Daddy issues || h.s

4.5

He picked up the first one. It had a picture of a fjord: grey mountains hovering above blue waters, red houses and white apple trees blooming along the shoreline.

Hardanger,
Norway

My dearest Harry,
I have fallen in love. I have fallen in love with this country, where the sun never sets and the trees are always green, and to think this has always been just outside our door, ready to embrace us, is the most astonishing thing I have ever experienced before. Why didn't I come here earlier? I don't know, but now I have seen it all. I have visited places with such peculiar names I do not dare to repeat them, and met the loveliest people in the whole world. It is all so lovely; I wish I could have stayed here longer.
All the love,
Adelaide Xxx

The postcard was dated a week and a half after she had left.

Amsterdam,
Netherland

Harry, my love
The fjords and mountains of Norway are still swimming in my eyes, but the canals and brick houses of Amsterdam now stand in front of me, welcoming me with roses in her cheeks and tulips in her hair. People always say Amsterdam is the city of sin, but I find her to be the most beautiful city I have ever been to. She is so real, so sincere, so beautifully strong, insisting on existing even though she shouldn't be able to. Maybe I feel this way because I have slept beneath a flight of stairs for a week, with a knife resting securely beneath my pillow, or because I've climbed over the countertops of bars to get to peoples apartments, but this truly is the most real place I have ever been. It tells you the truth, and the truth is beautiful.
All the love,
Adelaide Xxx

It was dated five weeks after she had left, and showed the picture of a canal, bridges lit with hundreds of little lights stretching across the water.

Berlin,
Germany

I am on a train, hearing the soft snores of people around me drown in the constant drum of the railway beneath us. I don't know why I am writing to you, seeing as my last two postcards still lie in my pocket, crumpled, dirty, ready to be sent. I don't know why I can't bring myself to send them to you. I keep promising myself I'll send them when I arrive in the next city, the next city, the next city, but I never do.
I'm so sorry.
Xxx

Coffee stained the card, and the picture was so faded he could barely make out the sharp relief of the berlin wall. It was dated eleven and a half week after she had left.

Rome,
Italy

Oh Harry, my dearest Harry
There is that old saying: "all roads lead to Rome," and eventually, my road did too. So here I am, walking along the streets, throwing cents in wish fountains and sneaking into museums at night. Its all so wonderful, and I can't complain about my company either: Michelangelo, da Vinci and Botticelli. Now there's a party I wouldn't mind staying sober for.
All the love, A

Ps. I'm sorry about the wine stains, my new years resolution isn't working out so great.

The picture on the back was of the roof in the Sistine chapel. It was dated three months and two days after she had left.

Paris,
France

Harry, Harry, I saw it!
I saw "the water lilies - the clouds"! I can't believe I finally saw it. It was so beautiful, so, so beautiful. I must have spent hours looking at it, studying every little detail, because suddenly one of the guards came in, telling me the museum was closing. Nothing I have ever seen in my entire life could ever compare to that painting, not the blooming apple trees of Norway or the twinkling streetlights of Amsterdam, not the pulsating city lights of Berlin of the marble statutes of Rome. Yet all I could think of was how much I wished I had seen it with you. I am not afraid to say it, for I know you will never read this letter; I may be brave enough to write it, but not brave enough to send it.
I wish I had said something else than goodbye.
All the love as always,
Adelaide Xxx

The photo in the back of the card reflected that of her words. It was dated three months and twenty-eight days after she had left. Six days ago.

The storm in his mind had died down, the ocean within them now so calm it reflected the words in front of him. He read them over and over again, studied every detail of the blue art, and when he was done tracing the dried coffee stains and the frayed edges, he did the same with the envelope. His fingers caressed her letters, as if he could reach trough them and touch her hand. Harry, Harry, Harry. His name. Her letters. Nothing else. No address, sender, only a name, and a smudge of dirt where the stamp was supposed to be. He rubbed it away, it stuck to his fingertips, and suddenly he felt movement within his chest. The roots, the roots of the flowers, they were still there.

And so he ran, he ran away from the postcards and the winter house, the paint splattered floor and the cherry blossom tree. For though there had been no "come find me," he did anyway.