The Letter

There was only a few more hours until sunrise and Eito wanted to make sure he was well off the street and behind several thick walls before that happened. Though he was quite tired from the night’s events, he knew his camera could only hold so many shots, and missing the perfect shot with a lens- to him- was worse than missing with a bullet.
“Don’t want to run out of film- I better just go ahead and develop these.”

After unlocking the door to his apartment, he hurried toward his desk that await in an interior room. He did not trust the shades drawn over the windows- if the expensive curtains he was used to couldn’t hold the weight of a young child, then what else could knock them lose? As he stepped past the entryway a soft crunch from under his foot commanded his attention. He looked down, realizing in his rush he had neglected to use his eyes to see if he had received any mail.  And in doing so, had trampled a small pile of envelops.  With an annoyed grunt he swiped up the papers, assuming that Mrs. Fortuna probably scooped another unwelcome task as his already overflowing plate. He put the mail in his mouth as he hung up his jacket, leaving his newly purchased weapon inside one of the pockets. Considering the newfound regularity of getting called upon to perform his kindred duties, he wanted to avoid the possibility of rushing out forgetting to leave the pistol behind. He retrieved his camera from the coat pocket before he walked over to his desk. He forced himself to turn the attention back to the envelops before he worked with the film. With just a glance he realized none of the letters were Kindred in origin.  Just an offer from a newly opening bank to open an account with them, another wasteful reminder to order from his Sears Roebuck before their discount on bicycles ended . . .

And the only thing that could have possibly diverted his attention away from photography any longer.  

He recognized the handwriting of the letters spelling out his address right away.  Straight and punctual, grouped closely together. It was undoubtedly that of his father’s. The penmanship was both familiar and foreign-It had been
months since he’d received a letter from him.
A part of him thought he might have given up. Another part told him it was ridiculous to think he would actually do such a thing.  

He stared for several seconds, address quivering back at him as his hands trembled. He looked to the right desk drawer, then back to the newest arrival. He let out a long, unnecessary exhale as he broke the wax and withdrew the parchment within.  

Dear Eito,

I hope this letter finds you well. I’ve been checking the obituaries, so I know that you are still alive. That’s just a joke, son.
Your mother’s the one checking the obituaries. She isn’t reassured when I tell her you inherited my work ethic.

I understand how important working at the Tribune is to you. We are both proud of you for following your passion. But take
it from your old man: Life is more than just your workplace. Remember to take a break every now and then. We don’t want
you burning yourself out even if it’s doing something you enjoy.

I know you aren’t someone to forget, but it’s your mother’s birthday in two weeks. She hasn’t seen you in so long. It would
mean the world to her if you could come by if only for an hour or so. And who knows? Your next big story might just be on our
street that day!

Hope to hear from you soon,
Your Old Man.  

Eito closed his eyes tight, though as he breathed in, he picked up unintended contents of the letter. He could make out a trace of the leather chair that sat in his father’s office, picturing his father hunched over writing the letter he held in his hand.  Underneath that he could pick up the lilac scented oil his mother would coat her hands with- either she had aided in the letter’s composition, or at least touched the paper or envelop at one point. Maybe she even delivered the letter to the postman directly, to ensure her son received it.  

He opened his eyes, staring at the letter but couldn't force himself to read it again. A year later they still remained blissfully unaware of what happened to him. And that was how he wanted it. Or that was what he told himself.
He crumpled up the note and started toward the waste basket, but he stopped after taking only a few steps.
With a dismayed frown, he marched back to his desk and pulled the right drawer open, where several more once crumped letters lay. Each one asked how he was doing- and each one inquired when they might see one another again.  

“Thanks, father. But I’m busy that day.” He said aloud, setting the letter on top of the pile and pushing the drawer shut, “Wish her happy birthday for me.”
He sat down and set his elbows on the desk, clasping his hands before leaning his forehead against them, his camera and its contents forgotten.