The sun bathed the streets of Ol Traffort in golden light as Elliot dashed through the bustling roads, a bundle of letters clutched tightly in his hands. His worn-out boots barely made a sound against the cobblestones, and his heart raced—not from exhaustion, but from the sheer thrill of it all.
"Elliot! Off to deliver love letters again?" called a baker from his stall, laughing as he tossed a fresh roll toward him.
Elliot caught it mid-stride, grinning. "You say love letters, I say adventure, old man!" He bit into the warm bread, the taste of butter melting on his tongue.
A group of children darted past, their laughter ringing through the air. One of them, a little girl with tangled curls, tugged at his sleeve. "Eli! Did you get another letter from the traveler lady?"
His fingers instinctively tightened around the papers in his grip. Seraphina's letters... The ones that painted pictures of faraway lands, rolling seas, and skies bigger than he could ever imagine.
"I sure did," he said, ruffling the girl's hair. "And I bet she's halfway across the world by now."
"Then why are you still here?" a vendor teased as Elliot jogged past, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
Why, indeed?
He could only laugh in response, turning a corner, his heart as light as the wind.
Today was another good day.
As Elliot rounded the corner, a gust of wind rushed past him, rustling the letters in his hands. The faint scent of oak wood and dust lingered in the air, carried from the old toy shop just ahead. It looked worn and faded with time, but something about it still held an invisible nostalgic veil as if childhood memories clung to its walls.
"Ah... Vanveer's Toy Shop," he muttered, a small smile tugging at his lips. "The younger me would have been on his knees, begging for a toy."
He could still see it—the way his ten-year-old self had pressed his face against this very window, eyes wide with longing as he stared at a single object inside: a brass compass, its golden rim gleaming under the shop's lantern glow.
"Grandpa, please! I need it! I'll get lost without it!"
His grandfather would always chuckle, resting a weathered hand on Elliot's head.
"Of course, you can have it…" he had said, pausing just long enough to let hope spark in the boy's chest. Then, with a teasing smirk, he added, "—with your own money, that is."
Then he would burst into laughter, the deep sound echoing through the streets, much to young Elliot's frustration.
Even now, Elliot felt his ears burn at the memory. A compass isn't even that expensive, Grandpa! he thought, shaking his head.
Elliot exhaled softly, shaking off the thought. He never did get that compass.
And yet, here he was—standing at the edge of a journey far greater than he had ever imagined.
With a deep breath, he stepped away from the shop, the letters still clutched tightly in his hands.
Of course, they weren't going to magically deliver themselves—though he often wished he could simply flick his wrist and send them soaring to their destinations.
"Alright then," he sighed, rolling his shoulders. "Time to get started."
And with that, Elliot rushed back into the buzzing streets, weaving through the crowds, delivering letters from sunrise to sundown.
By the time Elliot finally pushed open the door to his home, the last traces of daylight had faded, leaving only the soft glow of lanterns to light the quiet space. He stepped inside, his legs aching, his fingers sore from gripping envelopes all day. The scent of old wood and parchment filled the air—a scent he had known all his life.
He sighed, tossing the remaining letters onto the small wooden table before collapsing into the creaky old chair by the window. His head lolled back, exhaustion settling deep into his bones.
"Another day, another hundred steps in circles," he muttered. Then, with a dry chuckle, he ran a hand through his hair. "At this rate, I'll be bald before I ever see the world."
His eyes drifted across the room. It hadn't changed much. The same wooden shelves lined the walls, cluttered with books, trinkets, and old letters stacked carelessly in corners. And there, by the far side of the room, stood his grandfather's chair.
Sturdy, polished, untouched by time.
No matter how old it got, the thing never seemed to break down—always shining, as if his grandfather himself still cared for it, running a cloth over its surface every morning.
Elliot swallowed hard. He hadn't moved it, hadn't even thought about getting rid of it.
Some part of him still expected to see the old man sitting there, watching the world go by with tired but knowing eyes.
His gaze lingered, and before he could stop it, the past came rushing back—pulling him into a memory that had never quite faded.
The room had smelled of medicine that day—bitter herbs and damp cloths. Outside, rain drummed softly against the roof, the world painted in shades of grey.
Elliot, barely ten years old, sat on the edge of the bed, his small hands gripping the old man's wrist. His grandfather, once full of life, now lay frail and still against the pillows, his breath slow and labored.
"Elliot…" the old man murmured, his voice rasping but still holding its usual warmth. "You're still running around, aren't you?"
Elliot sniffed, trying to be brave, nodding quickly. "Of course! Someone has to deliver all those letters."
A weak chuckle. "Still dreaming of that compass?"
The boy hesitated, then pouted. "Not really."
His grandfather studied him for a long moment before smiling. "Good. A compass only shows you where to go, but you…" He coughed, the sound rattling in his chest. "You don't need one. You just need to find your own way."
Elliot frowned. He didn't understand then, not fully. He had just wanted something to hold, something that proved he was meant for adventure.
The old man reached out with trembling fingers and gently ruffled Elliot's hair. "One day, you'll go further than anyone ever has. And when you do…" his voice softened, "don't be afraid to chase the horizon."
And then, his hand fell away, resting against the sheets.
The rain outside never stopped.
Elliot blinked, shaking off the memory.
His fingers curled into fists. Chase the horizon, huh?
His grandfather had believed in him before he had ever believed in himself. And yet, all these years later, he was still here—stuck in the same streets, the same routine.
A deep longing stirred in his chest.
He wanted to see it. The world Seraphina wrote about. The lands beyond the sea. The places even his grandfather had never set foot in.
Elliot exhaled sharply, forcing himself to his feet. His exhaustion remained, but something in his heart had shifted.
Maybe, just maybe… it was time.
His gaze drifted toward the small wooden table.
A single envelope lay there, standing apart from the rest.
Seraphina's letter.
Slowly, carefully, he unfolded the parchment.
The ink was bold.
His breath slowed.
Something inside him twisted—a quiet, creeping unease as if the air itself had grown heavier.
His eyes trailed down the page, taking in each word, his heart pounding just a little faster.
And then, at the very bottom, in firm, unwavering script—
"THIS IS MY LAST LETTER, GERALD."
The candlelight wavered.
Elliot gripped the paper tighter.
Deep inside, something told him—this letter would change everything.