Return To Sender

That night I used what little money I had to sleep in a hotel. I couldn’t sleep at a friend’s house, I would have to explain the situation and I didn’t feel like talking about anything, not even just a simple lie to stop them asking questions.

I couldn’t even look at my apartment anymore. Everything that mattered to me was being taken away by a mysterious force I didn’t understand. My phone went off in the middle of the night, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t going to sleep anyway.

“Mr. Westhouse, it’s Scarlett. I think I know what killed my brother.”

She explained to me that the doll was an Artifact, a “reminder from a deceased loved one” of something I was trying to forget,something important. I had no idea what any of it meant, but she said I should think it over, look through my old things to see if anything of significance turned up.

That night I returned to my apartment and turned it inside out looking for something, anything of value. I felt like a burglar, but I needed to get to the bottom of this.

One thing that surprised me was that there were boxes of things from my time with Alice. I was the organied sort but these had been meticulously sorted in a way that bordered on obsession. There was an entire box full of letters, and countless secret romantic little trinkets from our dates together. However, one letter was unopened, and appeared recent.

Dear James,

Do you remember when we met? You were the little boy that laughed when my ice cream cone toppled over, and I was the little girl that tied the shoelaces together on your sneakers before the big race so you’d finish last.

Who would have guessed we would end up where we were? I was so happy.

But I think we both know that it’s over. You changed after you were fired, you drank and drank and pushed everyone away, even me.

I loved the man you were, but that man is gone. I realize that now.

I’m coming for my things on Monday. I know you want to throw it all away but please keep Pinkie Pie.

With more regret than you may ever know,

Alice.

I turned towards the battered doll. I realized now that it wasn’t an official doll at all, but hand crafted. She had made it for me.

Then I remembered.