Between a pizza flyer and a bill from the electricity provider, Elliot Morgan received his first letter on Tuesday. He paid little attention to the printed name in bold letters at the middle: THOMAS HEMSWORTH. Living alone for over five years without a roommate did not make him recognize such a person's name. Nevertheless, he took the envelope and gazed at it pensively, especially taking note of the red wax seal that bore a simple crescent moon.
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He couldn’t help himself, he just had to find out who sent it.
The envelope contained several sheets of paper typed on a typewriter which smelled of dry wood and iron rust. The initial sentence paralyzed Elliot Morgan:
“At 3:12am, you wake up three hours early than expected because you don’t know how.”
Blood raced in his ears. It was correct – he had woken up specifically at this time point for some kind of weeks now. He continued with disbelief and read on.
“Although you have never shown them; you draw twenty two different plans of the same structure and call yourself a freelance technical editor yet deep inside wish to become an architect ever since you remember anything about yourself your mother known as Miriam died while her broken watch remains inside left kitchen drawer where you keep it?”
He stumbled and almost knocked down the coffee table.
With a rush, he ran into the kitchen and pulled open the bottom left drawer. There lay the watch, its face cracked and time stopped many years ago, beside half-used tape roll which was expected to finish soon.
Sitting back down in his favorite armchair, he could see that everything was shaking.
It had no return address or signature.
Only one detail was wrong – the name on the letter cover indicated another person.
Three days passed before he could bring himself to talk about it. He decided to confide in Layla, who had been his classmate and now was a data analyst: intelligent, suspicious but not too prone to panicking, he hoped.
Are you sure, she asked him in the cafe if he was sure that it was not some kind of a joke.
“This is a terrible joke. How could anyone know what I’ve planned – I didn’t show it to anyone, not even you?”
Having read through the contents of the letter, Layla looked up and asked, “And the name is Thomas Hemsworth, right?”
He confirmed with a yes.
She tapped on her phone and typed very fast before showing him the screen a moment later.
Thomas Hemsworth. 1983. Upstate NY childhood residence. Archived school magazine reveals affinity for architectural design.
“He must have made a drawing some competition. It seemed looks like one I had seen before,” she whispered.
Upon hearing this information, Elliot was dumbfounded: “But I’m two years younger than him, born in 1985! It doesn’t make any sense.”
Layla arched an eyebrow, “Perhaps it’s mere chance? Someone using that name, maybe?”
But Elliot wouldn’t have it. “It’s not just a random thing.”
He was awake all through the night. His eyes popped open at exactly three minutes past midnight. He stayed still. There was no sound from the town apart from the rare late night train which passed with a humming noise. For some time, he lay still and watched the darkness that filled the room before getting up.
The following day found him determined; he was going to make that trip to Thomas’s place which was just four hours’ drive from Calder’s Hollow - the name of the town where Thomas had stayed!
The lake was calm and reflected everything like a mirror. It was black and still. Thomas was almost forgotten by the people who lived there, although one elderly man in a diner remembered a few things about him.
“A quiet boy. He always had this appearance as if he was not at home.” The man chipped some words; then added after a pause, “I think he used to draw buildings. But not just any kind, posh ones. He would say that he is going to plan the whole cities on it.” Stirring his coffee, he said, “You remind me of him now that I think about it. Are you his brother?”
With a slow shake of his head, Elliot responded, “No... not exactly.”
On returning to his house, he felt that his apartment was not familiar anymore. The sketches of buildings that he had pinned on his wall made him feel strange. He took one down, turned it around. It was then that he saw something which sent his heart into his mouth: a slight initial, TH, at the bottom corner in pencil.
He stared, heart clenching.
He never signed his drawings. Never.
The following week passed without much happening. He no longer took on any editing work. Layla’s messages went unanswered. He would read the same letter every night before going to bed just like you would with holy writings. And every time there appeared to be different things – lines he could swear were not in there before but now they were. As well as references to old memories that he had long forgotten about such as; a green bicycle with a rusty break, hidden cedar chest, and Chopin’s favorite tune which mother used while cooking.
Waking up one morning, Elliot found a second letter tucked underneath his pillow. The letter was an exact copy of the first one and it had the same wax seal on it.
The day was calm and there was a smooth shift. He took more time at the mirrors than he had planned on, looking for something...
Thomas Hemsworth; he had gotten used to it by now. Every now and then he would say it in a low voice. Sometimes he even tried out his signature. But it really did fit too perfectly.
In an evening, Layla blocked him from leaving the block of flats. She told him that he looked as if he had just seen a ghost and invited him to leave the place with her.
He didn’t put up any resistance.
They found themselves sitting on a park bench just near an unfinished sky rise.
“Tell me the truth,” she demanded.
He hesitated for a moment then whispered, “What if I’m not Elliot? What if I’m just someone who has occupied this life by mistake?”
“Elliot. Listen to yourself.” She paused and continued. “You’re not some character in a book. However, should you believe there is any truth in that, then come up with tangible evidence that cannot be easily refuted.”
He made one final drive back to Calder’s Hollow as if pulled by some force.
In the library, there were stacks of old newspapers kept in boxes. It took him three hours of going through the microfilms before he came across it; a picture in black and white of a boy aged between fifteen and sixteen smiling sheepishly while standing in front of what appeared to be one of the buildings so much like those which Elliot had sketched for years.
The caption underneath read: “Thomas Hemsworth, young architecture lover, next to his dream – The Crescent Complex model”.
Hastily throwing away the reel, Elliot was overcome with shock at seeing his own surname.
Years earlier he had called his numerous sketches by this very name without any knowledge as to why it popped up—just like that day when he saw the photo for the first time ever!
As he was leaving town, he took a moment of silence by the side of the lake.
“Perhaps I am both,” he muttered. “Maybe Thomas is not gone at all. Perhaps I am his second chance.”
His eyes shut.
A loon called in the distance.
Footsteps on the frosted ground behind him caught his attention.
He turned... but there was nobody there.
However, on the ground beside him lay a third note – dry, crackling, and obviously there.
With unsteady hands he collected it. The one before him read simply:
TO WHOMSOEVER IT MAY BE OF IMPORTANCE
Upon reading it he saw that it said “Welcome back.”
