“May I have a seat?”
I can feel his eyes on me, urging me to look at him.
I don’t, and when I don’t say anything, the man sits and rests a book on his knees. “Why must one deride what is strange when it is your strangeness that has allured them?”
I look at him then, and he’s a young man. Beneath his tweed cap, he has light brown eyes the color of baked bread set in dark-rimmed lashes.
“Are you an artist?” he asks, his gaze falling to my sketchpad. I can’t say anything. I cannot move. “Can I have a look?” And before I can stop him, he has my sketchpad and is flipping through the pages. “She’s darling,” he says, turning the sketchpad in a landscape fashion. “What’s her name?”
“She doesn’t have one,” I say.
“Of course, she does.”
“But ... I do not know her.”
“And yet your talented hand still lays her soul on a canvas.” He closes my sketchpad and hands it back to me. “You’re brave for sharing your work with me. In truth, I am finding it difficult to part with something of my own. However, I also feel it is no longer mine to bear.” His hand sinks into his coat pocket, and he retrieves an envelope. For a moment, he’s hesitant, placing his elbows on his knees and twirling the envelope in his hands. “The pieces of ourselves we leave behind may not be appreciated by all in the now but they deserve to be immortal, whether it be drawings, stories, wisdom, love ...” his eyes veer back to me “ ... because one day, it’s time will come.”
The envelope beckons my name as I stare at it. “Are you a writer?”
“Yes, I am, as well as many other things.” He sighed, leaning back on the bench. “Although, when it comes to books, it seems people do not want to feel or think for themselves anymore. Pages are getting shorter, the attention span is diminishing. They want to be entertained without having to slow down. This is who we leave our pieces to for now. Nevertheless, have we a choice? We are artists; we live with loudness inside our heads that need to be spat out like a curse,” he says, then lifts his chin forward. “Do you see that man across the street?”
An older man was stumbling upon the sidewalk. Bystanders scoffed, and the man braced himself against the gas lamp post to keep himself from falling.
“He looks like a drunken fool who may not make it to morning. But underneath the alcohol, the madness, and the fact that he believes he’s a time traveler, there is a brilliant poet this world will adore for many decades to come.”
He removes a loose paper from the book. “I am handing this over to my editor for publication in the New York Daily Tribune in a few days. It’s a poem he wrote inspired by a love greater than love, where one lies in a tomb and the other sleeps beside it. Even death cannot keep them apart. Could you imagine a love like that?” he asks, his gaze drifting back to me, and I shake my head. He chuckles, folding the poem and stuffing it into his jacket pocket. “I suppose you’re right. Where he gets his inspiration is beyond me. Love is hopeless for creatives like the three of us, who are much more handsome and charming on paper.”
“I believe everyone with a face is handsome.”
The young man chuckles again. “I will remember you said this.”
He’s clinging to the envelope tighter than ever. The feeling is familiar to me.
“Can I see now?”
“Do you know how to read?” he asks me.
I shake my head.
“This envelope is very special, and I want to give it to you ... but first,” he slides his book over, resting it on my lap, “you must promise me you will learn to read this book, and when you’re done, you must read ninety-nine more,” he says, holding up a finger. “After you read your one-hundredth novel, then you are welcome to read what’s inside this envelope.” He finally lets go of the envelope he’s been clinging to. It feels heavy in my gloved hands, and I look him in the eyes. “I have a darling, and sometimes it feels like we’re centuries apart. But no matter what separates us, I can still feel her, and I believe this girl you draw is someone you feel, too.”
I have never known anyone to say the things I have been feeling. My heart is galloping in my chest, and I pinch my fingers together, making sure the wind doesn’t steal the envelope. No one has ever given me anything before. “Thank you.”
“Can you tell me the name of the gentleman I had the pleasure of speaking with tonight?”
He said gentleman, and it brought tears to my eyes. I’m relieved he cannot see. “Stone. That’s it, only Stone. What’s your name?”
There’s a dimple beside his smile. I catalogue it in my mind with the rest of him, determined to sketch his features so I can always remember the man who gave me a book and an envelope.
“Remember me as Ambrose,” he says.
“Stone!” I hear Mother calling out.
Ambrose stands. “Remember our agreement and take good care of what I’ve given you. Care for it with the utmost importance.”
“I will,” I promise. “And I will read one hundred books before I look inside.”
Ambrose nods, then walks off as Mother paces across the road.
