Letters

"Do you remember how we first met?"

It's such a simple question. At its most basic, a simple yes or no should suffice. At its most intricate, a spiralling tale can be told, with details that may have became hazy over time, and others so strikingly accurate that one can feel themselves once again reliving that moment. And in this occasion, you really do remember how it all began.

So why do you pause, and stare long and hard at the dried ink on the piece of folded paper?

The question really was out of the blue. At least, from your prespective, it was. Maybe something had happened in your beloved friend's life that triggered this strange wave of nostalgia, of looking back at how things in his life used to be. Luke was always a bit funny like that, but it was that in itself that made you like him so. A keen child, with such an intelligent mind, could not be bound by the ways normal people generally think, after all.

(Deep down, you think that not even 'The Ways of a Gentleman' could stop the boy from thinking like he does, and that his own professor, self-proclaimed 'Gentleman', was the same. They may follow the same rules, but they'll always perceive them differently than you do. It just seems to be in their nature.)

That, of course, is not to say you don't remember how you met Luke Triton, and the most famous Professor Hershel Layton, archeologist and puzzle-master extrodinaire. Why would you? It was a strange and surreal experience, and yet one you would happily go through again, if only so that you could receive the many letters that the boy sends you.

Briefly, you wonder if Luke himself forgot, but you throw that thought away as quickly as it came. Luke wouldn't forget. And a brief look towards the rest of the letter indeed proves that yes, he does remember, and that he's just checking to see if you do too. A sigh of relief. Curiosity takes over, and you read the rest of the letter, your desire to hear of what adventures and puzzles (oh, most definitely the puzzles-you truly did not know the true joy of puzzles until you met these two) he had gone through this time. You don't think back to question until the end, when things begin to make a little more sense.

Ah. It seems that Luke's father is having to move, and Luke along with him. He won't be able to see the Professor anytime soon, and after that last adventure (the one that had you so moved with the depressing tale of Clive, and the inevitable tragedy that was Claire's end) it was no wonder that your friend was looking back to when things first started. You feel sad for Luke, but you can't help the bit of self-pity that rises in your chest at their separation, as it means no longer will you be able to have those wonderful adventures told to you, and those delightful puzzles will once again be out of your reach. It is selfish, but you can't help it-even with all the previous letters Luke has sent you, this unquenchable thirst of yours wants, no, needs to hear more of this tale.

If those two are not together, then you will have to rely on looking to the old letters of their stories, reading them with great interest. Your eyes are constantly checking the sides of the pages and every other nook and cranny for little hints to the puzzles Luke has sent you, and for the hidden puzzles the Professor has added in himself, puzzles that he either thinks you would enjoy or that he's just remembered. The story you would plunge yourself into, with its lovable characters that are painted and described so strangely and yet so perfectly, where you could actually BE both the Professor and Luke, would disappear, and the fond memories fading alongside it.

(The thought that Luke should become a writer when he comes of age runs through your mind once again. If he is able to tell such wonderful tales where you literally feel like you're there, then the potential the boy has for later in his life would be tremendous. Maybe you should briefly mention it to him in your reply, or at least hint to it. He might want to be just like the Professor, but your friend must remember that he too is an individual, and that many people would prefer he stay that way than become a mini-Layton. Even if the thought of him all dressed up as the Professor is... rather amusing.)

However, a reply is required, and something you had always done in great haste beforehand, this time quicker than ever, to ensure that Luke gets it before he leaves, since he hasn't given you his new address yet and you don't want him to think you don't care (anything but that) about his feelings. And in that reply, you must answer that question that had stopped you in your tracks previously.

But for some reason, it's just so hard.

Where do you begin to make the story interesting? Should you try to add in little details and puzzles like Luke does, and hidden ones like his Professor? Perhaps it would be better if instead you told it in another perspective than your own, in order to make the tale more endearing? Or is it much more simple, in that Luke is simply looking for nice 'yes' or a somewhat embarressed 'no'? Ah, the possibilities!

Writing can be like a puzzle sometimes, you think. No wonder Luke is a natural talent for it then. Not only is he now officially a better puzzler than you, but apparently he's better as the art of writing as well. How annoying. How are you supposed to reply now, when you can't weave a story like Luke?

You pause. An answer to your own puzzle surely can't be that easy. But it must be. There is no other possible solution to this bizarre, self-inflicted riddle, and no matter how much you rack your brains, another idea just does not appear.

You hear the clock on your bedroom wall tick. You think your answer over carefully, your head shifting from one direction to another slightly.

"I'm certain that this must be it..."

Your head's moving in time with the clock now, and, 1, 2, your expression changes to a small smile. By the fourth beat you're certain of your answer, and you point quite confidently towards your writing utensils.

"So obvious."

Paper out, your favourite fountain pen in your hand, you set to work. You are not Luke, nor are you the Professor. You do not think like them, and they do not think like you. What Luke wants in your reply is not an attempt to retell a memory like him, but to see how you remember it. Your friend is looking for another's opinion on your meeting, and you will gladly give him one. It's your story, and must have started differently to Luke's version, and what you remember as essential parts will probably also differ from your friend's.

But that is simply another aspect brought by these sort of things. A puzzle must be looked at in different ways for the answer to be reached, and, you suppose, life is no different sometimes. Your methods may be different, but they essentially lead to the same destination. And after all this time, you feel as if you should try to thank Luke for all those wonderful stories he told you of, and this sudden feeling of nostalgia is the perfect way to do that.

However, your desire for those adventures shared by the Apprentice and the Professor cannot go unnoticed, and you sneak in your own little question at the end, curious at how your friend shall answer. After all, it's the one thing he has never mentioned before.

"... So how did you meet the Professor yourself, Luke?"

You haven't even sent it off yet, and you can't wait for the reply.