Chapter Text
“Shane! The movers are here!” Yuna’s voice called out, seeping through the cracked front door.
”I’m coming, hold on!”
Shane pushed the small, cardboard shoe box to the side, leaving it on the wooden floor. Getting himself up, he took in his surroundings one last time.
The place was mostly packed up. Photos were carefully placed into leather albums, Rina’s crayon drawings taken down from the fridge—her favorite rainbow magnets tucked in the box labeled KITCHEN.
Sighing, he turned and pushed open the front door, stepping out onto the front porch. David was holding Rina, Yuna discussing something with the movers with the same intensity she used when she once negotiated his contracts.
He walked up to his father, Rina giggling about how nervous the movers looked under her grandma’s gaze.
“Rina, you ready to say goodbye?”
This seemed to make her cheery demeanor falter. “Now?”
”Now,” Shane confirmed.
Rina was usually a very extroverted little girl. At 4 years old, she contained so much energy it was a shock when she was put down for bed at an appropriate time.
She seemed to ponder what she would say for a moment, before turning to her father. “Can I say goodbye inside, Daddy?”
Shane nodded. David put the little girl down, and she barreled down the gravel driveway, running as fast as she possibly could in those plastic princess shoes (which was not very fast).
Shane followed, his own father moving to join his wife. Rina ran up the porch steps and into the house. He and Rina were moving from the large, suburban area that outskirted Montreal to Ottawa. This was mostly so he could be closer to his parents, who adored Rina.
His eyes stayed glued to Rina as she ran from room to room, shouting “goodbye, daddy’s bedroom!” and “goodbye, bathroom!”, a smile cracking on Shane’s lips.
When she got too far to watch from just the doorway, he followed, climbing up the steps with her, his hands hovering near her back, just in case she fell.
The movers filed in just as they got to her bedroom, her small but mighty voice a quiet chirp as one swiped the cardboard shoe box off of the living room floor.
The mover flipped open the lid. It was filled near to the brim with letters, each addressed to Ilya Rozanov. “Hey, McLean, you think these are recent?”
One of the men moved towards him, picking one up and inspecting it. One was marked with a date that was just that past Sunday. “Probably. Maybe he forgot to send them,” McLean shrugged. “Just chuck em’ in the mailbox.”
”Huh. Wonder why he’s sending them to that asshole.” The mover mumbled to himself, before heading outside to the mailbox.
Opening it up, he dumped the letters into it, closing it back up and flipping up the red metal flag on the side. Dusting his hands off, he headed back instead.
***
A week later, Shane and Rina were getting settled in their new house. It was in an expensive, quiet part of the city, a ten minute drive from his parents’ house.
Almost everything was put away. Shane liked to be efficient, especially when it came to his daughter being comfortable in their new home.
Her room was painted a soft purple, a princess canopy over her bed. Rina had insisted it be done before she had her first sleep in her new room, and Shane was a sucker for his daughter.
”What book do you want to read tonight?” Shane asked, flipping through her bookshelf.
“No book tonight.”
”No book?”
Rina nodded adamantly. Shane raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”
She nodded furiously, so fast he was slightly worried she would get whiplash. Shane sighed, before leaning down and kissing her forehead. “Goodnight, sweetie.”
”Goodnight, daddy!”
Shane moved to plug in her night light, then flicked off the lights. He left the door cracked open.
No book was new. Rina loved her bed time stories—it was possibly the one reason she agreed to go to bed most nights. When did she start growing up so fast? Shane thought to himself.
Walking down the steps, he was feeling stupid sentimental. He remembered when Rina was first left on his doorstep. It was literally something out of a book.
Well, maybe not literally. There was no baby in soft white linens, placed in a woven basket, doves flying around the pure, peaceful being.
Instead, there was a red-faced, screaming 6 month old in a worn out baby carrier (how it was worn out after only 6 months use, Shane would never know), and panic calling 911.
Of course, street cameras weren’t working that day. His neighbors were out of town. There were no missing baby reports matching the child’s description.
They were going to take the nameless, abandoned baby away. But something about her, Shane couldn’t pull away from. She had dark curls, her fists waving angrily in the air. When she opened her eyes, they were a soft ocean blue color. Freckles dotted her cheeks.
Shane knew the foster system was unfortunate at best. And maybe she could’ve been adopted by somebody else. But Shane had felt love he had never experienced before when her tiny fingers clung to his pointer finger. That day, in 2017, within the social services building rerouted his life forever.
He had already been forcibly retired. An injury that should’ve been minor worsened, and doctors never cleared him. His ACL, or something to that measure. He could barely hear the doctors saying his diagnosis over the chant of your career is over, you’ll never play again on loop.
Rina gave him something to live for again. To look forward to.
Especially since Rozanov dumped him.
Shane shook the memories out of his mind. He opted for seeing them instead. Opening one of the TV stands’ drawers, he slid out a red leather photo album titled Rina June Hollander, 2017–2018.
He leaned against the couch, cracking open the spine, the corners of his lips lifted, his fingers tracing the curve of Rina’s chubby cheeks in a photo of her devouring her first birthday cake. Warm lamp lighting shined on the plastic covers protecting the photos.
Another flip through. A photo taken by Yuna from an open door to his bedroom—Rina, swaddled to his chest as he wrote something clearly very intense by the look on his face.
His eyes squinted. The paper, lined with blue, was familiar. He only ever used that specific paper to write his letters to Rozanov, albeit never sent.
It suddenly occurred to him that he had absolutely no clue where the letters were. Carefully sliding the photo album back in place, he began searching anywhere where he might’ve put the cardboard shoe box.
Shane practically tore the house apart. It had only been a week since they had moved in. There was no way he had misplaced something so personal so easily.
Shane had misplaced something very personal very easily. He had been looking for 2 and a half hours. In the garage, in storage closets, in small hidden places he would’ve kept something that was supposed to be small and hidden.
Without thinking, he pulled his phone out, clicking Yuna’s contact.
The phone rung once, twice, maybe three times before she picked up. “Shane? Is everything okay?”
”Yeah, uhm—I think the movers left something at the house.”
”Was it important?”
Shane hesitated, before nodding. “Yeah.”
Yuna sighed audibly. “Gosh, I told them to be careful,” She grumbled. “I’ll give you the company’s number.”
”Thanks, mom.”
”No problem, baby. Goodnight, I love you.”
”Love you too.”
The call ended, and Shane paced in his living room, waiting for Yuna to send him the number. He jumped as the text came through. Copying the string of numbers, he pasted it into the dial screen.
The phone rung, and a girl who sounded about 20 picked up. “McLean Movers, this is Michelle! How can I help you?”
“Hi, uhm, it’s Mr. Hollander,” Shane heard the girl cough up a drink. “You guys helped me move last week. I had a box of letters, and they’re totally gone. I’ve been looking for hours.”
“Gosh, that’s horrible! Hold on, I’m going to get my boss.”
In most cases, Shane would’ve told the girl to not worry about her boss. Right now, all he wanted was the letters he poured his heart and soul into.
It took a few minutes, but sure enough, a man picked up the phone. “This is James McLean,” He said, his voice rough. “Mr. Hollander?”
”Yes. I’m missing my letters—they were in a shoe box, and I left them in my living room.”
There was a brief pause, then a groan.
”I’m so sorry Mr. Hollander,” Shane’s blood ran cold. “One of my movers sent them out in your mailbox. They were left it, and—“
Shane hung up. He stood there for thirty minutes, unmoving.
His letters to Ilya Rozanov were gone. Sent through the postal system. To the fucking United States, to Boston.
The letters were he detailed everything Shane had ever felt for him. They were basically his diary, at one point. How Ilya would’ve adored Rina, that he would’ve been so good with her—how he had broken Shane’s heart in 2017.
Ilya would be reading his letters. Laughing at them. Showing them to his actual partners, people he valued. It was the worst thing Shane could think of.
In the back of his head, something he didn’t consciously think of, was an even worse scenario.
Ilya would read the stories. He would want to reach out to Shane. And he wouldn’t be able to—there was no return address anymore, now that Shane had moved.
That was the worst part.