Thomas had always thought he was born different. He saw what others didn’t, heard what they couldn’t, felt what they wouldn’t. Growing up, he learnt everyone else had the same abilities as him. The only difference was that no one noticed it the way he did, no one took the time to go further than the obvious. Maybe the reason for it was that they spent too much time talking about useless matters.
What do they like about talking anyway? Thomas wondered his gaze lost somewhere between the bushes across the plain road leading to his and his parents’ house. Sitting in an empty bus, muffled in thick clothes, an old scarf that had once been white wrapped around his pale neck, Thomas let his senses go dull for a few seconds, before resuming his observation of the landscape he already knew by heart. A thin layer of snow covered the colourless fields, only scenery as far as eyes could see.
Eventually, the vehicle reached a hint of civilization and came to a stop. Thomas walked out, waving goodbye to the bus driver, and lifted his heavy schoolbag to his shoulders. He made his way to a small secluded house built with raw greyish stones and hidden behind a poorly maintained hedge. He picked up the mail from the red old letterbox that was barely hanging on its pole before entering the building.
As none of his parents was home yet, he left all the letters on the ancestral wooden dining table standing tall in the living room – which also played the role of dining and stocking room. He walked to his bedroom, humming, and opened the window to let the fresh air wash away the strong and usual sent of burnt plastic caused by the small device that made it possible for him to sleep in a room where the temperature was higher than 15 degrees.
Much to his surprise, an envelope was gently waiting on the fragile ledge, as if carried by the wind and put here deliberately. He took the letter in his hands and noticed his name carefully written on it. Thomas stared at it for a while, hesitating whether to open it and eventually decided he would read it after dinner when he saw it was almost time for his parents to come back home.
Something inside him told him the white letter was more important than it seemed. He thus followed his instinct and hid the small envelope deep within his worn-out schoolbag. He hopped his way to the kitchen, feeling unusually happy, and cooked a meal for the whole family.
His mother arrived while he was cutting vegetables and kissed his cheek lightly. She was obviously exhausted and Thomas told her to rest until dinner was ready, which she did, though reluctantly. When his father got home, the young boy saw something was wrong with him, but he didn’t bother to ask about it, knowing he didn’t have the patience to deal with another scolding while trying to help the man. The three of them ate in a heavy silence and parted ways before any of them had the courage to say even a word.
Thomas went back to his own room, closed the door behind him and once he was sure his father wouldn’t come in, he took the letter out of his bag. It would be a blatant lie to say he wasn’t scared of what he would find inside the tiny package. His fingers shook as he tore the white envelope open. The letter it contained was handwritten with the same ink used to spell the boy’s name. The sender had a neat and small writing and the words were easy and agreeable to read.
He began looking more carefully at the words themselves.
“Hello Thomas,
I guess you’re wondering why you received this letter and who I am. Do not worry, you’ll have all the answers you need once all of this is finished. What is ‘this’? I can’t say that yet, my apologies. I have to make sure you’re worthy enough first. Don’t worry, it is not hard to prove me right. All you have to do is to find my next letter. But I can’t let you go on such a journey without a few hints. Those are all among this very letter: if you look carefully – which you undoubtedly already did – you’ll find them.
Now, I guess I need to you a reason to start your search. What if I told you that you were right when you said you were different? I am sure you want to hear more now, don’t you?
I guess I’ll let you at your questions by now, it wouldn’t be funny if I answered them all in a single letter, would it?
Have a nice evening.”
There was no signature at the end of the missive. Yet what scared Thomas the most was the fact that the writer seemed to know him enough to predict exactly what was happening inside his head. Who exactly was that mysterious sender and did they really know as much as the content of the letter suggested? The questions were numerous, and he couldn’t find a proper answer to any of them.
He tried to read so that he could sleep peacefully, nonetheless those questions wouldn’t leave him. His anonymous interlocutor was right when they said that his curiosity would be aroused. It only added another question to the pile of others: would he really go to such an extremity to discover the truth?
Thomas went to bed without a clear decision and restlessly turned in his bed for hours, not finding any way to fall asleep.
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