I moved a lot growing up. It always seemed like my family was moving from place to place. Those long, empty roads were lonely and almost spiritless. My life felt like a constant journey from point A to point B. I didn’t have any friends, mostly because I didn’t want to disappoint them when I left. Instead I had imaginary friends, wonderful girls that would never leave my side no matter where I moved. One day in middle school, that all changed.

We moved into this big, beautiful house in the mountains. I loved the white painted walls, the brown brick, and the gorgeous wooden accents. Mom and dad loved it too. They bought it from this Danish couple that decided to move closer to their Scandinavian community. There were a fair number of Swedish families surrounding us, but I guess it just wasn’t the same for them. Either way, I lived in a fantasy home, hoping that we would never leave.

I was eleven at the time when I leapt off the school bus and went to pick up the mail as usual. Mom and Dad worked an hour away in town, so I would walk into the house alone, mail in hand. I went to unlock the big blue front door when a postcard slipped out between the various bills and junk mail. I bent over to pick it up, my thick brown tresses getting in the way, when I noticed that there was no stamp.

‘That’s weird.’ I thought as I looked over the messy handwriting. The steam fogged up my glasses as I frustratedly tried to scoop the postcard up off of the old wooden porch. I loved the winter, but the steam rising from my lips never failed to make life just a hair more difficult. I finally managed to grab the slip of thick laminated paper and pull myself inside.

I never got mail myself. When I did, it was usually addressed to my parents, but something about that strange postcard grabbed my attention. I tossed the mail down on the big, wooden dinner table where it made a satisfying smack. The magazines and white envelopes spilled across the surface, leaving the postcard barely in view. What is that? That photo on the back.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

I gently pulled the card free from the pile and I headed over to the brown leather couch. I dropped into the seat and pulled my legs up beside me as I looked over the interesting foreign image. A jumble of brown buildings and a glorious white statue of a man on a horse in the center. The image was marred by a black spot with a fingerprint almost embedded in it. Not that I cared.

That’s when I flipped the card over to read who this strange postcard was supposed to belong to. The writing was a mess, but I was still able to make out the address and the name on it. I’m definitely not Frederik Pedersen. Neither is my dad. I think that the people that used to live here went by that name, but they didn’t leave an address or phone number to contact them in case something like this happened.

I feel myself squint as I try to make out the message. It looks like some kid named Lukas Pedersen was wishing Frederik a happy birthday. There are little stickers of flags plastered all over the place. Red with a white cross. The kid was also letting him know their new address. He was lonely out there in a place called Køge. Seems like he was really hopeful that this Frederik guy would write him back. My heart sinks, knowing that this poor kid wouldn’t get a response.

I did what any kid would do… Or maybe what I would just do. I rushed over to my mother’s desk, searching through her drawer of stamps and envelopes to find a pile of postcards of my own. I picked one this really cool postcard from Portland, Oregon and I started scribbling away. I know I picked on this poor Danish kid for his terrible writing, but mine wasn’t a whole lot better! I tried to tell him that the family had moved, leaving nothing behind, and that was going to be it.

Then I realized that this kid and I were almost one in the same. Lost souls that were just looking for someone to talk to. So I wrote a post script, letting him know that if he wanted, the boy could write to me anytime. I smiled at my thoughtfulness. Surely mom would be proud, but I don’t know what stamps to use.

I look over at the postcard the boy sent and I see some strange handwritten thing. I don’t think I can do that, but the Andersons next door could help me! I pulled my jacket on, grabbed my money, and locked the front door. What I didn’t know was that I had started a journey. A journey into a great unknown.