Chapter Text
***
I have a dream, a song to sing,
To help me cope with anything.
If you see the wonder of a fairytale,
You can take the future, even if you fail.
***
The past and the future didn’t matter for a while, and it was bliss to be left unbaffled by both the guilt and excitement of what she was about to do.
All that mattered was the present, where she found herself sitting on a boat, her heart barely containing the excitement that glowed in her chest as she drifted half a mile away from home in the middle of the night. Whatever comfort her bed promised that evening, she was willing to give it up just to send an important message--a message that would bring the mysteries of the past and the hopes of her future together.
There certainly would be consequences; not that she knew exactly what could go wrong, but she had wrestled with her scruples long enough to know that her growing desire to answer her own questions outweighed the probable cost of her actions. After years and years of listening to her mother’s undetailed vignettes, months of skimming through the storage room in search for answers, and a week of convincing her fiancée to move the wedding to an earlier date, Bree decided that it had to happen now. Not tomorrow, nor next week. Now, regardless of what could possibly go amiss.
“Finally!” She immediately tilted her oar to the right, slowly propelling it towards the guiding light of the isle’s beacon. Though it blew gentler than usual, the midnight wind still strongly pushed against her, and she had to use both hands to steer the boat slowly toward the quay. 12:15 was not the most ideal time to visit the harbor , but then this was the only time of day where she knew she could comfortably move without prying eyes. She hoped, however, that nobody would notice her sudden disappearance, if she were not able to come back soon.
Once she reached the docks, Bree climbed up the wooden platform and grabbed her canvas tote, the sound of plastic wrapper rustling from inside it. She had to keep its contents safe from the water, after all.
She bent down on the platform and reached for the ropes that rested just beside the boat’s edge. The empty boat bobbed, enslaved by the rhythm of the waves, but Bree was quick to save her only trip back home from drifting away by pulling it closer to the dock fenders until she heard the thumping of wood against rubber. With much ease, she grabbed the rope, doubled the line before looping it over the top of a post, and after two secure tugs, she took off like a white bullet, flurrying past empty yachts and sailboats. Bree, being well-experienced with sending letters and packages to and from the house, knew that the journey from the port to the local post office was not going to take much time, that is, if she moved fast.
The town before her was dark and lifeless, completely devoid of the cacophonous sound of motorcycles and the chaotic, yet calming din of seaport folk. She stood beside one of the lightless posts with a frown on her face, scolding herself momentarily for forgetting her flashlight, but bowled over at the first glimpse of her softened shadows on the ground. The light wasn’t from any of these standing sticks, she thought, gazing further up to the cobalt sky to see her source of hope: the pin-pricked canopy which made the darkness incomplete. She looked up, thanking the stars for making the road a little less dim with their ancient light.
With the map of the town engraved in her memory, she began to run, navigating her route from one corner to another, not even sparing a moment to flinch at the slightest sound that caught her attention. The sound of winds and waves dwindled with every step, and even more with every cautious turn; all that remained with her were sharp and frantic breaths, and the intense surge of adrenaline as cold air bit into her lungs.
One more hurdle was coming her way. It was the long and steep stone path that led to the post office’s yellow maildrop. She had once scraped her knee in this pathway out of sheer carelessness, and that only happened recently, just two days ago when she and Roger visited the harbor’s post office to mail their wedding invitations to their family and closest friends. The little injury rendered her unfit to climb further up the hill, and so she had to rely on her future husband to send all the invites before the postman could make the long trip to the mainland.
Now she was back, climbing up that same steep hill with nothing but a hopeful heart, a scab on the knee, and three wedding invitations. Making sure she avoided loose rocks while climbing, Bree gathered the cotton fabric of her nightdress with one hand, while the other held onto the granite ledge, tote bag securely hanging over the junction between her shoulder and neck. A few more steps, and at last her eyes caught a glimpse of the wooden arch peering above the horizon.
***
I have a dream, a fantasy
To help me through reality
And my destination makes it worth the while
Pushing through the darkness, still another mile
***
She was here. She couldn’t believe she was here--just seven, eight steps away from the golden maildrop. Bree drew her breath as she took one step forward, and let out a deep sigh as she took another, her chest constricted by suspense as the distance between her and the metal receptacle closed in. Her hands nervously reached for the package inside her tote bag.
This is it, she bit her lower lip in anticipation, the distinct rustle of soft plastic becoming clearer as she pulled it out. This is it, Bree. Just drop it there and soon your dreams are coming true.
Her hands were shivering, even though the weather was relatively warm, as she took three similar-looking envelopes out from the plastic wrapper, with names and mailing addresses as the only details that kept them distinct from the others. It was rather funny how these three guests meant so much to the young bride-to-be, despite her not having the chance to meet them in person. What little knowledge she had of them only came in two months ago, when she found their names etched in fine ballpoint ink—faded, but every stroke still readable—along with the fondest memories of a summer well spent.
Although her mother’s penmanship wasn’t exactly the most legible of all forms of handwriting she had encountered, it was clear enough to give her a glimpse of the life she lived before she came along, time and tears encapsulated in every page of the diary of a young Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp.
“It has to be one of you,” she said as she brought the three envelopes close to her heart.
With the stars as her only witnesses, Bree stood right in front of the golden box, saying each name like a hushed prayer to the heavens as she dropped one envelope in, and then another.
Frank Wolverton Randall.
Joseph Abernathy.
John William Grey.