The janitor quietly sweeps away the fall leaves from around the graves. A short distance away he can see an old woman kneeling by a grave. The janitor had worked here a long time, and knew to let the grieving be, but today there was something different, he'd seen the woman there earlier this morning, and she hadn't moved since. He approaches her in silence, and calls to her from a few feet away; she doesn't even react to the noise. He places a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
"It's cold out, why don't you come with me, I'll fix you up with something warm to drink" he offers politely. No response. He begins to worry, and reaches down to touch her hand, it's cold as ice. From it falls a thin white envelope.
..........................
About an hour later police move around the scene. One young officer notices the letter from where it rests on the ground. He carefully picks it up.
"D'tective!" he calls "I think I've got something." The Detective comes near.
"What is it?"
"I'm not sure, a letter. Perhaps from the woman. Might give us some clue as to who she is."
"Good work son, open it up." The young officer carefully unfolds the flap and empties out the letter. The Detective comes in for a closer look, "It's coded, this case just went from mundane to interesting." The young officer stared at the letter for a short while.
"Actually Sir. I don't think it's coded. I think it's Russian." The Detective looks back at the writing.
"You could be right. I'll notify the station that we'll need a translator."
…………………………………………………………………………………………
About twenty members of Phoenix Police Department crowd in a small interview room. The translator sits in the centre.
"It's unquestionably Russian. I can translate it for you now if you'd like."
"That'd be great." Replies the Detective from earlier.
"It seems to be a letter." He explains to the room before starting to read it, "but some of it doesn't make much sense, maybe it will to you guys, but I have no idea."
"Go ahead, we'll see whether it does, we need any help we can get to identify the poor woman."
"I know this is a little late in coming," the translator begins in a slow and clear voice. "but it was hard to write. When I saw you walk into the pod that time, something deep inside me wanted to stop you, but I let you go. I knew the second you were gone that there was a problem. Why were we all still in the hanger? There'd been no Backstep.
Things changed, I changed, but there was always a part of you with me.
I haven't forgiven you for the choice you made, I don't think I ever will, but I do understand why you did it, if that's any consolation. And I know for certain I will never forgive myself for what I did.
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry that it turned out this way. I should never have let you go. I should have stopped you- then everything would be different.
My life had to go on though. I married. I loved him, but not the way I loved you, but then half of me died when I pulled that trigger. Frank accepted that I couldn't love him as much as he loved me. I know he was tired of competing with a ghost. I feel you watching me. It makes me nervous sometimes, it makes me happy sometimes too.
Frank died last week. I hope he understands now, I never meant to hurt him. Like you never meant to hurt me, and I never meant to hurt you. When you died, part of me died, and I wanted to die. But I didn't. I think after you, part of me wanted to drive everyone away so I couldn't hurt them too.
I'm sorry I didn't go to your funeral. I should have, but I couldn't. I just couldn't. Please forgive me.
I have a beautiful son, do you know that? I guess if you're watching over me then you would know that. I wanted to name my son after you, but I think it would have hurt Frank too much if he was to be reminded every day like that. We called him David, it' a nice name, that doesn't provoke conflict in either of us. His middle name is yours. He doesn't know who he was named after. I'm sorry you couldn't know him, and that he wasn't yours.
I'm an old woman now, and I know that I shall die soon. I hope you'll be there to meet me, and that you'll forgive me.
There'll always be a space in my heart, and a gap in my soul for you Josef… Olga." The translator finished. He didn't realise he was crying until he felt the warm salty tear run down his cheek. He wiped it away quickly in embarrassment, but when he looked up from the paper, he saw no dry eye in the room. No one had known these people, or what they were involved in, but everyone could identify with the raw grief contained in the writing he held in his hand. The phone rang and perversely cut through the respectful silence. The Detective picked it up and cleared his throat.
"Yes?" he asks, he listens for a few seconds "Understood. Thank you." He hangs up and turns to the rest of the room. "That was the chief. Fingerprints came back as a Dr Vukavitch, with the NSA. We're not to discuss the case, or the contents of the letter with anyone. We haven't even seen it." Everyone nods gravely, knowing that they had seen the letter, and it would remain inside them forever, the whole case would always be with them. They file out of the room in silence, to face the cruel unforgiving world once more.
"It's cold out, why don't you come with me, I'll fix you up with something warm to drink" he offers politely. No response. He begins to worry, and reaches down to touch her hand, it's cold as ice. From it falls a thin white envelope.
..........................
About an hour later police move around the scene. One young officer notices the letter from where it rests on the ground. He carefully picks it up.
"D'tective!" he calls "I think I've got something." The Detective comes near.
"What is it?"
"I'm not sure, a letter. Perhaps from the woman. Might give us some clue as to who she is."
"Good work son, open it up." The young officer carefully unfolds the flap and empties out the letter. The Detective comes in for a closer look, "It's coded, this case just went from mundane to interesting." The young officer stared at the letter for a short while.
"Actually Sir. I don't think it's coded. I think it's Russian." The Detective looks back at the writing.
"You could be right. I'll notify the station that we'll need a translator."
…………………………………………………………………………………………
About twenty members of Phoenix Police Department crowd in a small interview room. The translator sits in the centre.
"It's unquestionably Russian. I can translate it for you now if you'd like."
"That'd be great." Replies the Detective from earlier.
"It seems to be a letter." He explains to the room before starting to read it, "but some of it doesn't make much sense, maybe it will to you guys, but I have no idea."
"Go ahead, we'll see whether it does, we need any help we can get to identify the poor woman."
"I know this is a little late in coming," the translator begins in a slow and clear voice. "but it was hard to write. When I saw you walk into the pod that time, something deep inside me wanted to stop you, but I let you go. I knew the second you were gone that there was a problem. Why were we all still in the hanger? There'd been no Backstep.
Things changed, I changed, but there was always a part of you with me.
I haven't forgiven you for the choice you made, I don't think I ever will, but I do understand why you did it, if that's any consolation. And I know for certain I will never forgive myself for what I did.
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry that it turned out this way. I should never have let you go. I should have stopped you- then everything would be different.
My life had to go on though. I married. I loved him, but not the way I loved you, but then half of me died when I pulled that trigger. Frank accepted that I couldn't love him as much as he loved me. I know he was tired of competing with a ghost. I feel you watching me. It makes me nervous sometimes, it makes me happy sometimes too.
Frank died last week. I hope he understands now, I never meant to hurt him. Like you never meant to hurt me, and I never meant to hurt you. When you died, part of me died, and I wanted to die. But I didn't. I think after you, part of me wanted to drive everyone away so I couldn't hurt them too.
I'm sorry I didn't go to your funeral. I should have, but I couldn't. I just couldn't. Please forgive me.
I have a beautiful son, do you know that? I guess if you're watching over me then you would know that. I wanted to name my son after you, but I think it would have hurt Frank too much if he was to be reminded every day like that. We called him David, it' a nice name, that doesn't provoke conflict in either of us. His middle name is yours. He doesn't know who he was named after. I'm sorry you couldn't know him, and that he wasn't yours.
I'm an old woman now, and I know that I shall die soon. I hope you'll be there to meet me, and that you'll forgive me.
There'll always be a space in my heart, and a gap in my soul for you Josef… Olga." The translator finished. He didn't realise he was crying until he felt the warm salty tear run down his cheek. He wiped it away quickly in embarrassment, but when he looked up from the paper, he saw no dry eye in the room. No one had known these people, or what they were involved in, but everyone could identify with the raw grief contained in the writing he held in his hand. The phone rang and perversely cut through the respectful silence. The Detective picked it up and cleared his throat.
"Yes?" he asks, he listens for a few seconds "Understood. Thank you." He hangs up and turns to the rest of the room. "That was the chief. Fingerprints came back as a Dr Vukavitch, with the NSA. We're not to discuss the case, or the contents of the letter with anyone. We haven't even seen it." Everyone nods gravely, knowing that they had seen the letter, and it would remain inside them forever, the whole case would always be with them. They file out of the room in silence, to face the cruel unforgiving world once more.