Dear Flora

I'm writing this as you're driving to see me for the first, and perhaps last, time. I should have written this before, but I was preoccupied

I couldn't find words that made sense

I was afraid

Sorry, that wasn't right.

I can't do this

I should start over

But I don't have time for that. You're going to arrive any minute now, and I promised I'd give this to you, but this isn't good enough. Nothing is good enough.

I don't know what to do I don't know what to do

I'm only going to write the truth here, even if you hate me even more for it. I promise. You deserve that much, after all of the lies I told.

In truth, I have tried to write this many, many times, but I have never been satisfied with my attempts, and I wasn't brave enough to give you something that I deemed imperfect. But, if you really want to hear what I have to say, as imperfect as my attempts are, then that's the least I can do for you, even if I know that you'll never accept it, because I have no power to mend what I've done, or to make reality what could have been.

But, if you truly want to hear what I have to say, then I will try to write it out one last time, before I lose the nerve to give it to you...

Flora shivers, pulling her coat more tightly around her shoulders as she stumbles up the steep pathway. She casts a glance behind her, looking down toward the Laytonmobile, parked on the side of the road at the bottom of the hill. The little vehicle, small even when she's sitting inside it, seems as tiny as Luke's little toy car he'd gotten in Future London. It seems so small, so helpless, from up here, as if the gusts of wet wind that rush around her could carry it off into the distance.

It had taken Flora almost an hour to get this far, rather than the thirty minutes she'd promised Clive on the phone. She's never driven this far away from the professor's house before; her usual route to the grocery store or to Gressenheller is close enough to home that she's really only familiar with the streets around her neighborhood. She'd spent several anxious stops along the road out to the countryside nervously poring over the professor's map, hoping that she was on the right path, looking nervously above her, at the vermillion sky, coloured with dark rolling clouds that threaten to usher in the night's arrival hours earlier than it should arrive. The idea of getting lost in the countryside like this terrifies her, and the sickening fear that something horrible will happen if she doesn't arrive in exactly half an hour made concentrating on driving nearly impossible.

But at last she's arrived—or at least, she hopes she has. She half-wonders if this is the right place. The white building at the top of the hill seems frighteningly alive, the black iron gates surrounding it sharp like teeth, and its few windows, glowing with cold yellow light, are like the eyes of some horrible creature from a horror novel, waiting to pounce in the darkness. Even the garden is barren; summer hasn't yet ended, and most flowers should be only in the beginning stage of wilting, but, from what Flora can see, there's little more to the courtyard than concrete. Marble slabs (possibly sculptures of some kind) dot the garden, blocking out the few thin rose bushes and irises that struggle to grow in the thin dirt.

The atmosphere here is ominous, and uncomfortable, and Flora wonders why. This is a hospital, isn't it? Aren't they supposed to be helping people get better here? Flora knows that, if she were locked up in this hospital, she wouldn't get better; not with so few windows, or plants, and with those sharp iron gates locking her up like an animal in a cage.

She's at the front door now, with her bag of half-burnt chocolate chip cookies clutched in one hand and her letter in the other, and her heart in her mouth. Swallowing, she opens the door, and slips inside.

It's nearly as dark inside as it was outside, and despite there being no wind, almost as cold. Fluorescent yellow lights, set in the ceiling of the long, white hallway, flicker above her. Flora tries not to look at them too closely; she's gotten headaches from looking at lights less unsteady than these. Thin, narrow corridors extend seemingly infinitely to her left and to her right. She wonders if she'll even be able to find Clive in this place, or if she'll only find herself hopelessly lost. In the distance, she almost thinks she hears shouting, or crying, but it's such a thin, echoey sound that she wonders if her mind is playing tricks on her.

Swallowing, she shivers, hugging herself as she makes her way to the front desk.

A tall woman sits behind the desk, her back hunched, her pointy nose buried in a book. The title reads, Murder on the Thames, by Annie Dretche. Despite her nervousness, Flora's immediately interested; she's been wanting to read that book for ages, and has heard that it's quite good. The receptionist, at least, seems to be enjoying it; she seems deeply absorbed, not seeming to notice Flora at all. Despite Flora's eagerness to hear what Clive has to say, she's reluctant to disturb her, and yet, she has to. Slowly, she tiptoes forward until she's standing awkwardly before the desk, staring up at the clock on the wall above, too timid to make a sound. It's almost four-thirty… the professor's normal visiting hours end at five o'clock. Is she going to be sent back home without completing her mission?

No. She refuses to let that happen. She's come this far already. She's not going to turn back that easily.

Taking a deep breath, Flora opens her mouth to speak, just as the receptionist lowers her book. She meets Flora's gaze with a pointed stare. "Here to watch me read?"

"Um." Flora flushes, trying to regain her composure. Is she being sarcastic, or does she actually want to know the answer? Just to be safe, she goes with the latter. "N-no. I'm here to visit someone."

The receptionist looks over her shoulder, glancing boredly at the clock. "Visiting hours are almost over, y'know."

Flora's painfully aware of that, but there's no sense in making a fuss in front of this lady about it. "I know," she says, taking care to keep her voice level. "But they aren't over quite yet."

The receptionist sighs, setting her book down. She spins in her chair, giving one last longing glance toward the book before stooping to open a drawer labelled "Jen." She pulls out a huge binder, flipping through it with resentful abandon. "Your name is?" she starts.

"Flora Reinhold," Flora says, half-tripping over her own name in her nervousness.

"And you're here to see—"

"Clive Dove."

Jen (Flora assumes) raises an eyebrow, but continues thumbing through the binder. She reaches a page, then squints at it for a few moments (so, Flora isn't the only one who thinks the lights are far too dim). "You're not on his list of contacts."

Flora leans as far as she dares over the desk, trying to discreetly catch a glance of the page. She sees a large bolded word: Contacts, and below it, only one name, in print too small for her to read. It must be the professor's name; after all, he comes here so regularly. But why is his name the only one on the list? Is the professor really the only person who bothers to come here? With all of the people that "Big Luke" had seemed to know in Future London, Flora would have thought that at least a few of them would visit.

What about Spring and Cogg from the clock shop, who Big Luke had spoken about so fondly? Why wouldn't Clive add them to his contacts? What about those two awful men from the mobile fortress? They'd been happy enough to obey Clive at the time, putting obstacles in the professor's way as he made his way through the fortress, and making sure that she couldn't escape from that glass cage, standing out in the hall and laughing horribly about "that pretty thing the boss dragged in." Did their loyalty crumble as the fortress fell?

"Ahem."

Flora jumps, blinking. Jen is looking at her, her expression long-suffering. Flora's face grows hot again. Why can't she keep her mind from wandering?

Jen sighs. "You can't just come in and visit whoever and whenever you'd like," she says slowly, as though she's made this same speech many times before and is tired of repeating it. "You have to have an appointment, and be on the list of contacts, and follow the proper protocol. Especially when you're visiting Mr. Dove, of all people."

"I-I know." Flora struggles to keep her voice level. "I'm here instead of the professor—I mean, Professor Layton. He's away this week, a-and so I thought that I'd come instead. I know that we don't have the same last name or anything, but I'm his…"

Flora stops. She'd been about to say that she was the professor's "daughter," but… that isn't true. Not really. Not in any way that people will recognize, not even if Flora's come to see him as something like a father over the time she's spent with him.

(Does he see her as a daughter, too?)

"... his protégée," Flora says instead, pronouncing each syllable with pride. At least she's sure of that title—although she doubts that it will mean much to anybody but her.

Jen blinks. Slowly, the irritation in her face melts away, her mouth turning up at the corner. "Are you now?"

Is she laughing?

"Well. If you're not related to him, I really shouldn't be letting you in," Jen goes on, her previously bored tone tinged with amusement. "And I sincerely doubt that Mr. Dove will talk to you, even if I did let you through. He only talks to Professor Layton."

"He wants to talk to me, though!" Flora clutches her bag and letter to her chest, unable to keep herself from leaning forward. "I just talked to him on the phone an hour ago!"

If only she could sound calm, as the professor always does, and reason her way through these obstacles, just like him! But she knows that if she's turned away now, she's not going to be brave enough to come back here for months, or years, or… ever. And Clive had sounded so frighteningly different on the phone; she won't be able to go home if she can't at least find out why. She has to get in. She has to talk to him. "Please. Y-you have to let me in. This is really important."

The amusement slowly fades from Jen's face. "Hm. Well…" She runs her thumb over the corner of the binder, face creasing in thought. Flora holds her breath, waiting in silence. Finally, Jen nods. "Alright. If you can prove that you're actually Professor Layton's 'protégée,' I'll let you through. But you can only stay 'till five."

Flora lets her breath out, relief dawning over her. She's not going home defeated after all! But then, she registers the first half of Jen's statement. "Prove I'm the professor's protégée?" she echoes, a new panic rising inside of her.

"Mm-hm. All you have to do is solve my puzzle. You're a fan of murder mysteries, I take it," she says, nodding towards Murder on the Thames, "so this one will be easy if you really have been taught by the professor."

Flora swallows. Of course, she's solved many puzzles before. That was one of the things that was best about Future London: there had been so many puzzles offered to her, that she'd been able to solve without Luke or the professor's help. But they'd all been offered as gifts from one puzzle aficionado to another, and she could've given up on them if they were too difficult. She's never had to solve one under pressure like this.

But the professor wouldn't let this stop him. She can do this.

"Go on," she says steadily.

"Alright." Jen rests her chin on her folded hands. "Listen carefully."

"A famous police chief is asked to solve a murder case. He calls three suspects into his office.

Police Chief: One of you three committed the murder. Go on, confess.

Suspect A: I'm innocent, I promise!

Suspect B: The victim got what he deserved.

Suspect C: A didn't kill the victim.

One of these statements is a lie; all of the rest are the truth. Who committed the murder?"

Flora bites her lip, thinking it through. Maybe B did it? After all, they did seem to have a grudge against the victim… But with the information Flora's been given, it's impossible to know whether B is lying or not. If A or C lies, then the other is also lying, which violates the conditions of the puzzle… The puzzle seems unsolvable. Unless…

"Is it… the police chief?" she ventures hesitantly. If none of the three are lying, then he must be… right? Or maybe she's overthinking—

"Good job."

Flora blinks. Jen's looking at her, a satisfied look on her face. "The professor would've solved it a bit faster than that… but you were pretty close. You're probably the Flora that he's always talking about every week."

Flora can't stop a small smile from colouring her face. She did it. Even if her meeting with Clive turns out to be a failure, at least she managed this! (And she's a little flattered to learn that the professor talks about her to other people… although she's not sure how she likes a stranger she's never met before knowing about her). "So… I'm allowed to see him?" she asks tentatively, hoping that she didn't assume wrongly.

"Yep. Take the hall to your left all the way down to the end; the visiting room's down there, and he'll be in there, waiting. Remember, though; you've got to leave at five."

"Thank you," Flora says, turning to go. At last, there are no more obstacles; she can talk to Clive, and then give him the letter, and then go home, and everything will be al—

"Wait."

Flora stops. "Yes?" she asks nervously. What now?

"What's that you've got there?" Jen asks, vaguely gesturing towards Flora's hands.

Flora blinks, glancing down at the envelope in her hand. Anxiety shoots through her stomach. The idea of showing a stranger this letter, with all the hours and emotions that she poured into writing it, is too horrible to think about. "A… a letter—"

Jen points to Flora's other hand. "No, I mean, in the bag."

"Oh." Flora flushes again; how could she have misunderstood so badly? "They're… chocolate chip cookies."

"You're not supposed to bring food in here."

"O-oh." How could she be so stupid? She should have thought of that. Flora awkwardly stares at the bag, unsure of what to do. Should she go back outside and put them in the car? Or give them to Jen? Or throw them out? Or—

"But I guess I can make an exception this time, since you didn't know." Jen shrugs. "It's not like he'll eat them, anyway." She stuffs the binder back inside of the drawer, slamming it shut, and picks up her book once again. "Anyway, enjoy your visit… as much as you can enjoy visiting this place."

Flora blinks. What does she mean, that Clive won't eat them? Is her cooking that bad? Of course, Jen wouldn't know if it was or not (unless the professor told her… Flora quickly puts the idea out of her mind). Or does he just not eat in general? The thought makes her anxious, despite her confused feelings towards Clive in general. She wants to ask, but Jen's face is already buried in her book once again, and, from the look on her face, she won't respond well to any more questions.

She'll have to ask him herself, if she's brave enough.

Flora glances up at the clock once again. Four-thirty. She's stalled long enough.

She takes a deep breath, turns, and starts down the long hallway.

Flora's anxiety grows the farther she goes down the hallway. The walls on either side of her seem to grow closer together with every step. Occasionally she'll pass a door with a number above it, but Flora can't seem to find any pattern to where the doors appear, or to the numbers above them. The smell of antiseptic is inescapable, and the lights buzz incessantly above her until her head hurts.

Is this the path the professor walks every week? Has he gotten used to the smell, to the darkness, to the dread that this place brings? Or is it only Flora who feels dread?

And finally, she's at the door.

She puts her hand on the doorknob, and suddenly, is almost afraid to turn it. If she turned back here, she could go back home and pretend that none of this had happened, that Clive had never called, and that she'd never come here. Her current life at home is familiar, comfortable. The professor is the one who visits Clive, and Flora is the one who stays at home. If she goes through this door, she'll be breaking that barrier between the two worlds.

Nothing will be the same again.

But she doesn't want things to be the same. She doesn't want to live in this limbo; she wants to understand, no matter what it takes.

(She wants to be his friend again).

She just wishes it didn't take so much courage.

Flora closes her eyes, bites her lip, and opens the door.

The atmosphere in this room is palpably different, even before Flora opens her eyes. The air is less heavy, and the buzzing of the lights seems quieter than before. As Flora opens her eyes, she sees that the room is far wider than the narrow hallways she'd just passed through. She quickly notices the reason for the lack of buzzing: there's less of lights above her, as natural light streams in through a large window: the first that she's seen since arriving at this place. Outside, the wind whips the trees relentlessly, and the sun pierces the growing storm clouds with orange blades of light.

Then she sees him.

He's sitting on the window seat, his back to her. He's so still, so small compared to the window, that Flora wouldn't have noticed him if she'd immediately gone into the room. But from the doorway, she sees him, motionless except for his shoulders rising and falling as he breathes. He stares silently out into the courtyard, watching the rain begin to pelt against the concrete ground.

He's so quiet. The madman on the mobile fortress would never hold still this long, let alone sit so quietly, lost in thought. Flora's almost reluctant to interrupt him. But she needs to; she can't wait any longer.

"Hi," she says quietly, not knowing what else to say. Then she inwardly kicks herself; after nearly an entire year of not talking to him, is "Hi" really the first word she could think of?

Clive startles, violently enough that it almost startles Flora too. Slowly, he turns toward her.

He looks the same as he did right after it was all over, when he had blood in his hair and on his pale face, and shock in his unfocused eyes.

It's almost… sad, seeing him like this.

"O-oh, Flora, it's you," he says, his voice faltering and hoarse. Then, he breaks eye contact, staring down into the floor. "Hm," he says, almost too quietly for her to hear, rocking in his seat. "Come in, if… if you'd like to."

Flora stands motionless in the doorway for a long moment, holding her breath, watching him carefully. Despite getting this far, the thought of actually going inside, actually talking to him, after a year of trying to compartmentalize her feelings about him, is overwhelming.

She wants to talk to him again, to possibly become his friend again. She was desperate enough to come all of this way, to risk getting lost, and making a fool of herself. But at the same time, she's afraid. What if he's trying to trick her? What if he does make a fool of her again?

Then, she sees his hands, shaking despite how tightly they're clasped together, and his face, pale and anxious.

He's more afraid than she is.

She can take this step.

Flora swallows. Slowly, she steps through the open door.

A/N: I'm so glad that I finally managed to finish another chapter, but I'm so disappointed that they didn't actually get to talk things out here…! I really wanted them to, but it didn't quite work out here. I was originally going to write this chapter from Clive's POV, but most of his inner monologue is quite similar to what they're going to be talking about later, and it seems more organic for Flora to find these things out for herself, rather than Clive thinking about them. So, I think that the next few chapters will still be from Flora's point of view, eventually switching to Clive's later in the story.

I hope the puzzle was alright! It's my first time writing one. I trial-ran it on my sisters who also play PL, but I know that I still have a long way to go in terms of writing puzzles.

(Guys please just talk to each other I'm begging you...!)

Thank you so much for reading; I appreciate it so much.