Page 44 of Somewhere Without You
She dropped her gaze, her sneaker tracing a line along the tile. “Bad like hewasattacked. By his owner. Multiple times.”
Understanding slammed into me, knocking me back on my heels.
He’dbeen abused.
“He’s quiet, and a little skittish. I don’t think he’s what you’re looking for,”Dani added.“Brutus, on the other hand, would make agreatguard dog.”
Winston’s eyes, though hesitant, met mine, and inthatmoment, Iknew. This gentle, sad-eyed dog needed me.AndI needed him.
“I’ll take him,”I said, my voice steady with certainty. The truthwas, Winston’s quiet wariness mirrored my own. Wewereboth survivors, scarred but not broken.
Dani blinked,clearlysurprised.“You’re sure?Becausethis isn’t Target.There’s no return policy or anything.Oncehe’s yours, he’s yours.”
“I’m sure.Absolutelysure,” I said, straightening.
Awidegrin broke across Dani’s face.“Alrightthen. I’llgetthe paperwork started.”
Twenty Six
May 22nd, 2023
Dear Captain Walker,
This feels completely insane. Somehow, our letters are slipping through time, like this bag is some kind of portal. Do you think it disappears with each letter? Like it only lets one through at a time before slipping back into whatever space it came from? I have no idea if that’s even possible. Honestly, it sounds ridiculous just writing it. Part of me thinks you’re just some kind of hallucination, like something out of a bad sci-fi movie, or the kind of dream you wake up from and try to explain, only to realize it never made sense to begin with.
And yet, here we are.
I’m so sorry to hear about your wife. Just reading her name in your letters made me ache in places I thought I’d sealed shut. I can’t imagine what it was like, to lose her in the middle of a war, with death already so close around you. But I think I understand a small piece of that pain. Loss is loss, no matter the century.
You asked who I am, and the truth is, I don’t really know. Not anymore.A few weeks ago, I left a marriage that was, for lack of a better word, brutal. Honestly, I stayed longer than I should have. Out of fear, mostly. Fear of what came next, of being alone. And maybe part of me believed I deserved it. Karma, maybe.But this time was the last time, and so I packed up and moved into my Gran’s old farmhouse, here in the small town of Windhaven. It’s tucked away at the foot of the Appalachians, surrounded by magnolia trees. I have no idea if it exists in your time. Maybe it hasn’t been settled yet. Or maybe our letters are proof that it does. Maybe you’ve walked the same hills I look out at now. Wouldn’t that be something? Two strangers staring out at the same horizon, separated by lifetimes, but somehow. . . connected.
Part of me wants to know everything about you. I want to ask what you’re like, what you dream about when the fighting dies down, what kind of man you were before the war stole you away. But another part of me wants to crumple this whole thing up, toss it into the fire, and pretend it never happened. Because what kind of sane person writes letters to the past and expects a reply?
It feels like I’m writing to a ghost. Maybe I am. Or maybe you’re real, and I’m the ghost.Either way, it’s nice not feeling so alone, even if it’s completely nuts. Whatever the truth is, your letters found me. And that has to mean something right?
So I’ll keep writing, at least for now. Because for the first time in a long time, it feels like someone’s actually listening.
Sincerely your crazy, curious friend,
Emily Hart
Monday morning arrived like a clenched fist—gray and overcast and speckled with rain.I was working my way through my third cup of coffee when the familiar rumble of an engine shattered the morning quiet. Winston’s ears perked up and I gave him a reassuring pat on the head before heading to the door.
Logan stood there, rain clinging to his jacket. “Hey,” he said, his eyes flicking from Winston to me.
“Morning,” I replied, stepping aside to let him in. “Are you sure you still want to do this?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” He set his toolbox on the table with a metallicthud,then gave Winston another wary glance. “Nice dog. Where’d you get him?”
“I adopted him from the shelter.” I smiled down at Winston, who thumped his tail against the rug, oblivious.
Logan raised his brows. “You think that’s a smart move?”
I felt a jab of irritation rise in my throat. “A few days ago, you were worried I was alone. Now that I’m not, you’ve got a problem with that too?”
He hesitated. “I meant. . . you know what, never mind. It’s not my business.”
“You’re right—it’s not.” My voice was sharper than I intended. Sensing the tension, Winston settled onto the couch, his head resting on his paws.
