Chapter 31
The postcard arrived the next morning, slipped through the mail slot with the rest of the ordinary things, grocery flyers and utility bills and a coupon for a pizza place we never ordered from anymore.
I was at the kitchen table with a mug of tea that had gone lukewarm, my phone face down beside it, when Callum picked up the mail from the floor. He flipped through the stack the way people do when they expect nothing interesting, quick and absentminded, and then he stopped.
His shoulders stiffened just enough that I noticed, and when he looked up at me, his expression had shifted into something alert, careful and a little too controlled.
“Hey,” he said. “Can I show you something?”
That alone was enough to make my heart start going faster, because I had learned to recognize that tone, the one that meant information was coming that would change the temperature of the room.
I nodded anyway, because avoiding it wouldn’t make it disappear, and because whatever this was, it had already arrived.
He walked over slowly, like he was approaching an animal that might spook, and set the postcard down on the table between us.
It was a postcard from Iqaluit.
The image on the front showed a wide, pale landscape, snow stretching out beneath a washed-out sky. The word Iqaluit was printed neatly along the bottom edge, along with a small illustration of a polar bear that felt almost absurdly cheerful given everything else.
For a second, I was completely confused as I stared at this seemingly random postcard. Then I flipped the card over, and everything aligned with a soft, nauseating click in my brain.
The handwriting was angular and uneven, the letters crowding each other like whoever wrote it had been in too much of a hurry to worry about how it looked.
Callum didn’t say anything while I read. He stood behind the chair, hands resting on the backrest, close enough that I could feel his presence without him crowding me.
She’s settled.
I followed her the whole way, made sure she understood she wasn’t alone, and that she wouldn’t be starting fresh without remembering why. She’s been strongly encouraged not to reach out again, and she understands the consequences now.
I think she’ll enjoy the snow, the cold, and the polar night.
I hope she doesn’t freeze to death. What a shame that would be.
- M
That was it. No flowery greeting or apologies for the methods, and no explanation of them. Instead, just a confirmation that something had been handled, decisively and permanently.
I read it again, slower this time, letting each line land fully instead of skimming past the parts that made my stomach turn.
The language was casual in a way that made it worse, because it suggested familiarity with this kind of thing, as if relocation and intimidation were just another errand on a list.
When I finally set the postcard down, my fingers were shaking, and I curled them into my palm to keep that from being obvious.
“So,” I said, after a moment that stretched longer than I meant it to. “She’s in the Arctic.”
Callum let out a breath that sounded like he’d been holding it since he picked up the mail. “Yes.”
“And she’s not coming back,” I added, not as a question but as a need, because I needed to hear it out loud.
“No,” he said. “She’s not.”
I leaned back in my chair, the wood pressing into my spine, and stared at the ceiling for a second, because my body was trying to process two opposite reactions at the same time.
Relief surged through me, sharp and undeniable, loosening something that had been clenched in my chest for weeks, and right behind it came shock, heavy and disorienting, because this was not the scale I had imagined when Callum said the situation was handled.
“I thought,” I began, then stopped, because I wasn’t sure what I had thought. I picked at the edge of the postcard instead, tracing the corner with my nail. “I thought it would be like, I don’t know, a warning, or something that made her back off.”
Callum nodded, slow and serious. “I know.”
“This is,” I gestured vaguely at the card, at the snow and the polar bear and the calm brutality of the message, “a lot.”
“It is,” he agreed.
I waited for him to defend it, or justify it, or explain it away with words about necessity and protection and last resorts. He didn’t.
“She can’t hurt you anymore,” he said quietly. “She can’t touch your life, or your health, or your head.”
I picked up the postcard again, studying the handwriting, the casual cruelty of phrases like strongly encouraged and understands the consequences now. “You know this is extreme,” I said, not accusing, just naming it.
“Yes,” he said again, without hesitation.
“And you’re okay with that.”
“I’m okay with you being safe,” he replied, his voice steady, his eyes not leaving mine.
That landed harder than anything else, because it wasn’t romantic or dramatic or self-sacrificing in the way stories like to make these moments. It was blunt and clear and rooted in priority, and it left very little room for argument.
I looked down at the front of the postcard again, at the endless white and the tiny, cheerful polar bear, and something in my chest slipped sideways. A laugh escaped before I could stop it, small and incredulous and absolutely inappropriate.
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly, pressing my lips together, even as another giggle threatened. “I just… Marc chased her to Iqaluit.”
Callum blinked once. Then twice. “You’re laughing.”
“I know,” I said, my shoulders shaking now despite my best efforts. “I know this is horrible, and I know it’s intense, and I know I’m supposed to be processing this seriously, but of all the places—”
“She hates the cold,” he said before he could stop himself.
That did it.
I laughed properly then, a breathless, helpless sound that bubbled up out of nowhere and left my eyes watering. “I can’t wait to see her try to cause trouble up there. I’m sure the locals would be all too happy to introduce her to some of the local wildlife.”
Callum pressed his lips together, clearly fighting it, and then he lost. He laughed too, a sharp burst at first, then something fuller, his shoulders finally loosening as he leaned back against the counter.
“God,” I said, wiping under my eyes. “She’s going to lose her mind.”
“She already did,” Callum said dryly, and that only made me laugh again.
Eventually it tapered off, the sound fading into quiet smiles and deep breaths, and the weight of the situation eased back in, gentler this time, less sharp around the edges.
I stared at the postcard again, at the image of endless white, and tried to picture Ashley there, isolated and far away and very, very aware that she had been followed, watched, and warned.
“That’s it, then.” I said slowly. “She’s gone.”
“Yes,” Callum said. “That’s it.”
“I don’t know how to feel about this,” I admitted, because pretending clarity would have been dishonest. “I’m relieved, and I’m disturbed, and I’m kind of amazed, and I think part of me wants to laugh again, and part of me wants to pretend I never read this.”
“All of that makes sense,” he said.
I looked up at him then, really looked, at the lines of tension around his eyes, at the careful way he held himself, like someone who had chosen a necessary evil and was prepared to carry the weight of it without asking for praise.
“You showed me right away,” I said.
“Yes.”
“You didn’t wait, or soften it, or try to decide how I should feel first.”
“No,” he said. “I didn’t want there to be secrets about this.”
That mattered more than I expected, and I felt something inside me loosen, just a fraction, like a knot that had been tied too tight finally giving a little.
Trust didn’t rush back in, and forgiveness didn’t bloom instantly, but the constant tension, the low-grade fear that had been living in my body, eased enough that I could breathe without effort.
I set the postcard down and pushed it slightly away from me, not because I wanted to reject it, but because I didn’t need to stare at it anymore to believe it was real.
“Okay,” I said.
Callum tilted his head slightly. “Okay?”
“She’s gone,” I repeated. “And I feel good about that.”
He nodded, his shoulders dropping in a way that told me he was feeling it too.
I sat there, holding my cooling tea, breathing steadily, and let that settle into me, even as the postcard from the edge of the world lay between us, undeniable proof that some chapters ended not with healing words, but with decisive action and the cold, bright certainty of distance.
“I keep waiting for the other shoe,” I admitted, glancing at the doorway, at the windows, at nothing in particular. “Like there’s going to be another message, or a follow-up, or some kind of twist.”
“I don’t think there will be,” he said. “Marc doesn’t do loose ends.”
That should have been alarming, and maybe on some level it still was, but mostly it just felt reassuring, like hearing that a storm had passed far enough away that the air pressure finally stabilized.
I huffed a small laugh before I could stop myself. “Of course he doesn’t.”
Callum glanced at me, eyebrow lifting slightly. “You’re taking this better than I expected.”
“I think my nervous system is too tired to be dramatic about it,” I said. “Relief is doing most of the heavy lifting right now.”
“That makes sense.”
“This doesn’t fix everything, you know.” I added, because it needed to be said, because clarity mattered. “It doesn’t erase what happened between us.”
“I know,” he said again, steady and unflinching. “I wasn’t expecting it to.”
“But,” I continued, pausing to find the right shape for the thought, “it removes one variable. A big one.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “It does.”
Callum shifted in his seat, then stopped himself, like he’d thought better of speaking. I noticed anyway.
“What?” I prompted.
“I was just,” he hesitated, then continued, “I was worried you’d be angry with me.”
“I am,” I said honestly, and then softened it with a small exhale. “But not about this part.”
He nodded slowly, accepting that without argument, and something about that acceptance felt like another small step forward, even if it wasn’t glamorous or dramatic.