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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Loneliness / Solitude
- Published: 11/02/2021
The Traveler and the Homebody.
Born 1951, M, from Wilmington NC, United States.jpeg)
The Detective had been in the business for a long time. Maybe two long. He had never seen anything like this.
The other Detective was quietly searching through piles of letters. Hundreds of letters. Thousands of letters. Maybe…hundreds of thousands of letters.
“This guy must have had a lot of friends.”
The Older Detective didn’t say anything. He just kept taking letters off a pile stacked neatly on a chair. He looked at the envelopes. One at a time. Finally he spoke.
“I don’t think he had any.”
“What? I mean look at this!”
She waved her arm to include all the rooms downstairs. Each filled from floor to ceiling with letters. Some hand written. Some typed. Some short. Some several pages long. And they hadn’t checked upstairs yet.
The Detective took an envelope from the pile he was standing in front of. Then he had her take one from the pile she was checking.
“Look at the Addresses.”
“Oh. Oh. Oh. I see what you mean.”
Every letter was addressed to: Miss. Jane Wellington. 19 Harbor Lane, Westcott, MA 96154. Every return address, carefully glued to the top left corner of each envelope, had exactly the same address, but a different name: Mr. Peter Wellington.
“He mailed these to himself!”
“Yes. But look at the stamps.”
The younger Detective did just that.
“Are you telling me he travelled the world and wrote letters to himself?”
“It sure looks that way. (Holding up a letter) Unless you know how to get a stamp cancelled in Morocco without leaving the USA.”
In the end, they found Letters with cancelled stamps for one hundred and thirty three countries. Eventually it was discovered that he wrote the first letter…to himself, in 1953. From the exact same address. He traveled the world, but only lived in one place.
The Coroner ruled it: “Death by natural causes.’
The Old Detective had a different idea.
“You don’t think he died of Natural Causes?”
He looked over at his Colleague... who was still reading the Coroners Report.
“Read this.”
He handed her a letter. The last letter the man had ever written. The one found underneath his hand, pinned to the desk top by his body. The faded wig had toppled off his head to lay on the carpet.
She started to read. She sat down. She read it again. She started to cry.
“I know. I feel the same way too.”
He wasn’t writing to himself. Not really. He had two personalities. One travelled. One was afraid to go outside. Two people. One body.
That last letter was a love letter. Forgiving himself for not being able to travel anymore. His body wasn’t strong enough to travel. So the Traveler died.
Grief killed the other half of him. He wouldn’t get anymore letters…so why live?
She looked up through tear stained eyes.
“He was in love wasn’t he?”
“Yes. With himself. Or him - selves. Can you imagine how close those two were?”
Wiping a tear as she reread that last letter…the last line…she could imagine:
“I will join you soon. Finally, you have chosen to travel to somewhere I can go with you. See you shortly.
Love, Jane."
The other Detective was quietly searching through piles of letters. Hundreds of letters. Thousands of letters. Maybe…hundreds of thousands of letters.
“This guy must have had a lot of friends.”
The Older Detective didn’t say anything. He just kept taking letters off a pile stacked neatly on a chair. He looked at the envelopes. One at a time. Finally he spoke.
“I don’t think he had any.”
“What? I mean look at this!”
She waved her arm to include all the rooms downstairs. Each filled from floor to ceiling with letters. Some hand written. Some typed. Some short. Some several pages long. And they hadn’t checked upstairs yet.
The Detective took an envelope from the pile he was standing in front of. Then he had her take one from the pile she was checking.
“Look at the Addresses.”
“Oh. Oh. Oh. I see what you mean.”
Every letter was addressed to: Miss. Jane Wellington. 19 Harbor Lane, Westcott, MA 96154. Every return address, carefully glued to the top left corner of each envelope, had exactly the same address, but a different name: Mr. Peter Wellington.
“He mailed these to himself!”
“Yes. But look at the stamps.”
The younger Detective did just that.
“Are you telling me he travelled the world and wrote letters to himself?”
“It sure looks that way. (Holding up a letter) Unless you know how to get a stamp cancelled in Morocco without leaving the USA.”
In the end, they found Letters with cancelled stamps for one hundred and thirty three countries. Eventually it was discovered that he wrote the first letter…to himself, in 1953. From the exact same address. He traveled the world, but only lived in one place.
The Coroner ruled it: “Death by natural causes.’
The Old Detective had a different idea.
“You don’t think he died of Natural Causes?”
He looked over at his Colleague... who was still reading the Coroners Report.
“Read this.”
He handed her a letter. The last letter the man had ever written. The one found underneath his hand, pinned to the desk top by his body. The faded wig had toppled off his head to lay on the carpet.
She started to read. She sat down. She read it again. She started to cry.
“I know. I feel the same way too.”
He wasn’t writing to himself. Not really. He had two personalities. One travelled. One was afraid to go outside. Two people. One body.
That last letter was a love letter. Forgiving himself for not being able to travel anymore. His body wasn’t strong enough to travel. So the Traveler died.
Grief killed the other half of him. He wouldn’t get anymore letters…so why live?
She looked up through tear stained eyes.
“He was in love wasn’t he?”
“Yes. With himself. Or him - selves. Can you imagine how close those two were?”
Wiping a tear as she reread that last letter…the last line…she could imagine:
“I will join you soon. Finally, you have chosen to travel to somewhere I can go with you. See you shortly.
Love, Jane."
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