At a tourist shop, Emily buys a handful of postcards. She doesn't realize it until she returns to her apartment in Paris, but somehow, she has selected exactly six postcards. Before she can think better of it, she sits down and fills one out. She doesn't address it. Doesn't include names - hers or theirs - for fear of it being discovered and their lives being put in danger with her own.
She might not be able to send such things, but no one can stop Emily from writing them. From keeping them in a special place for the precise time when she might be able to pass them on. They are a kind of tangible hope. They tell her she will go home one day.
It's strange, as a painter now, to rely on the written word again. She can envision the brightest sunshine for Garcia's, but she finds no words adequately convey how deeply she is missed:
Dear PG,
It's so beautiful here, but I find I cannot enjoy it. It's a lonely sort of beauty when one is alone. I miss you so much. So sorry for snapping at you. I'll see you again. Love, P.
She is Pascale now, so it makes sense to abbreviate her own name by that initial. She stores the postcard of the Eiffel Tower all lit up at night in the folds of a shirt, and hopes, someday, to have the opportunity to give it to Penelope in person.
Soon, she finds something therapeutic what she is doing. In jotting down thoughts to her friends and hiding them in various places - with possessions that will return to the States with her, if she gets the opportunity. Hotch is next…
H,
Strange as it sounds, I miss work. Though my hands are certainly busy here, they feel so idle. Creating beauty is not the same as quenching darkness. It should be, shouldn't it? But it doesn't feel quite the same.
When June arrives, Emily's heart aches. She misses them more than words can express. So, she paints like crazy to fill the void. She waits for hours, mid-afternoon, for JJ to come play Scrabble with her. They don't to it often, but every once in a while. Just when Emily is going stir crazy. She usually comes. But not today. So Emily writes a postcard and then hides it in the pages of a generic Parisian guidebook. Not to JJ, but to Rossi.
R,
Things are fine. New job is lucrative. Not the same. Hope you are getting the chance to rest and relax. It seems that is all I'm doing. Not used to it yet. Better to be busy. Less time to think.
It's a long time before Emily can fathom writing the last three postcards. But finally, mid-September, the words come. First to Spencer:
S,
I can't imagine how difficult my leaving has been for you. I remember how hard a time you've had in the past - with change and people leaving - and I know there's nothing I can say to make it easier on you. I wish you didn't have to go through this. I know it doesn't make it up to you, but I'm sorry, and I will see you again, someday.
Then, JJ. Emily finds there isn't much to say to her, because they communicate frequently via online Scrabble. One word sentences are a hell of a lot better than nothing at all.
I can't tell you how good it was to see you again, no matter how briefly. Please give everyone my love.
And finally, Derek's… Emily has been putting this off. It is the middle of September by now, and something tells her that if she is going to finish what she started, it has to be done now. So, she sits down, paint staining her hands, and writes what she has wished she could say for seven months:
M:
You may never know what it meant to me that yours was the last face I saw before everything changed. Thank you for always being there, no matter what. Thank you for not hesitating to do what must have been very hard for you. Even if I cannot return, please know that I have never forgotten your actions. Love, P.
A week later, a call comes. It's Declan, and Emily knows what she must do. But before she leaves this life behind, she stokes a fire in the fireplace of her newest residence. She rips all six postcards into unreadable pieces, and burns them.
Declan is missing. Ian is alive.
And Emily is going home.