Daniel had finished his morning jog, something he had started to do to relieve stress since Rory's absence, and had stopped in front of the mailbox. He reached inside and took out a little pile of papers. He rummaged through the stack as he walked into the house. Daniel almost dropped everything when he saw a little, cream-colored envelope. There was a name on the front. Rory. With shaky hands, he opened the letter. There was only one page within. His heart raced, and his chest wrenched from dread and panic as he read it. Tears ran down his cheeks, blurring the words. He felt relieved to hear that Rory was okay.
Daniel was sitting at the table with the letter in his hand for an unknown amount of time when he heard the sound of a door opening. The sound of footsteps was heard in the distance, moving closer. "Hi, Dad," he said as the old man entered the kitchen.
"Hello, son," he said, smiling genuinely. "How was your day?"
"I got a letter," Daniel replied. "It's from Rory," he explained, holding it up for his father to see.
"Is he okay?" "Does he explain why he left?" his father asked.
"Yeah, issues with his father," he replied, nodding. "Why didn't he say anything?" Daniel's father inquired. "He said that he didn't want to burden us with his problem," Daniel added.
That night, after dinner, Daniel sat on his queen-sized bed. Soft rock music played from his radio. On his lap was an open notebook with a blank page. He picked up a single pencil and began writing.
Dear Rory,
When I heard you were missing, I was terrified and assumed you had been injured or killed. I had a sense your father had done something. I understand your concern, but I could have helped. You are not a burden for me or my father. Are you happy? I miss you. Perhaps we can reconnect and maintain our friendship. That is if you will allow it.
Your pal, Daniel
A few days later, after a long day of job hunting, Rory came to a halt in front of his mailbox. He opened the flap and retrieved a small stack of papers. As he looked through them, a cream-colored package caught his eye. His breath caught as he saw the name on the front. Was he seeing what was in front of him? He blinked many times before looking down at the envelope. The name was still written in black ink. Daniel. He dashed up the concrete stairs to his apartment and immediately plopped on the couch once inside. His pulse quickened as he read the letter. He read it several times to ensure that it was authentic.
Rory gently refolded the letter and placed it in a silver lockbox inside his wardrobe. He turned around, grabbed a notebook and a pencil, and sat down at his square wooden desk. He opened the book to a blank page and began writing.
Hi, Daniel. I am so delighted to hear from you. I've been job looking without success. I'm not giving up, however. At least you understand why I left. I'd love to reconnect with you. We are still best friends. The ocean is soothing. I draw it from time to time. I remembered we had promised each other that we would see it. I have dreams about Dad, but I get through them. When Kara, the cafe's waitress, notices my moodiness, she smiles.
Your friend, Rory
As weeks went by, the ritual of writing, sending, and saving letters persisted. "I'll see you someday," each one assured. Rory was sketching again in the art studio when Zeke approached him. "You're back," he said. "I like it here," Rory said. "It's quiet." "Are you still looking for work?" Zeke inquired. Rory nodded. Sadness suffused his hazel gaze. "People are cautious when it comes to strangers," Rory said. Zeke's gaze softened. "If you want, I can offer you a job at my studio," he said. Rory's eyes widened in amazement. "You really want me as an artist for you?" he inquired.
"Yes," Zeke said, nodding.
Once all the arrangements were discussed, back at home, Rory excitedly drafted his next letter to Daniel.
Dear Daniel,
I have wonderful news. I got a job at last. The owner of the art studio I live above told me I could work for him. As an artist. I'm excited but also a little anxious. What if my work is disliked by him? What happens if my artwork doesn't meet his standards? I do not wish to ruin this. How are you? Do you have any issues with my dad? I don't want him causing trouble for you. Well, I have to leave now. I'll wait for your correspondence.
Rory
Rory's heart raced so fast and loudly that he believed it might burst through his chest. He felt both excited and nervous. His hands shook and his heart raced as he deposited the letter in the mailbox. He slumped face down on his bed once he entered his little but comfortable flat. As tiredness and relief flooded over him, he fell deeply asleep. It felt as if the universe had finally given him permission to be happy. Meanwhile, in his hometown, Rory's father sat at an oak desk in his office. A tall brunette man wearing a stylish black suit stood in front of him. "Mr. Sanchos, I want you to find my son and bring him home," Rory's father stated forcefully.
An hour later, the brunette was sitting on an uncomfortable single-sized bed in a hotel room without Rory even noticing. All across the bed were the contents of the manila packet. In the middle of the mess was a picture of Rory. On his lap a black stacked notepad opened to a blank page. With a yellow pencil in hand, the investigator made some notes. A question challenged him as he was organizing his regimen. Why pay someone to look for him if his father detested him so much?