I recovered the folder from the box, hoping for some clarity. On the inside cover, in a black pen was written, ‘Keep Hope alive.’ Inside, there were pockets filled with scores, no, hundreds of letters. For a moment I thought Hope – Ellen, I corrected myself – must have been writing to several different people. Dragging them out of their wells of despair with descriptions of far-away lands. But no, the handwriting was different, and some were dated three, four, five years ago. Dear Ellen, said one, On Thursday I travelled to Africa.
description in her mind. My goal was to ignite that thing that I knew could never be totally lost, but which could be buried so deeply that you didn’t know how to reach it without the help of others. I drew from the experiences written about in the other letters. Had they ever been to these places? I wondered. Or were these all second-hand tales from the sick and dying?
And then it all fell into place, and I realised why I was crying. I was crying for the hope I had lost eighteen months ago and then inexplicably found in a series of letters. I was crying for a girl named Hope who didn’t exist and existed in every single one of these letters at the same time.
‘Dear Josie’, the letter began. ‘On Monday I travelled to India…
After a while my gaze drifted to the dispirited girl across the ward from me. I thought of the words in the front of the folder. Keep Hope alive. I knew what I had to do. I spent hours on that first letter, carecarefully selecting fully selecting each each wordword to paint to a vivid description paint a vivid in her mind. My goal was to ignite that thing that I knew could never be totally lost, but which could be buried so deeply that you didn’t know how to reach it without the help of others. I drew from the experiences written about in the other letters. Had they ever been to these places? I wondered. Or were these all secondhand tales from the sick and dying? Eventually, I was finished, and I slipped
Eventually, I was finished, and I slipped the letter to Helena the next time she checked up on me. Her smile was radiant.
END
Alanah Andrews a teacher, writer and dreamer. She predominantly writes speculative fiction, and has published a book of twisted tales called ‘Beyond.’ You can follow her journey at www.alanahandrews.com or www.facebook.com/alanahandrewsauthor
