There was a story you wrote, years ago. You were stuck, couldn’t figure out what to write. Fits and starts of little things, but nothing that felt right until you struck upon what would become Under-London.
I can’t find it, now, because you took everything down in preparation for publication, but it started with a man talking to nothing by a bonfire, unwittingly catching the ear of an incredibly bored faerie, who spirited him away.
It was on a night when the veil between worlds was thin and those sorts of things could happen.
You left six months ago on a night like that. It had rained for days, but on that night, the sky cleared. A full moon surrounded by a halo. Like you were letting us know you made it to the other side just fine.
It’s foolish, but I’ve gone out into the woods. Not to make a fire, not to talk to anyone. I’m out here with a cinnamon bun, and I’m going to wait for just a bit. One minute past hopefulness, two past foolishness.
And once nothing happens, I’ll go home.
It doesn’t hurt anything.
It’s just foolishness. It’s foolish. Childish. I know.
But you’d remember me. Cinnamon bun of remembrance, yeah? You know this plot trick, ’cause you invented it.
Listen, I know what this really is.
But it’s just a way of spending time with you.
Even if you’re not really here.
This is enough.
I don’t think I’m ever going to stop waiting for you.