"Dear Chase,

Of all the members of my team, it's to you that I feel the impulse to write. Maybe it's because you have been in my team for the longest time span. Maybe it's because I feel you're the one mostly resembling me, minus, of course, the limp, minus the bitterness, minus being broken.

You might be surprised at learning how news can reach even a person behind bars. I hear that you quit your job at the hospital, but nothing more about your whereabouts. Were I to make a guess, however, I'd surmise you've gone on a surfing spree.

How much I wish I could be wherever you are right now. As you know, I used to be a sporty guy before the infarction. But, it's not about that. I'd give everything to be able to cast a glance at the sea, to bask in the feeling of wildness, to see and hear the waves, feel the wind whipping at my face, get immersed in this sensation, so deeply immersed that I can recall the feeling of freedom.

Freedom... That's something people usually need to lose before they start appreciating it. But, the feeling of total freedom, of being unrestrained, unbound, free not only from fetters, cells and guards, but also from hypocrisy, from suppressing one's self in order to fit in with the masses, that's what real freedom is, the feeling that nothing and nobody compels you to compromise yourself, that you are free to be as you really are.

Take all the time away that you need, Chase. But, at the end of the day, you ought to return to medicine. The field needs you, and you too will realize that this is what fulfills you. Frankly, you are the only team member of mine I can see sitting behind my desk in Diagnostics, tossing and catching the ball everybody wishes to know how I obtained but never asked, writing on my whiteboard, doing your best to tackle all kinds of riddles. If I hear that you are heading a Diagnostics department, in Princeton-Plainsboro or anywhere else, I'm gonna feel much satisfied, for at least I'll have helped shaping the medical genius called Robert Chase.

In all those years we worked together, I tried to make you think for yourself, to think outside the box, to view our profession as something creative, giving us the chance to fulfill our needs of stimulating our minds while saving the lives of people with no other hope. Honestly, when evaluating the performance and maturing of all the team members (somehow, the long hours of each day need to pass, and the space on the wall is not too wide, so I have to restrain my urge of filling it all with physics equations), I arrive to the conclusion that it's you who matured the most.

From the beginning until the end, my aim had been to push the boundaries and test your mettle. By now, Chase, you surely understand that, for all your shiny blond hair, your eyes and your smile, it's not handsomeness that remains. What really matters is strength. Not of brawns, but of brain. And of character. If you want to achieve your goals, especially when someone else's life is at stakes, you must not be afraid of speaking your mind, of venting out all your creativity and skill in formulating conclusions.

The answer, that's the object of every quest of a human with a brain and a soul. Not only the answer to a medical riddle, but the answer in general. We humans are programmed to question, to constantly search for an answer, to ask one query after another, to take up a riddle after we've solved the previous one. You, too, have come to appreciate it, or else you wouldn't return again and again in the team, my harshness and relentless habit of saying uncomfortable things notwithstanding.

You've changed much from the overly ambitious young man ratting me out to Vogler to save your job. At that time, you were acting out of self-interest. How different this is from what happened with Dibala. Cameron, for all her objections to us treating Dibala on ethical grounds, blamed me for this, accusing me of breaking and destroying you as a human being and as a doctor.

Yet, I can say with confidence that she was wrong, about you being poisoned. But, she did break you with that divorce. I know you were in love with her, to the point that you ignored her faults and always wanted to prove yourself worthy of her affections. More or less, the same thing happened with me and Cuddy. And look where it has landed me, both my obsession and my refusal to move on.

Moving on... That's a great concept, and one that requires all our courage. It's easier to cry over spilled milk, easier to sit in the dark corner of contemplating the what-ifs and constantly turning to the past, living in the past. But, ultimately, it's like the dragon biting its own tail, it leads nowhere, save in further pain and anguish. Move on, Chase, avoid mine own mistakes. Unlike me, you have both the time and the potential to finally achieve the target of happiness.

I really wish my letter finds you when you are back in your place. I really wish that my letter helps you make a correct decision and give you some, if vague, directions about how to proceed. And, who knows, maybe I'm just allowing some kind of misplaced optimism to prevail here, maybe you will come and see how I'm faring.

I must put this pen to rest now. I have written quite a long and not so coherent rambling, and I don't think anyone with a life would find the patience to read all of it. So, I will end this here.

Yours faithfully,

House"

House sighed just after drawing his signature. He thought of Chase, as if the younger doctor was his protégé, a son of sorts. But, he immediately regretted the thought. The last thing Chase would want was to be reminded of his former superior, wasting away in a cell. Better to leave him alone, instead of practically begging him for some kind of contact.

House tore the letter to pieces, throwing the scraps of paper to the rubbish bin. He had janitor duty to do, he couldn't afford any more reminiscing.