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The letter arrived in the morning.
Among glossy scripts and gilded invites, it was the only envelope that looked handmade. Its corners were frayed. The ink, slightly smudged. Ail almost tossed it aside—until they saw the name in the corner, written in a quiet, familiar hand.
Bāgha.
Their fingers paused. Just for a breath. Then, without a word, they opened it.
The handwriting was careful. No longer as controlled as they remembered. It trembled slightly. As if each word had taken effort.
Shenqi is dead. It was a misunderstanding. A trick that went wrong. A man didn't understand. She tried to smile. He broke her skull open anyway.
She was holding the rabbit still.
The Mentor is dead. She went peacefully. That was months ago. The circus followed her shortly after.
Avik disappeared. The twins split. I don't even know where they are now.
There's no one left.
Ail read it twice. Then again. Their grip tightened, the edge of the paper crinkling under their thumb.
The letter didn't ask for pity. It offered no guilt. Bāgha had simply recorded the death of an era. A quiet obituary for a place long gone.
I stayed for a while, thinking someone might return. But I was only waiting for a ghost. Eventually, I left.
I teach now. At a university. Shenqi wanted to teach, remember? I added her name to the plaque outside my office door. It reads: "Professor Bāgha.Shenqi, Department of Environmental Sciences."
I hope that's enough.
It was the kind of letter written once. Folded with care. Never rewritten.
Ail stared at it for a long time.
There was no anger. No accusations. Just names. Dates. Endings.
They could still see her—Shenqi, arms full of paper doves and card decks. Sitting in corners. Avoiding eye contact. Smiling at shadows.
And The Mentor, worn hands adjusting ribbons, speaking with her eyes more than her lips. Always watching Ail perform. Always knowing they could be more.
And now? Now, even the tent poles had been taken down.
Their family had slipped through the cracks of time, one by one, until none remained.
Bāgha's final words were simple.
I wish you peace. I hope you've found what you were looking for.
Ail sat in silence.
The letter rested on their lap like a weight. The morning sun filtered through the high windows, bright and empty.
They should've cried. Or screamed. Or rushed to write back something poetic and profound.
Instead, they reached for a pen. The same pen they used to sign autographs. To approve scripts. To add fake names to fake stories.
They didn't hesitate.
I hope you all do well.
That was it.
Nothing else came.
They folded the paper neatly, slipped it into a cream envelope, and placed it gently onto the silver tray outside their door for the maid.
"This should be the last time," they muttered, half to themselves, half to the quiet. "They should get the hint."
Their voice felt hollow in the stillness of the room.
And yet, as they turned back, brushing invisible dust from their sleeves, they noticed something odd.
Their hands—always steady, always sharp—were cold.
Not trembling. Not frozen.
Just cold.
As if they had touched something long buried. As if somewhere, deep in a place they no longer looked into, something had ended without permission.
They turned away from their desk, walked out their office.
And slammed the door shut.