Page 15 of At First Flight
The suite is otherworldly. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the skyline of Old Town. My bed is a cloud of down. I imagine it’s what royalty would sleep on. My wardrobe, I realize, has been pre-stocked with new clothes that fit perfectly—casual sweaters, walking boots, evening dresses in colors I forgot I loved. It should feel invasive. It doesn’t. It feels…thoughtful. Whomever Dean had selected to collect the clothes nailed it.
I find the first letter on the desk. Heavy paper. Ink like calligraphy. Single name.
Lila,
You don’t owe anyone strength right now. Or poise. Or politeness.
You owe yourself stillness. Breath. Kindness.
Scotland is magic. Let it work on you.
I’ll be here—in the ways that matter.
-Your Friend
The letter makes my throat tighten. No signature. No identifying information. Just the whisper of someone who sees me.
The next day, I walk the Royal Mile. I get lost between the closes—narrow alleys lined with stories. I visit Greyfriars Kirkyard and run my fingers over old gravestones, wondering how long grief echoes in stone.
At The Elephant House, I sip strong coffee and reread the letter. A surprise platter of biscuits arrives at my table. I ask the barista, again, about the man who arranged all this.
Another polite smile. “He said to tell you he hopes you like the lemon shortbread.”
Dammit. He’s everywhere and nowhere.
Lila,
Did you know I saw you running through the airport? Like a comet passing too close? Both stunningly brilliant and retina burning. You’re stardust, scientifically speaking.
Go see Calton Hill today. It’s touristy, but the view is worth it.
And please—eat something warm.
-Your Friend
I do what he says.
Climbing Calton Hill is like stepping into a dream. The wind slaps my face, and the city unfolds beneath me. Monuments stand tall and defiant. The sun breaks through gray clouds like a beacon in the night.
Lila,
I requested something through the concierge. A guidebook—local’s notes in the margins. Circled pages. Places I thought might speak to you.
Today, take the train to North Berwick. Walk along the shore. Let the cold sea say things you can’t.
You’re doing better than you think.
-Your Friend
The sea smells like salt and home. I walk until my cheeks are raw and my fingers ache. I watch birds float in the sky and think about trust and love.
Each night, I come back to another letter. Slipped under my door. Nestled in my pillowcase. Tucked into the coat pocket I didn’t wear until the rain started.
Lila,
This letter has no advice. No plans. Just a truth: None of this is your fault.
He was.
