I don't know how to start this letter. You were always the one who would write our letters to family; I was always too awkward about it, because I never thought anything was worth mentioning – they were just there, and that was that. And with things being what they are, it's only stranger that I'm doing this at all.

I guess I'll start with why I'm writing this – a letter for a dead person. I don't think I have to say anything more about the past; you know why I did what I did, and there's nothing more to be said about it. I don't know – I just have things to say that no one else will understand, and in Silent Hill, you were still alive. So I'm going there again, to that special place – our special place, to give you this letter in person.

It's been an anti-climatic few months, after all that's happened. Life goes on, and no one really seems to notice that James Sunderland and Mary Shepherd-Sunderland are gone, or that a "Jim Shepherd" has shown up from nowhere with his daughter Laura. It took some manipulation, and there were definitely a few close calls, but my new identity is established now, and there are no more questions asked. When I look in the mirror, I can almost hear your voice telling me to shave off the short beard I've grown. You never did like facial hair – said it'd make you feel like you were kissing some furry animal.

I'm working at, of all things, a hospital now. Thick irony, isn't it? I get to see all the ailing people, afflicted with this or that. Some get better. Some don't. Some have loving visitors. Some wilt away by themselves, alone, and I think it's seeing those that hurts me most, because I see you in them. Maybe it's fitting. You forgave me, but I don't think I can ever completely forgive myself. I only know to live.

I wish you were still here, Mary. Not only for my sake. I think, now, that I can live, even with all the guilt and pain. I wish you were still here for Laura. I wonder if people can truly change? Because sometimes, she infuriates me, and I wish I could just get rid of her, because she's a burden, and at the same time, I can see that I've injured her deeply, too. And it just reminds me of the past. No child should have the hatred she has in her. I don't know what to do, Mary. We can't even look each other in the eye – I see the hatred that, though duller now, will always be there, and she sees the guilt that she knows she's causing by just existing. So we live together without conversation. I hate the thought of it, but I want to just put her in a foster home, and I think she wants it too. That way, neither of us would be living with a breathing reminder of the past. But I can't ask her, and she can't ask me – we're both still clinging to the specter of you in each other, and it'd never work – too many questions asked. It's all I can do to try my best to take care of Laura, but I'll keep trying, whatever good that is. She deserves as much as I can give her.

Not a day goes by where I don't wonder, even if only briefly, about the what ifs and the what nows.

I'm sorry, Mary.

The happiest days of my life are over.

But every day, I read your letter...

And I live on for the memories, for me, and for you.

___

Jim Shepherd – once James Sunderland – no, still James Sunderland – stood at the dock on Toluca Lake. It was a brilliant day – to mock him or comfort him? – sunny and bright and warm, the shimmering surface of the water dancing with happiness that did not reflect in the silent man's eyes. Passersby spared him a glance, vaguely wondering what the story was hidden behind the meaningful gaze into the lake's depth. A faint fogginess still lingered over the edge of the water; the children stuck their hands through the wisps, laughing and twirling the microdroplets around. All but one, who stood to the side, wordless, gazing on with a mixture of contempt and sorrow as the man dropped an envelope into the depths. After a moment, he approached her.

"Are you ready to leave?"

"..."

Sighing, the man began to walk away. Soft footsteps over the quiet clamor of the tourists told him that behind him, a little girl followed. With her was a memory of someone else entirely.

A/N: Yeah, I don't know where exactly I was going. Nothing's resolved here, is it? James is still in a crap situation, and Laura still hates him. I guess I just couldn't see anything good coming from the Leave ending, at least, not until a good deal of time had passed.

It's so rambly...but then again, so was Mary's letter, to an extent, and I figured James would be at that weird point where you want to say something to someone, but it's so strange and awkward that you end up not knowing what to say at all.

I dunno. It was an off-the-cuff thing, really.