London, 1915
The resounding crackle of radio broadcasts echoes along the winding streets, carrying tidings of the Great War. Mothers, wives, and children anxiously follow the fates of their sons, husbands, and fathers. Flags flutter proudly in front of homes, infused with an unwavering belief in the triumph of the British Empire. Countless men of England have forsaken the warmth of their hearths to fight for a loftier purpose. They battle for the elusive concept of "peace" and lay down their lives for the coins tucked away in lofty pockets. The lives of these Englishmen sway precariously upon the barrel of a gun, entangled in the ink-drawn lines of a world map. They were once ordinary individuals—some potters, blacksmiths, their hands caked in clay and grease; others mere gardeners, wielding a plough or hoe year-round. In one night, they stood up, casting aside all they knew, grasping rifles in their hands. And in one night, these ordinary folks, whose faces were unfamiliar to most, transformed into valiant heroes charging forth for a grand and noble cause.
During this era, the church became profoundly crowded. Like me, they placed all their hopes in the sacred divinity. Each morning, I leave my house with ease, pedalling my bicycle towards the Amister Abbey. It is the place where Augustin and I exchanged vows. I never thought I would find myself here again, but women like us now have no other recourse but to seek solace in faith.
Francine has moved past the phase of needing me from morning till night, so now I have more leisure time. My daily schedule has become more diverse. In the early morning, I visit the convent for prayer and then teach basic literacy to the unfortunate children within the church grounds. Afterwards, I devote the remaining hours to pursuing my own interests. I continue my study of law through the documents left behind by Andermis, caring for my daughter in both paternal and maternal roles. I venture outside more often, engaging with a greater variety of people and becoming attuned to the societal changes unfolding around me. I am no longer the Fiona of yore. I am stronger and more resolute. I have even chopped off my once long hair, now only reaching my shoulders. My hair stands tall, adorned with a chiffon scarf atop my head. I have also limited my wearing of long dresses, instead favouring warm-toned trouser suits. It seems that, in the end, I have finally embraced departure from my secluded cave and reimmersed myself in this life. Turns out, there are still many things to cherish and marvel at beyond the realms I once believed existed only in my fantasies.
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I bid farewell to Francine and peddle my way down the end of the street. Today, I wear a cream-coloured trouser suit adorned with vertical stripes, carrying a small bag tucked away in the bicycle basket. I park in front of the abbey, then step inside, not forgetting to leave behind a few freshly baked rolls meticulously prepared by Lady Patmore for the hungry children near the gate. I have become a familiar guest in this place, just like the other women who come here.
My usual spot is the third row of chairs in the right corner, where I sit alongside another elderly woman. Her name is Madilynn. All her sons have been drafted into the military, leaving her alone in a cold and desolate house. I feel pity for her. At least I still have Francine, my mother, and my younger sisters. Every time Madilynn comes to pray, I see tears stream down her cheeks. We all here are clouded with uncertainty about the return of our loved ones. Even as we pray for them at this very moment, some unfortunate souls are being buried beneath the onslaught of gunfire.
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As a habit, I pedal my way to the post office to send a letter. I recognize the faces of each person in the office. Every week, I come here to send and receive letters from the front lines. Just at the sight of me, the postal clerk Thomas immediately rummages through the pile of documents to hand them to me, even before I step inside.
He hands me an envelope, smiling and saying, "This is for you."
"Thank you, Thomas," I exclaim joyfully, accepting it. It's a letter from David, my younger brother.
Despite the smile on my lips, inside, I let out a heavy sigh. Ever since bidding farewell to Andermis as he enlisted, I have been writing letters of inquiry and updates to him every week, but Andermis has never once replied, not even a word. David is not serving in the same division as Andermis, so I cannot inquire much about him either. The only thing I know is that the well-being of the Morten brothers is being maintained through my in-law's connections. Nevertheless, receiving continuous letters from my younger brother brings me comfort.
"Still two letters as usual?" Thomas seems overly familiar with my presence. Each time I come, I send two letters—one to my brother and one to Andermis. I have kept up this habit for a year, even though only David responded.
"Yes, please," I smile awkwardly, handing him the two letters I have written with all my passion and affection. Sometimes I just want to stop, but I cling to the hope that Andermis will eventually respond to me. After all, it was I who shattered his heart.
Thomas takes the two letters, carefully noting the sender and recipient. He even knows without reading carefully whom each letter is intended for. He looks at me with eyes full of understanding. He raises his glasses, his eyes shimmering with transparent emotions, gentle yet burdened. He asks softly, "He still hasn't replied to you?"
"Not yet," I adjust my words with a smile. "But it's alright, I'll keep trying my luck!"
I bid Thomas farewell and quickly leave the post office. Perhaps I don't want him to see my teary eyes. The loneliness and indifference I feel are killing me every day. I am also human; I feel discomfort and sometimes resentment. Fifty-six letters, fifty-six wishes, fifty-six acts of atonement, yet not a single one has been reciprocated. Every day, I wake up, embrace the sunlight, and remind myself to live deserving of it. I have tried so hard, but I still don't feel complete. I want Andermis by my side, not as a haunting ghost I relentlessly pursue. Why can't I have a love as ordinary as anyone else? Suddenly, I recall the myth of King Midas. His golden touch turned everything ordinary into something precious but also stripped away that which was already valuable.