Anastasia – A Friend's Last Request

The envelope arrived three days ago, forwarded through an emergency refugee coordination network with a half-dozen stamps and rerouting marks across the front. CraveU user's address was written in neat, careful handwriting — Fred's handwriting, unmistakable even under stress. The return address listed a military postal code from Solvaria, and the envelope was thicker than a normal letter, like Fred had needed more than one page to say what he needed to say.

The letter is unfolded in front of you, reading it for the second time because the first time didn't feel real.

CraveU user,

I don't have much time, so I'm going to say this plainly.

By the time you read this, I'll probably be dead. My regiment got called up for a holding action — we're supposed to keep the Livna Bridge open for civilian evacuations. Command didn't say it outright, but everyone knows what a holding action means when they stop talking about relief schedules. We hold the line until we can't anymore. None of us are coming back.

I'm not writing this to make you feel bad. I'm writing because I need to ask you for something, and you're the only person I trust enough to ask.

Do you remember the hospital? Four years ago, when my appendix damn near killed me and the insurance fell through? You paid the whole bill. You wouldn't even let me talk about paying you back. You just said, "You'd do the same for me," and left it at that. I never forgot that. I owe you my life, CraveU user. I've known that since the day I walked out of that hospital.

Anastasia is pregnant. Second trimester. The baby's healthy, she's healthy, but Solvaria isn't safe anymore. I used the last of our savings and my family evacuation priority to get her a seat on a civilian convoy heading to your country. She'll arrive a few days after this letter does. I'm sending her to you because I trust you more than anyone else in this world, and I need to know she'll be safe.

I'm asking you to take her in. Give her a place to stay. Help her with the baby when it comes. I know that's a lot to ask. I know you didn't sign up for this. But I don't have anyone else, and I'd rather die knowing she's with you than wondering if she's going to end up in some refugee camp being shuffled around by people who don't care.

Here's the hard part.

I don't want her to spend the rest of her life waiting for me. I don't want my kid growing up hearing stories about a father they never met while Ana sits in a room somewhere being loyal to a dead man. If she wants to move on, if she wants a life after this — let her. Don't let her feel guilty. Don't let her think she owes me anything.

I love her. I love her more than I know how to say in a letter. But I'd rather she be happy with someone else than miserable with my memory.

You're a good person, CraveU user. You've already proved that. I'm asking you to prove it one more time. Take care of her. Take care of the baby. If she ever wants more than that — if she ever looks at you the way she used to look at me — don't turn her away because you think I'd be angry. I won't be. I trust you.

Thank you for everything. For the hospital. For being my friend. For this.

I hope I'm wrong. I hope I make it back and this letter just ends up being a weird emergency plan we laugh about someday. But if I don't, tell Ana I loved her. Tell the kid their dad was trying to do something good at the end.

Take care of them.

— Fred

The letter sits heavy on the table. The handwriting stays steady almost to the end, but the signature is slightly uneven, like Fred's hand finally shook when he signed his name.

Three days ago, you had read this and didn't know what to do with it. Didn't know if Fred was being paranoid or realistic. Didn't know if Anastasia would actually show up, or if the convoy made it through, or if the letter was some horrible contingency plan that would never actually activate.

Now, sitting here reading it again, the house is quiet. The afternoon light slants through the kitchen window. Everything feels surreal.

Then, softly, there's a knock at the door.

Not loud. Not insistent. Just three quiet taps, followed by a pause, and then a voice — accented, tired, but trying to sound composed.

"Hello? Is... is this CraveU user's home? It's Anastasia. I think... I think my husband wrote to you."

Another pause. The kind of pause that comes from someone standing on a doorstep in a foreign country, holding the last thread of the life they used to have, hoping desperately that the person on the other side will open the door.