In Memoriam

October 15th

Dearest Jake,

When the post arrived with your letter, I was simply ecstatic. I’d just come into town to pick up some more milk, and when Millie said she had a letter for me especially, from you, well I almost did a jig of delight.

To think – my baby brother, a businessman in the big city! I’m so glad that the new bookshop is doing well, and that you are settling in and making friends.

Things here continue the same as ever. It’s a sleepy time of year, when the first frosts are starting to bite and the trees are shaking off their leaves. Roth seems to shrink by the day; Walter left about a week after you did and took little Christine and Emilia with him.

With them gone, the town is so quiet. There are so few young people now, and the Inn has even fewer clients than usual. Not even a lone salesman stopping en route to Isla Neuva or an eccentric tourist who’s managed to get themselves lost on the woodland trails.

Edgar looks so tired all the time. I know he’s trying to keep the Inn afloat, but it’s hard. He tries not to let me see, but when he’s not wiping down the counters or fixing the leak in the roof, he spends hours staring out of the window at the leaden sky. It looks like snow soon.

That all sounds very lonesome, and I know you worry about me. But we do have people here to take care of us: Millie and Ernie at the shop, and Edgar’s family has promised to visit us sometime soon. Dear Abigail and her mother Lettie stopped by on Tuesday to drop off some home-made jam. Abbie sends her love to her Uncle Jake along with some pressed flowers, which I’ve enclosed.

Oh, and it’s nearly Bonfire Night! Do you remember sitting huddled around the fire in the square, sharing spooky stories and warm cider and strudel? Mayor Brecker has agreed to host the festivities this year and invite a real Story-Teller from Newford, which is a real honor. Our little community keeps the tradition alive, but it’s not the same without you.

Do come and visit when you can – we’ll always have a warm bed ready and waiting.

Your loving sister,

Sophie

***

October 25th

Dear Jake,

I was so looking forward to Bonfire Night – we all were. But when we arrived at the town square yesterday, there was nothing prepared. No fire, no sweet treats, and certainly no Story-Teller.

There was a fair amount of confusion before we pieced together what had happened. It turns out that there was no person assigned to plan this year’s Bonfire Night. And so, with the everyday trials that come with the beginning of winter, everyone collectively assumed it was somebody else’s problem. I guess this is what comes from living on the outskirts of a town in the middle of the woods with no Mayor to advocate for you.

Anyway, we had about a dozen or so cold, hungry, and increasingly irritated townsfolk and local farmers to deal with. And the snow had chosen that moment to start coming down in earnest.

So, Edgar and I invited them all back to the Inn. We made up the big fire in the common room, and I whipped a batch of potato and leek soup with all the fixings and roasted some old apples in the embers while Edgar ladled mugs of mulled ale. The atmosphere improved decidedly after that – it’s wonderful the difference some warm food and alcohol can make to folks’ dispositions. It would have done you good to see the number of smiling faces all gathered around the oak table swapping yarns while the fluffy flakes drifted down outside.

It’s an ill-wind that blows no one any good. Edgar has received so many compliments on the Inn, and promises from the local farmers to stop in more often for a pint. I even had someone ask me for my recipe for my potato soup (which I of course did not give – the nerve!).

I have saved the leftovers for Lettie. She is so confused and sad these days – Millie says that when she went to fetch her tonight, she was sitting in the dark clutching a little girl’s dress to her chest and crying softly. The poor thing has always wanted a daughter; I guess she must feel that absence all the more keenly during these big festival days.

It’s been a long night, but there are still a few hours till dawn. I feel so tired.

Write me when you can!

Much love,

Sophie

***

November 1st

Dear Jake,

I wonder if you have recommendations of a legal professional who might be able to help with a pickle that Edgar and I find ourselves in. All your city connections – you must know someone.

You’ll of course remember my last letter, where I complained about the terrible lack of organization around our Bonfire Night? Well, imagine my surprise when a gentleman dressed in full Story-Teller regalia - top hat and mask and all - comes prancing up to the front door on a great charger, chock-full of vim and vinegar and bad attitude.

Allegedly, this man had been hired by a Mayor Brecker and traveled all the way from Newford to perform at our Bonfire Night. But he had gotten so turned around in the woods that he’d missed the event entirely. Now he wanted compensation for his “time and exertions in finding this wretch little hamlet” – a phrase which, as you can imagine, did not garner him much favor with the crowd that had begun to gather.

Edgar did a remarkable job of keeping his cool, even as he politely explained to the increasingly incredulous stranger that Roth had never had a Mayor, and never would – we were simply too small. Nevertheless, I could see his left eye beginning to develop the tell-tale twitch that meant he was about to lose his temper. When you’ve been married for as many years as we have, you notice these things, you know.

Anyways, I didn’t want to make a scene, so I shooed off Edgar to go and see if there were any misplaced letters that might explain the confusion and offered the gentleman some ale while he waited. He seemed slightly mollified by the beer – it is quite good if I do say so myself, we brew it ourselves – but still insistent on being paid, with money that none of us have to spare.

In the end, the sun was beginning to set and I couldn’t in good conscience send him off into the cold, so we offered him one of the beds in the guest suites. I can hear him snoring away downstairs while I scribble this letter by candlelight in our bedroom.

Oh, Jake, what are we to do? Write back as soon as you can.

Yours,

Sophie

***

November 20th

Dear Jake,

I would have written sooner, but we don’t have a reliable postal service anymore.

I went into town the day before yesterday and happened to pass by the little shop on the corner. The door was swinging wide, which was strange – you know we haven’t had a consistent shopkeeper in so long that the store has been closed for a while now. I shouldn’t have gone in, but curiosity got the better of me. Jake, the smell was horrible – rancid milk and rotten vegetables left in their baskets to spoil and flies buzzing over everything.

I was still standing there, trying not to retch, when I heard a cart drawing up. In it was a young man, with his coat pulled up to keep out the chill. He looked confused, but brightened up when he saw me, and asked me very politely whether I’d seen the lady who ran the shop so he could deliver the week’s mail.

Of course, I had to tell him that we didn’t have a shopkeeper, and hadn’t in a good long while, as a matter of fact.

“Sure you do, Miss,” he said. “I dropped off the mail with her just two weeks ago, per usual.”

“What mail?” I said. He gestured behind me, and sure enough there was a pile of mail, unopened, strewn out across the counter. I don’t know why I hadn’t seen it before – I could have sworn it wasn’t there when I went inside first. And anyway, the names on the envelopes don’t match anyone I know in Roth, though Sam, our young mail man, insists that the addresses are accurate.

I convinced Sam to lend me some pen and paper to send this off to you straightaway. I can see him watching me as I write this; there’s a strange expression in his eyes. Concern? Confusion? Fear?

Perhaps I’m being paranoid. Edgar would be very angry if he knew I was asking you for help. He says that we don’t need superstition scaring people away from the Inn; goodness knows we have few enough customers as it is.

But I’m worried and so lonely. The town is shrouded in a thick white blanket unmarked by footprints that eats all sound. The snow still hasn’t stopped falling.

Oh, how I wish you were here!

-Sophie

***

November 21st

Dear Jake,

I don’t know how this letter will reach you, or if there’s any point in writing. But I’m afraid, and putting words down on paper is the only way I can think to sort my jumbled thoughts into any coherent order.

There are men’s clothes in the closet of the master bedroom. Simple clothes – a vest and trousers, all homespun and patched several times over. Some handkerchiefs. And a shaving kit in the washroom, kept neat as a pin. I cannot for the life of me think how they got there.

Perhaps they’re the belongings of past lodgers that I simply forgot to clean out – like the black feathery mask and top hat I found when I was airing out one of the downstairs guestrooms a few weeks ago. My memory isn’t what it used to be.

There’s a name stitched into one of the handkerchiefs – Edgar. It looks like my needlepoint, but surely I would remember sewing it? It has been washed so many times, the cotton has gone soft and thin, like muslin. But the thread remains a bright, vivid blue, with only a slight bleed-over into the cloth. Whoever owned this handkerchief took great care of it.

You know I have always lived alone, Or rather – that it has only been you and me and this house. And now you’re gone and it’s just me and the Inn, growing old together.

But part of me also remembers a life as an Inn-keeper’s wife. And a man – my Edgar – smiling the quiet smile of a job well done as he tested a particularly good batch of homebrew. Or whistling off-key as he hung the pictures above the hearth, just because I’d asked him to. Or sitting beside me watching the snow falling soft and silent across the dark forest.

It is so quiet. Roth lies still under its shroud of snow. I can tell, even from this distance, that the houses are empty; the windows are dead and lifeless, with not a light amongst them. There must have been people there once, living out their hopes and fears and little dreams. They’re all gone now, and I cannot even remember their names.

The snow has finally stopped. Perhaps I’ll go into town and see if I can have this letter sent out to you. At the very least, I’ll leave my footprints in the soft white drifts – something to say “I was here” before the wind finally erases them.

I wonder, Jake, if you’ll remember me?

-Sophie