The Last Letter

A grieving man discovers a press that prints reality

The basement air was cool and dusty, a single bulb with a pull chain its only light source. Awkward though it was, Mark carried the boxes into their new home. Beneath cobwebs sat what few precious memories remained.

“C’s Box”

“Mark’s Books” followed other unmarked boxes, covering the last of her physical memory.

Footsteps echoed across the floor, inspecting things left behind; broken shovels, rusty screws primarily. Across the room, a corner where no light reached. Besides, a shelf.

Mark scanned the shelf, his fingers dragging across the worn metal characters. One each upper and lower. Three spaces and a period.

“Type?”

He found a second bulb swaying lightly overhead. Pulling the chain revealed the corner’s secret: a letter press. Similar in heft to ones he’d used in his youth. Its jaws stood shut against the bed - clamped onto a secret.

Mark inspected the press. His fingers slowly traced the thick layer of dust clinging to the wood. He pulled the lever at the press’ flank. Aging gears clattered awake, the stubborn grind of iron on iron. The platen finished its journey, drawing back from the typeset chase. In its mouth a scrap of yellowed paper left behind years ago. The ink, barely legible, bore a simple message of finality: “The End.”

He shouted up the stairs, “COURT -“ an impulse, a muscle reflex. The last syllable caught in his throat.

His hands knew what the first word would be before he registered it himself.

C O U R T N E Y

Bittersweet punctuated by the sound of the plates pressing together.

A warmth filled the dank basement air. Mark blinked, disoriented by the sudden shift from cold to .. Comfort?

“Mark?”

He spun around. Courtney stood at the bottom of the stairs, her auburn hair catching the light from the single bulb. Alive. Beautiful.

“Court?” His voice cracked.

“Where are we?” She rubbed her temple. “I can’t remember a single thing.”

Mark’s chest tightened. She didn’t remember the accident. Didn’t remember the hospital. Didn’t remember dying in his arms while he begged her to stay.

“You’re safe,” he whispered, moving towards her. “You’re safe here with me.”

“But where is our house? Why is there a box of my memories on the floor?” Her voice rose with panic.

Mark glanced at the press, then back at her frightened face. She was scared, confused. He could fix this. He could take away the fear. The questions. The pain of not knowing.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, hands worked quickly. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

S H E W A S I N A C O M A

The press groaned, the paper emerged. Courtney blinked, her hand dropping from her temple.

“You were in a coma, love.”

“What happened to me, Mark? Why did you move?”

S H E F O R G O T O U R H O M E

“What happened to me, Mark? Where’s my phone?”

P H O N E S D O N O T E X I S T

“What happened to me, Mark? Where’s my sister?”

She was unrelenting, desperately clawing for answers. His hands moved before he could think.

S H E H A S N O S I S T E R

The press chunked. Courtney’s face went blank for a moment.

“What happened to me, Mark?”

“Stop asking that question,” he begged.

“Why do I feel so… empty?”

Marks throat constricted. Each fix made it worse. Each deletion carved out another piece of her.

“Why can’t I remember anything before today?” Her voice broke. “Mark, what’s wrong with me?”

His fingers hovered over the type. He could fix this too. Make her stop asking. Make her stop hurting. He could.

S H E I S H A P P Y

But when he looked at her face - vacant now, smiling without reason - he saw the truth. This wasn’t Courtney anymore. This was a shell wearing her face.

“I love you,” she said in a flat voice.

“How do you feel?” he asked, solemnly.

An unflinching smile returned. “I am happy!”

She is happy.

Mark trembled as he reached for the letters again. There was only one thing left to type. He dropped a letter, its body clattering to the floor with a deafening thud.

“Mark? Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he steadied his voice. “Just clumsy.”

Tears dotted the table, soaking into the aged wood top. His hands shook as he grabbed the next five characters.

Deliberately, he set the type into the chase, his fingers refusing to slide the final piece into place.

His chest rattled, trying to keep his composure. Ink rolled on with ease - always eager to share its message. He slid a sheet of paper into the jaws of the machine and breathed deeply.

What returned was simple, poignant.

“The End.”