(Hello my name is Ed and my hobbies include making myself sad for no reason and dragging everyone else down with me. I'm so sorry.)

Thank you for reading; I hope you enjoy it! I'm always open to feedback if you have any!

Dearest Claire,

How are you? I'm doing well, I suppose, though I'm not too sure how to go about writing this. I've finally gotten settled into my new office. "A place for everything, and everything in its place," as my mother would likely say. I wonder how long it will take me to mess everything up. A week, maybe? You know how I can get. It's quite embarrassing.

I really should be preparing lecture notes and the like, but I can't bring myself to right now. It's been a week now since the accident and I still can't accept that it happened. Dean Delmona said that when his wife died, he dealt with his grief by writing her letters, telling her about the same types of things they would talk about when she was alive. He said it helped. I confess, it isn't really making me feel any better. In fact, I believe it's just making me feel worse.

What's the point in pretending you're ever going to read this? I love you, Claire, I always have, and now that you're gone there's no way to tell you that, to let my feelings be known...

I can't do this. Not now. Not yet. It's still too soon. Losing you has hurt me more deeply than any pain I've ever felt, even Randall. I hope you'll understand that I can't do this right

I will try this again. Later. Right now I can't quite seem to stop crying.

All of my love,

Hershel

Dearest Claire,

As promised, I am trying this again. It's been exactly one month since the accident. The job is going well, I think. Many of these students are bursting with curiosity and a willingness to learn, but I suppose there will always be those who are "too cool for school" or whatever it is they're saying. I must confess, despite being closer in age to most of my students than most of my colleagues, I have a hard time connecting with my students. Ma always says I have an "old soul." I suppose that might be it.

You know, it's strange. Ever since the accident, there's been no media coverage of the explosion. With an explosion of that size, you would think there would be reports all over the news, but outside of the initial report, there's been nothing. Not so much as a photo of the construction to rebuild the lab and the apartments next to it. I wonder why that is.

Do you know, this has actually helped a little bit. It almost makes me feel as though I have to finish this letter quickly so I can pop down to the post office and send it off to you before they close. But then I remember that I don't have to...and then I remember why I don't have to. It's a very strange and upsetting thing to know you'll never see someone again.

I don't feel so good anymore. I think I'll sign off for now and have a lie-down. Then I'd better clean up the office a bit. (I was only able to keep it looking nice for four days. Frankly, I'm ashamed.)

All of my love,

Hershel

Dearest Claire,

I've done a fair bit of research into the accident since my last letter. What I've learned has been...well, disturbing, to say the least. It seems that a person with great political clout has been trying to suppress all information about the lab's explosion-and it seems that whoever it is is succeeding! I haven't written in a long time-two months since my last letter, I apologise-because once I discovered the lack of coverage, the thought wouldn't leave me alone. I had to know what was going on and why.

It's funny, I've never been what one might call a conspiracy theorist, but I'm absolutely certain that someone in the British Government has some reason to keep the accident a secret to the general public. My intuition is rarely off. I've done so much research...but I still don't have the answer.

I suppose I'll just have to press on. After all, every puzzle has an answer...and I must find the answer to this one.

I must.

All of my love,

Hershel

Dearest Claire,

I was very close to joining you recently. The doctors said I'm lucky to be alive, which is true, I suppose. Not long after my last letter, I was attacked on my way home from the university. I wasn't able to fight them off, and I was hurt pretty badly. I was in a coma for a month. When I woke up a few days ago, Ma and Pa were practically in hysterics. I have a full bill of health now, but I'm recuperating at home with them for a little while before I go back to work.

To make matters worse, whoever attacked me (the police still don't know) then broke into my office and stole all my research on the accident! They only left me with a few pages of my notebook and my letters to you. I had virtually nothing-a hunch, a theory, nothing that would hold up in a court if it came to that-and I was almost killed for it. It makes me wonder just how close I really was to uncovering everything. It also makes me worry for what will happen when I finally do uncover everything.

I'll start my research again. I have to. And this time, I'll do it with one eye over my shoulder at all times.

You might say I'm becoming a little bit obsessed, but if there was a reason for your death besides just "an accident" as we have all been led to believe...I have to know what it is.

All of my love,

Hershel.

Nothing. There's nothing. I write to you as a broken man, Claire. It's been over a month and a half since my research was stolen, and without resorting to breaking into the police archives, I've run out of leads. The trail has grown cold.

It's been six months since the explosion.

I don't know what to do.

Dearest Claire,

Nightmares are a normal occurrence, as with any type of dream. Despite that fact, I haven't had any nightmares since I was in school and Randall died. I had a recurring nightmare where he was so close, just right there, and I just couldn't quite reach, and he fell. And then Randall's parents and Angela and Henry and even Randall himself were all there, yelling, screaming, "why didn't you help him?!" I would wake up either screaming or crying for months. I was afraid to go to sleep.

Those nightmares became less frequent when I came to Gressenheller, and within the year they had stopped completely. I still feel that I carry a large part of the blame for Randall's death, but my subconscious no longer tortures me over it.

Instead, recently it has found a new way to bring me pain and grief.

Claire...you don't really blame me, do you? As much as I'd like to believe otherwise, there wasn't any way I could have changed the outcome of that fateful day.

But what if there was? I could have asked you not to go, though I know you would have gone anyway. But every night I wake in a cold sweat, the sound of you begging me to help you and screaming at me when I can't ringing in my ears.

You're gone. I know that. Nothing can change that now.

But could I have stopped it from happening in the first place?

I don't know. I wish I could say yes. Then I'd know I had a reason to be beating myself up over it.

By the way, it's been a year to the day since the accident.

I love you.

Hershel

Dearest Claire,

I have a new office-and a housekeeper! The office is a bit larger than my old one, so either it will stay cleaner longer or it will get even worse faster. Hopefully Rosa-the housekeeper-will be able to help with that. You'd like Rosa. She seems to be a no-nonsense, grandmotherly sort.

Today would have been our six-year anniversary. A few days from now will be the two-year anniversary of your death. I'm not sure how to reconcile these two events-one bittersweet, one just downright bitter.

Time may march on-as well you know-but the heart, it seems, does not. I still love you, Claire.

Happy anniversary.

All of my love,

Hershel

Dearest Claire,

I was going to propose, you know.

If I got the teaching job, I knew we'd be set for life. I wanted to spend my whole life with you. If I got the teaching job, I was going to ask you to marry me.

Would you have said yes?

All of my love,

Hershel

Dearest Claire,

I seem to have developed a tendency to fall asleep in my office. I knew putting a couch in here wasn't a good idea. Ah, well, it's here now, and Ma was so proud when she told me she was sending me a couch (really, a couch) from my grandparents' house for my birthday that I didn't have the heart to tell her there wasn't room for it in my flat.

Sometimes I feel like I should move out of the flat and become a permanent fixture in the office. If I'm not teaching or away on an archeological expedition, I'm here, either working on things for a class or researching what I found on my latest excursion. I have a few interesting things up around the place now, fossils and replicas and the like. It looks like it belongs to a real archeologist.

Dean Delmona still asks for help with puzzles. It seems his granddaughter keeps giving them to him and he can't solve them himself. His granddaughter must be a bright little thing.

I've fallen out of contact with most of our friends from university. I heard that Clark and Brenda got married a few months after graduation to the surprise of absolutely no one. I wonder what Paul ever got up to.

I've also somehow become involved with Scotland Yard. I'm honestly not quite sure how. I was just at a museum researching some artefacts I'd gained possession of, and suddenly I was helping Scotland Yard hunt down a counterfeit ring! It was an interesting experience, to be sure. The fellow in charge was one Clamp Grosky, and ever since then he's called on my assistance several times. It's a little flattering, really.

All of my love,

Hershel

Dearest Claire,

In the past few days, I appear to have acquired an assistant and an apprentice.

I received a letter from Clark asking for help. On my way to Misthallery, the town where he had somehow become mayor in the last few years (I'm a bit fuzzy on the details of that one), I met Emmy Altava, who Dean Delmona had apparently hired on to be my assistant.

And by "met," I mean she tried to race my car on her motor scooter and nearly caused an accident by throwing herself in front of the Laytonmobile.

Despite her reckless nature, Emmy is a smart young woman, and also quite the athlete. I'm sure the two of you would get along famously.

Well, as it turned out, Clark hadn't sent for me at all, but instead it turned out his son Luke had heard stories about me from Clark and had requested my assistance. Though shy and a bit reclusive, he soon opened up. He's a sweet young boy of about eight (has it really been so long since graduation?), wears his heart on his sleeve, and is quite adept at puzzle solving and creation.

Also, he can talk to animals, a fact which no one else seems at all baffled by.

Luke is quite taken with me, which is rather sweet if I'm being honest, and he's declared himself to be my "apprentice." I like him as well; he's well-mannered and has the makings of quite the gentleman.

As to why he asked for my help, it seemed that there was a terrible specter of some kind attacking Misthallery. It was, in fact, a large lake creature, similar to Nessie, fighting with a robot designed to rip up parts of the town in search of something.

Because that makes more sense, I suppose? It has been a very strange few days.

Actually, what was interesting was the fact that while there, we uncovered an underground garden, which may have connections to a lost civilization known as the Azran. We also met a man by the name of Jean Descole, who had built the robot I mentioned in order to find said garden. It seems he's an archeologist of some kind as well, though his intentions are much more ruthless.

I wish you could meet Luke and Emmy. Emmy is a good-hearted, competent girl, and since Clark and Brenda have moved back to London (Clark managed to secure a job at Gressenheller), Luke has hardly left my side, except during his school hours.

It's quite nice to have a few people with me in the office. Every so often, they remind me that I'm not alone.

All of my love,

Hershel

Dearest Claire,

Emmy saw me writing letters the other day and asked if I wanted to simply dictate my letters and she would write them for me. I declined. While I'm sure her handwriting is neater than mine (you've seen mine, and it hasn't improved since then), I don't think I could ever have someone else write my letters, especially my letters to you. It just wouldn't feel right.

It's been five years since the accident. I pretend I'm not still hurting, but every so often something will happen that brings it all rushing back. This morning, I woke up in a panic because you weren't there beside me, and then I remembered. And I've been in a stupor all day. Luke, bless his heart, noticed right away and asked what was wrong. I couldn't tell him; I didn't want to cause him undue worry before he left for school. Emmy asked as well, of course, but I wasn't sure I was ready to confide in her yet. So instead, here I am, an hour before my first lecture of the day, writing to you.

It's less painful than it used to be-sort of a dull throbbing ache throughout the day, a constant reminder of where you are. Or where you aren't, rather.

Do you remember the hat you gave me? You told me not to take it off and to keep an open mind about it. Well, I only take it off to wash or sleep (and sometimes not even to sleep if I fall asleep on the couch). You were right, as always. It does make me look like a gentleman. I've tried to be a true gentleman all these years. I hope I would have made you proud.

My students will be arriving soon, and Emmy just made tea. I'd better go. I miss you every day, and I still love you.

All of my love,

Hershel

Dearest Claire,

Emmy has left. I'm adopted. Azran culture is horrifying and I never want anything to do with it again. I've lost too many people because of it.

It has been seven years since the explosion. If Luke and Clark and Brenda weren't here, I would feel so incredibly alone.

All of my love,

Hershel

Dearest Claire,

Luke and I went to a small village in the countryside to solve an inheritance dispute. It was intriguing at first—St. Mystere had no shortage of secrets—but toward the end things got much trickier.

We were supposed to locate the family treasure "The Golden Apple," which no one had ever seen or even heard of. As it turned out, said treasure was the dead baron's daughter Flora, and he wanted to find someone suitable to take care of her after he was gone.

And so that person is me.

To be honest I'm not sure I'm ready to be a single parent. If you were here…well, there's little point dwelling on what can't be. But Flora is counting on me, and she's a sweet girl. Demure and a bit quiet, but I expect that's her upbringing talking. A few months around Luke and I'm sure she'll turn out to be quite the little firecracker. Luke seems taken with her, too.

All of my love,

Hershel

Dearest Claire,

Clark just informed me that he's gotten another job out of town. He, Brenda, and Luke will be leaving in a few short months.

Why does everyone leave me, Claire? Is it me?

All of my love,

Hershel

WHY?

How could this happen? Claire, why?

It had been ten years. I was almost over everything. No, that's a lie. God, I was never over anything. I still love you, and we almost had a chance to

I will never forgive Hawks for this. It's his fault you're gone and why I haven't been able to find the answers I needed after your death for ten years.

Why?

Dearest Claire,

Luke has left. He cried as I expected he would. I managed to last until I could lock myself in the privacy of my office. I know we'll see each other again—he's not that far away, really—but he had become such a large part of my life for the last several years that the office seems emptier without him. Flora and Rosa are still here, but it really does feel like everyone I care about goes away eventually, so I'm sure it's only a matter of time.

Claire…I can't do this anymore. I have to stop writing to you. Talking to you for the last time the other night…it made me realize that this letter writing isn't helping. It's really just adding to my guilt and regret and it's not healthy. I have a brave face to put on, after all, and it's harder to do that when the man behind the face feels like he's crumbling on the inside.

That was a lot more profound in my head.

Claire, I still love you. I wish things had turned out differently. But no amount of discarded time machine projects can change things. And it's about time I accepted that. This will be the last time I write to you.

I love you.

Hershel