Chapter 7 - The Unopened Letters
Three days later, while sorting through his late father’s private study in the attic, Arthur discovered a locked brass strongbox concealed beneath the floorboards of the cedar closet. Using his grandfather’s old skeleton key, he turned the lock with a dry, rusty click.
Inside lay dozens of unopened envelopes, all bearing military postmarks from overseas field clinics.
Arthur sat on an old trunk, his hands shaking as he unfolded the yellowed papers. They were all in Clara’s neat, round handwriting, dated between 2019 and 2020.
“Arthur, the doctors say they transferred you to Walter Reed, but no one will give me your ward number. Lily took her first steps today. She held onto the arm of the clinic cot where you used to sit...”
“Arthur, your father’s man came today. He brought papers for me to sign away Lily’s birthright. I tore them up. We don't need your money, Arthur. We just need to know if your heart is still beating...”
“Arthur, please write back. Even one word. Just tell me you remember.”
Arthur pressed the letters against his face, weeping in the dusty gloom of the attic. The betrayal went far deeper than financial greed; his father had actively scrubbed Clara from his life while Arthur had been lying in a neurological rehab ward, struggling to recall his own middle name.
Clara appeared at the top of the attic stairs, drawn by the silence. She saw the papers scattered around him and stopped, her breath catching.
"He never read them," Arthur choked out, holding them toward her. "He kept them here like trophies. Every single word you wrote to me... locked in the dark."
Clara walked across the bare floorboards and knelt beside him. She did not cry. She took his hands in hers, letting her fingers lace through his.
"I thought you hated me," she whispered. "Every time Lily smiled, I thought of how you had abandoned us to live in this palace."
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"I was searching for you everywhere," Arthur said, looking into her eyes. "In every crowded train station, in every harbor. I kept dreaming of a white apron and a voice singing that lullaby. Clara, forgive me."
"It wasn't your fault, Arthur," she said, leaning her forehead against his. "It was the world that was broken. We just have to fix what's left."
