Chapter 22 - The Letter

One thing cinched the decision to head into the city for her - a letter from her mother. 

Late one afternoon, while rifling through an old storage box, Ayra stumbled on something that stopped her cold: her mother’s journal. 

Ayra had spent hours sorting through the contents of a rather obscure cupboard. 

There were boxes of old photographs, faded linens, and rusted tools her mother had stored away. 

It was amidst this clutter that she stumbled upon a plain wooden chest, tucked beneath a pile of moth-eaten blankets.

The chest was unremarkable at first glance, but as Ayra opened it, a wave of memories flooded back. 

Inside lay a neatly folded scarf she recognized as her mother’s favorite, a collection of piddly trinkets, and a leather-bound journal.

Ayra’s hands trembled as she pulled the dusty journal from its hiding place. The leather cover was worn but sturdy, its edges soft from years of handling. 

It smelled faintly of lavender despite the dust; her mother’s scent. As she opened it, she felt a rather sudden pang of longing. 

Her mother had always carried this journal with her, jotting down thoughts, sketches, and notes in her enviously elegant handwriting.

Soon she found herself sitting cross-legged on the cabin floor, turning the pages with a mixture of nostalgia and unease, the faint scratch of the paper under her fingertips the singular sound in the stillness of the cabin.

The journal was filled with her mother’s musings: poems, sketches of flowers and landscapes, and short reflections on her days. Her mother had always been a bit of a romantic. 

The entries were written in a mix of English and a shorthand Ayra had frequently seen her mother use but had never been able to decipher herself. 

However, as she turned the pages, she noticed a single envelope tucked between the journal’s final entries.

It was addressed to her.

She stared at it for a good, long while, her pulse quickening. The envelope was sealed, the edges slightly yellowed with time. 

The sight of her name, written in her mother’s familiar script, made her chest tighten for some reason. 

After a while, she slid her finger under the seal and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Unfolding it carefully, she began to read:

Ayra, dearest,

If you’re reading this, then something has happened that I prayed would never come to pass. 

I hope you’ve found refuge in our cabin, just as we always did when the world felt too loud.

You may not understand everything right now, but that does not matter. If you ever need to leave the city - truly leave it behind with no one any the wiser - there is someone you must meet.

His name is Mr. Landor and he is a lawyer practicing along 3rd Chavlone Street. But more importantly, he is someone I trusted with my life.

I’ve left instructions with him that will help you. You’ll find him at the address written below. Speak to him, Ayra, and trust him as you would trust me.

I hope you find it in you to forgive your father and, perhaps more importantly, me. 

Love always,

Mom.

Ayra’s vision blurred as tears filled her eyes unbidden. She clutched the letter to her chest, her breath shaky. Her mother’s words were a lifeline, reaching across time to guide her.

.....

The letter confirmed what Ayra had long known: her mother was far from ordinary. 

While Ayra had always known her mother to be resourceful and sharp, she had never fully grasped the depth of her mother’s foresight nor did she ever know why the woman was the way she was. 

By the time she'd realised who her father actually was, her mother was gone and memories of her were now viewed through rose tinted lenses. 

Her mother’s teachings, often disguised as casual advice, suddenly took on a whole new meaning. 

The escape plan Ayra had pieced together over the last few days bore an uncanny resemblance to the strategies her mother had repeatedly brought up in passing years ago.

Where she could pawn off some items quietly, Uncle Jim's car rental that asked no questions, and quite a bit more on how to set up decoys. 

Heck, her mother had CONSTANTLY hinted that the cabin was simply far too off-grid and no one aside from the both of them even knew it existed. That was why she'd ran over here. 

Now, it all seemed to click into place. Her mother had anticipated this, had known that Ayra might one day find herself running. The realization left her both grateful and uneasy. 

What kind of life had her mother led to prepare so meticulously for such an eventuality? Like... Why?

Was the deal with Lucian something that had been in the works for years already? 

Ayra doubted that. 

The name Mr. Landor echoed in her mind as she folded the letter and tucked it back into the journal. 

The name was unfamiliar, but the idea that her mother had a trusted confidant was surprising in itself. Ayra wondered what kind of man he was.

Ayra flipped through the journal again, searching for more clues. Most of the entries were cryptic, detailing events and names she didn’t recognize. 

However, one phrase appeared repeatedly: “Ayra is never truly safe."

It made chills crawl down her spine. 

....

Sleep didn’t come easy for Ayra that night. Every sound from the woods outside set her on edge. Her mind raced, sketching out plans, backups, and worst-case scenarios. 

Lying on her bed at night, staring up at the dark ceiling, doubts ate at her. What if someone recognized her? What if her card got flagged? What if Lucian was already there, waiting?

She was scared to go back but there was a reason to. Mr. Landor might as well be her only chance to flee the city safely. 

“Just one trip,” she whispered. “In and out. No one will notice.”

She needed to find the lawyer. 

But finding him meant leaving the safety of the woods. The thought made her stomach twist.

....

The next morning, Ayra sat at the small wooden table in the cabin, a cup of tea in her hands and the letter spread out before her. 

She had spent the night turning over her options, and if there was one thing that had become clear, it was that she needed to find Mr. Landor.

So that was what she was going to do.