I know that, but part of me longs to see the place the riders talk about after a few too many drinks in the garden at the back of the café. The giant trees that cling to even more giant limestone cliffs. The fae aren’t tiny, their world is just big.
There is more to the world than I’ve been allowed to experience and for the first time I’m no longer happy pretending to be human. I need to embrace what I am.
A customer rings the bell and Mom goes out the front. I walk out the back to the purple painted letterbox. It doesn’t look like anything special. But riders write their note and leave it there. The first thing they do after pulling up is stroll out the back to see if anyone left a message for them. The messages can sit there for years uncollected until a rider everyone thought dead walks in to collect his mail.
I lift the lid to see what’s in there. Some of the names are familiar, many are not.
Riders come and go. They die or return to faery.
I replace the lid and stare at the paper and envelopes underneath. I want to leave something for Oran, but honestly, I don’t want to be pushy or needy either.
Did I only come to leave a note, or on the hope that he’d be here?
Lame.
But I write a note.
Oran,
Don’t bother returning. I’ll have you kicked out.
D
My eyes burn, but I won’t beg him to come back. He made no promise to me beyond getting me back to the bar. It was me who wanted more than monster hunting.
I fold it, put it in an envelope and write his name on the front, then I seal it up and drop it in the box.
I wait several seconds, then pull it out and tear it up.
If he can’t be bothered with me, why should I even waste paper on him? I dump the note in the trash on my way back in, paste on a smile, and spend the rest of the day helping Mom in the café.
The ache doesn’t fade. I may not have known him well, but I wanted to get to know him. I need to know who I am.
