Two vases worth of lily of the valley, three teddy bears, a nice leather bag, a silk scarf, a silver watch, twelve exquisite fountain pens, and earrings with a necklace to match.
What's next, three French hens and five golden rings?
Today's gift is smaller than the last: a slim, grey bag with a shipping label in my name. Rolling my eyes, I grab the package and search my bag for my keys.
For the past two weeks, I've been receiving mysterious gifts from an unknown source. It started with the flowers, then the teddy bears, and as the days went by, each gift only got more and more expensive. My husband, Edmund, is rightfully wary, but I don't mind the free merchandise. It's nice stuff.
"What's the present today, Mari?" Edmund eyes the package as soon as I enter our small apartment.
I toss it on the counter. "You open it," I tell him as I look through the pantry for chips. To my disappointment, I found none.
Cookies will have to do.
"Are you sure you don't know who's sending these?" he asks, poking the bag as if it contained a hive's worth of angry hornets. "Because even if it's just a hunch, I think we should call the police."
I shrug, turning away from the pantry and leaning against the counter with a cookie in my mouth and two more in my hands. "No idea," I say through a mouthful of chocolate chip, "But it's not like it's a big deal anyway, they probably just have the wrong address."
"Your name is on the package," he says with a frown.
"This may come as a surprise, but there are plenty of 'Marianne's in the world." I eat another cookie.
"It's your full name." He's scowling now.
"Maybe I've got a doppelgänger."
"That isn't funny, Mari."
I huff and hand him my last cookie (which he takes), "I know, I know, but you're seriously worrying for nothing. I swear I don't have any stalkers, insane ex-lovers, or creepy old friends who want to somehow seduce me into submission."
"So ... you're not impressed?" he asks, looking from me and back to the package again.
Ah. So that's what it is.
"None of these gifts are as impressive as you, sweets." I brush away the cookie crumbs on the counter before taking his hand, "And besides, I gave most of the gifts to Hilda anyway. You know how she is about free stuff."
He smiles at that and I knew his fears had been properly soothed. However, there's still the matter of the most recent gift, sitting right here on the counter between us.
"Should we open it?" Edmund asks.
I stare at the grey bag and my first instinct is to say no. But why waste a perfectly good gift?
"Sure." I open the kitchen drawer closest to me and hand him a pair of scissors, "If it's another necklace, I'm sure Hilda will be delighted."
He rolls his eyes with a smile as he cuts open the package, revealing a single item heavily wrapped in bubble wrap and an envelope taped to the top of it. We stare at it in silence, unease clearly written on our faces.
"There's a letter," he says, dumbstruck.
"Yes," I reply, equally at a loss for words.
"Has there ever been a letter?"
"No." I pick it up and look it over for myself, "Not once."
The envelope is stained to look ancient, the words "Open me" written in a fancy script where the addressee is supposed to be addressed. The corner for the return address had been left empty. (Of course it was.) Turning it over, I run a finger over the red wax seal keeping me from the envelope's contents. The emblem imprinted in the wax is some kind of beast, but the details aren't fine enough to be certain.
Having been so focused on the envelope's details, I nearly jump when Edmund speaks again. "Do you think it'll explain all the presents?" he asks, his hands nervously picking at the bubble wrapped item still in his hands.
"Only one way to find out."
Instead of opening the seal, I unceremoniously rip open the side of the envelope like it's an overdue bill. The letter slides out with ease and the paper is stained the same as the envelope. It smells faintly of lavender.
"What a fancy letter ... " I hear Edmund mutter to himself.
My palms start to sweat as I unfold the thin paper, my eyes sweeping over the neat rows of cursive on the page. I lick my lips before beginning to read it aloud, " My dearest, Marianne ... "
❁❁❁
My dearest, Marianne
I'm sorry to be contacting you like this, as it may concern you to some degree, but I promise you that I mean no harm. Every gift I have sent up until this point has only been to show my affections ... of which you most likely know nothing of. It pains my heart to think that I have lost you, but I must accept our fate.
I have never known anyone quite like you, Marianne. And in these daunting times, I'm afraid that I will still think of you, rather than move on. You may not remember our times together, as they were many a millenia ago, but I can still recall every moment as if it were yesterday ... For the sake of your comfort and my own aching heart, I will choose not to detail these memories. But I shall leave you with the words of wisdom you left for me, all those years ago.
Love, in itself, is the act of being absolutely selfish while, in the exact same moment, being absurdly selfless. It is a possible kind of impossible; one that must not be given up on and one that — I am happy to say — I have experienced thanks to you. In our time together ... however brief and immemorial, Marianne ... that is what I learned from you.
In our new lives, here in this ever-changing timeline, I wish only the best for you and whoever you choose to share your life with. My final gift to you, encased in this very same parcel, is my most prized possession.
I found it only fitting to give it away to you, Marianne.
Kindest regards,
Byleth
❁❁❁
By the time I'm done reading, my mouth feels impossibly dry.
"Millennia ago?" Edmund takes the letter from my hands and I feel painfully aware of how the paper crumples beneath his fingers. The guilt for tearing the envelope so carelessly just moments ago rises in the pit of my stomach. "That doesn't make any sense!"
As he scans the letter, my eyes fall to the bubble wrapped package. The final gift.
Byleth's prized possession.
I slide the package across the counter while Edmund continues to murder the letter with his eyes. He doesn't seem to believe its contents, but some part of me knows that every word is sincere. And I don't know why. I peel back the layers and layers and layers of bubble wrap and my fingers burn with anticipation. Or fear. Maybe both.
"What are you doing?" Edmund pulls the gift away from me before I reach the last layer, " Don't open it! "
"And why not?" I ask, feeling far more hurt than I should be.
Edmund stares back at me, incredulous, "Because whoever this 'Byleth' is, they're obviously crazy!"
"The letter said they meant no harm." I try to pull the package away from him but his grip is firm.
"Marianne, we can't trust this person—"
"Just let me open it!" I snap.
Edmund shuts his mouth but doesn't let go.
"I'm sorry, just—" I shake my head and continue tugging at the package, " Please. "
He hesitates before surrendering, "If it's anything as weird as that letter, I'm calling the police."
I take the package and thank him, removing the final layer of bubble wrap. The two of us seem to hold our breath as the tape comes away and the gift is revealed.
It's a picture frame, black with gold trim. Despite all the bubble wrap, the glass is cracked into three uneven pieces but still held tightly in place by the frame.
Inside is a picture of a woman, drowning in a field of sunflowers. She wears a formal dress, something old-fashioned with ribbon tied around her neck and a brooch to keep it in place. The giant flowers crowd above and around her, curling atop her braided hair and brushing their bright leaves against her cheeks, and she seems to be laughing. Her hands reach out to grasp at each sun-colored petal and, from the angle of the photo, to whoever the photographer may be.
The tilt of her chin, the shape of her nose, the curve of her lips as she smiles ... every bit of it ...
"It's me," I whisper, running my fingers along the largest fracture in the glass, as if simply touching it could return me to that moment. As if I could slip through that tiny glass barrier and enter the sunflower field to recreate this exact picture.
"Marianne, that's impossible." Edmund tries to console me, "It has to be a fake—"
"Edmund, it's me, " I repeat as my tear drops splash against the glass. "But I can't remember any of it."
(The picture described at the end was highly based off of a fan art of Marianne smiling in sunflowers by @_munette on Instagram and @munette on Twitter, but they don't want their art reposted so please go check it out on their page and support them!!! Thank you for reading!)