision to take this from her.

“I thought I’d never see you again..”

——