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It’s quite depressing to celebrate your birthday on your own, but when your first friend is dead, you’re hesitant about reaching out to the second and your third and best one disappeared, yet again, without a trace, you don’t really have a choice.
You’re supposed to remain anonymous for safety – stay on your own, tell little people about you and move if your cover is blown by any chance.
You’re meant to take security measures: hundreds of locks, thousands of cameras, an electric fence… And making new friends, or contacting old ones, is out of the question.
If you trusted anyone enough, you would have probably started ranting to them about your problems as if they were your therapist.
Problems, worries… This ‘break’ just made all of them worse.
Used to talking so much, telling your agent when and where to go, what and how to do, and having been around your loud and smug friends for so long, you found it hard to accommodate when you suddenly had to isolate yourself, when you had to disappear into the world and had nobody to talk to or nobody to hear talking. And the reminder that you were nothing without them, along with the usual what-ifs and maybes, were even harsher and louder on your birthday.
If you had to be honest, you wondered if this is the right choice. To leave everything you had behind and disappear. It felt like something 47 would’ve done rather than you, and speaking of him – oh, Christ, speaking of him – you missed him so much. Maybe too much.
But it’s normal, right? You’ve known him for 20-something years, obviously saying your goodbyes to him – and, frankly, you didn’t even get to do that face-to-face – hurt.
His birthday passed. You know the date – September 5th, 1964.
He’s 8 years and one week older than you.
A few months ago, he sent you a letter.
Two weeks ago, you sent one back, wishing him a happy birthday, praying to whatever God existed that he didn’t move yet.
It’s not something he’d do – he’d never stay in the same spot for too long.
But you try to convince yourself that times, and people, change.
You pace around the house, trying to drown out your thoughts. Some are stupid, some make more sense – all of them are just mocking you, along with a reminder on your phone that you turned one year older, and nobody cares; you turned one year older, but there’s no one left to celebrate.
This is how it is now. You have nothing to talk about, no one to talk to, no one to hear talking, nothing to distract yourself with anymore. Your friends aren’t there to crack their stupid jokes and bicker anymore, interrupting your hurting thoughts, or even making them go away. It’s just you, alone with yourself and your worries.
Finally, you sigh and turn on the coffee machine. The rattling echoes throughout the cabin, and its sound is louder than the clock on the wall, announcing the time to be 6:47 PM. That makes you want to punch it, but you know it won’t end well, so you keep calm, since it’s all you can do at this point, all that is left to do now.
You impatiently tap your fingers on the table, and stop the machine’s work halfway through. You carelessly take a sip and set the mug on the table. You didn’t need a drink, you just needed a distraction, and you almost laugh to yourself at how pathetic that sounds, at how pathetic it is, at how pathetic you are.
You kick a drawer closed and go to your front entrance. You take a few seconds to unlock all the locks – security measures you took out of paranoia, convincing yourself that ‘you can never know’ – and open the door. You breathe in the fresh air, and the cold breeze lifts your hair from your eyes. You take a look at the mailbox, as if something could’ve happened overnight, as if there is a chance of someone finding you, letting you know that they care about you… But no, you frown, something did happen.
Someone opened the mailbox.
You scoff in disbelief and try to think of an actual, rational reason. You try to convince yourself it’s not what you think it is, maybe it’s just a political flyer or an advertiser for free cookies – but who would go so far just to promote something?
You approach the mailbox, and if your mug would have been in your hand, you would have dropped it.
You have a letter, Diana.
You have a letter from your friend.
Along with it is a copy of your letter, the one you sent two weeks ago. You notice it’s reprinted, and it has a small piece of paper attached to it.
I’m sorry for sending back a cheap copy – I wanted to keep the original. I hope it doesn’t matter.
And it’s not signed, but it doesn’t have to be. You’d recognize that organized, calculated writing anywhere.
You take, and you quote, the ‘cheap copy’ and re-read it.
Good afternoon, 47,
and happy birthday!
I’m sorry if this will turn in late, as I was hesitant about sending it, merely because I assumed you changed your location. I do hope that’s not the case…
I hope you’re well, and even if you celebrate in a way or don’t, know that I hope you’re enjoying your well-deserved break either way.
Miss Hall mailed me a few weeks ago and asked me to pass on that she, as well, hopes you’ll have a good day and a happy birthday. (She added, in an ‘endearing’ way, and I quote: “Enjoy your beloved silence, old man. Hope you won’t forget us because of your age; kidding. Happy birthday!!”)
Mister Grey would be proud of you and what you’ve accomplished, 47, as Miss Hall and I both are, too.
Make the best out of today.
Once again,
happy 57th birthday, Agent 47.
~ Kindest regards, Diana
P.S. I know we haven’t been in contact a lot these past months… I apologize for that. Remaining anonymous is harder than you made it seem. I promise to write to you more, 47.
From the moment you set your pen on the paper, you hoped the wording was right, that 47 would understand the hidden, bigger meanings. You look at his letter, hoping you’re right, hoping he did.
You’re careful even with the copy. You’re careful even though it’s your letter, and you feel that it doesn’t matter as much. You fold it and put it in your pocket.
And your eyes move to 47’s writing – his elegant, careful writing. Even his words on paper seem cold, reflecting on his outside personality. Your fingers brush over the first sentence, as if looking for a confirmation that it’s real, that he did get back to you and you’re not dreaming… And you take a deep breath and start reading.
Dear Diana,
thank you for the birthday wishes. I must return some to you as well: happy birthday.
The day was uneventful, boring even; it was only the next that your letter brightened the sixth, the day on which I’m writing this. Thank you for getting back to me, although I didn’t. Just like you, I was afraid you’d have moved, and the letter would have fallen in the wrong hands. But today, the 12th of September, is a special occasion, and I have nothing to lose.
Special thanks to Olivia, I love getting reminded of the passage of time. (Say hello to her on my behalf, tell her I liked her message.)
And since, alas, you must end on a sappy note (but I am not complaining), know that I am very thankful for working with you all and having you by my side, however long it was. I, too, am proud of your accomplishments, of our accomplishments, even, and feel the need to thank you again for being by my side no matter what.
Make the best out of today.
Once again,
happy 49th birthday, Diana Burnwood.
~ Signed, 47
P.S. I understand. It’s not a job for everyone. I got lucky, I suppose. But please, do get back to me when you can. Freedom is nice, but I have nothing to do.
For the first time in months, you laugh. It’s a soft, knowing chuckle, specially reserved for 47. Of course he doesn’t, you think. Just like you, he’s oh-so restless, and you think how silly it is that none of you admitted it yet; and then you think how stupid you both are for not talking earlier.
You get the hidden messages, what he means, what he wanted to get across – and he understood you as well, the feelings you wanted to pass on, the meaning of the letter.
It’s a spark you have, one that never died, contrary to your thoughts, and that probably never will; one that you will take with you to the grave. It’s as special as the one he had with Mister Grey, but it’s different, and yet, not less important.
You know it wouldn’t matter to you, anyways. You’re not one to get jealous.
The cold gets a little harder to bear, as you’re only dressed in a sweater, so you go back inside, both letters on you. You only put one lock on the door – you’re in the middle of nowhere, and nobody cares, and nobody knows. There is no reason to be afraid. And after you secure the entrance, you look towards your half-full coffee mug, the drink now cold. You ignore it and sit down. You’ll deal with it later.
You hum something. An old song that you forgot the detailed meaning of – but you know that it’s a positive one, and that makes you smile, that makes you happier.
You re-read the letters over and over again.
The cabin seems more comfortable. It feels warmer and happier.
You put the letters down. You move onto another song; another forgotten memory, still dusty, still having to be uncovered. You take the first step towards searching for its meaning and hum it.
You take a piece of paper and a pen, and decide to make up a message as you go. You’ve been overthinking everything – you decide you don’t need to anymore. Not with him.
The letter is mostly thank you’s and good day’s; unspoken I love you’s and I miss you’s. But you know that you don’t need to include the exact phrases – 47 would get it either way.
He always did, always does; always will.
Make the best out of today, he said.
You smile to yourself and promise to do so.
The song of happiness echoes throughout the cabin. It drowns out questions that you already started to forget, the ticking of the clock, and makes it seem more lively, as if you could actually consider it a home.
Thank you, you think to yourself… You tell him.
You find yourself looking back at the matching messages, and your smile gets wider, and your hopes start to seem possible.
Happy 57th birthday, Agent 47.
Happy 49th birthday, Diana Burnwood.
And, although in another corner of the world, there is someone around to celebrate.