Page 29 of Somewhere Without You

Twenty Eight

West Virginia

Dearest Miss Hart,

Night has fallen heavy here. The kind of darkness that settles into your bones and makes even the stars feel far away.

The camp is quiet now, save for the occasional cough, the soft jingle of a harness, or the distant rumble of thunder that may or may not be cannon fire.

I sit by a dying fire with your letter in hand, the paper worn from how many times I’ve read it.

You are right, writing to someone in the futurefeelslike madness.

Andyet, your letters are a strange comfort in a place where comfort is scarce.

Like you, I cannot explain how they find their way to me.

I place mine in my satchel, and by morning, they vanish, replaced by your words come nightfall.

Itfeelslike witchcraft, butthereis no malice in it, only mystery.

I cannot explain how or why this happens, but I have chosen not to fear it.

Too much of my world already defies reason.

What I doknowis this. You are no hallucination.

Ifyou are, you are a vivid one, and far toocleverto be conjured by a weary soldier’s mind.

War carves loneliness into a man’s bones, andevenan unexplainable presence such as yours is a welcome reprieve.

I find myself looking forward to your words with an anticipation I canhardlyadmit aloud.

Iwassorry to read of your husband. Let me assure you, such cruelty is not strength, but cowardice.

I have seen what true couragelookslike, andit isnot in the handthatstrikes.

A man’s duty is to protect, not to control or harm those he is sworn to cherish.

I admire your courage, forit isno small feat to leave behind such cruelty and step alone into the unknown.

Allow me to take a small liberty.Ifwe are to continue this unexplainable friendship, I insist upon you calling me James.Andmay I be so bold in asking to call you Emily? Itfeelsstrange to refer to you soformallywhen your words have already taken up such space in my thoughts.

Asfor me, I am an educated man. I carry a worn copy of Plutarch’s Lives in my coat pocket, and I read it when sleep won’t come.

I have no children, for Charlotte passed before we might bear any.

Beforethe war, Iwasa carpenter. Now, I leadgoodmen into battle, and each day I pray I will not lead them to their deaths.

I miss the simple things, such as walks at dawn, and the sound of a banjo on a warm summer night.

My younger brother, Finnigan, fights beside me.

He is the only family I have left, and a steady light in this ever-changing hellscape of blood and mud.

Ifwe are to be honest with one another, I must confess, hehassavedmy life more than once.

Without him, I fear grief would have claimed me long ago.

Perhaps our correspondence is a miracle, or perhaps it’s the ramblings of two souls unmoored in time.Eitherway, I will write again, if you’ll have me. Ghost or not, your ink is real. Your words are real.And in a world so full of loss, that feels like something worth holding onto.

Until next time, Your faithful friend,

James P. Walker

P.S . What, pray tell, is a sci-fi movie?

Five days. That’s how long it had been since Logan and I last spoke over lunch at Connie’s. Five days of unanswered calls, and unread texts—despite all my efforts.

I tried to distract myself with meaningless tasks, but nothing stuck. Anxiety curled in my stomach like a serpent, gnawing from the inside out until all that was left was dread.

I never should have told him about Jackson.

I knew better. And yet, I did it anyway.

How could I have been so careless? Yes, there was history between us but that was a long time ago.

I knew Logan as a boy, not as the man he’d become.

It was entirely possible that he’d gone off and done something stupid—like confront Jackson.

Or. . . was it me? Had I changed so much he could no longer see the girl he once knew in the woman I was now?

My thumb drifted along the edge of James’s last letter, my eyes drinking in the elegant curves of his inked script.

I couldn’t decide which was worse. That James, fighting a war in another century, still carved out time to write to me.

Or that Logan, who was just across town, couldn’t be bothered to return a single call.

I needed to move. To get out. To stop sitting here, replaying what was already said and done. I needed something simple, something solid—anything to calm the rising panic in my chest. Charleston was only an hour away. Maybe the drive would help.

“Want to go for a ride?” I asked Winston.

He lifted his tail just enough to give it a slow, approving wag.

An hour later, we stood at the foot of the Charleston Public Library. Its towering brick exterior cast a long shadow beneath the sharp West Virginia sun.

I gripped Winston’s red leash and crouched until our noses were nearly touching. “I need you to be on your best behavior, okay?”

His response was a wet, unapologetic lick across my cheek.

“Good boy,” I praised, wiping the drool against my jeans with the back of my hand as we climbed the wide stone steps to the heavy wooden doors.

Inside, the air smelled like old pages and dust. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, warming my back as I stepped into the spacious entryway. The woman at the front desk looked up with a polite smile that quickly vanished when her eyes landed on Winston.

“I’m sorry, but dogs aren’t allowed in the library,” she said, peering at me over wire-framed glasses perched precisely at the bridge of her nose.

I looked down at Winston. He tilted his head, as if to say, Who, me?

“He’s not my dog,” I said slowly, the lie forming as I scrambled for an excuse. “He’s my emotional support animal.”

“Whatever he is, he can’t be in here.” She pointed to the desk sign—a red circle with an X over a cartoon dog.

I chewed the inside of my cheek. Think fast.

“I understand, but Winston isn’t just a pet,” I pressed. “He’s a service animal.”

Her gray brows drew together. “And what service does he provide?”

Damn it. I hadn’t planned to get this far.

“I’m, uh. . . partially blind,” I blurted out. “He helps me read.”

“He helps you read?” she repeated, unamused.

I nodded. “It sounds crazy, I know. But it’s true. Winston can read just about anything. Poetry, romance. . . even fantasy.”

The woman stared at me, stone-faced, as if trying to decide whether I was dangerously unwell or just deeply annoying.

“Right,” she said flatly. “And does he have his library card?”

I opened my mouth, half-ready to double down on the lie, but the edges of her mouth twitched—just slightly. Not quite a smile, but not full disdain either.

“He’s working on it,” I said, letting a small grin slip through.

She exhaled sharply. “You’ve got ten minutes. Keep him on a leash and off the furniture. If I hear so much as a bark, you’re both out.”

Winston sneezed in response. But before she could reconsider, I turned to leave—then paused.

“Where can I find books on the Civil War?” I asked, glancing back over my shoulder.

She eyed me for a moment, then nodded. “Head down that hallway and take a right. You’ll find about four shelves dedicated to that section. Let me know if you’re looking for something specific.”

We made our way down the main aisle, paws tapping softly on the tile. The library was a cathedral of stillness—high ceilings, soft lighting, the faint rustle of pages turning. A place where people came to disappear into stories that weren’t their own.

Soon, rows of books stretched out before me, their titles promising stories of battles and bloodshed. I let my fingers trail along the spines, the raised lettering cool against my skin.

Confederate Strategy. Life in the Trenches. Charleston Under Siege. Each one caught my eye, stirring something I couldn’t quite name—longing, maybe. Or regret. Whatever it was, it sat heavy in my chest.

I chose all three and carried them to a quiet corner. The chair creaked softly as I sank into it, and Winston curled over my feet like a warm blanket.

The first book read like a textbook, all dates and generals and maps that blurred together before I reached the second chapter.

I flipped a few pages, hoping for something to catch, but it was all logistics and fort locations—more about troop movement through Virginia than anything remotely personal.

Winston shifted with a thump beneath me, as if to say, Seriously? This is what we came for?

The second book wasn’t much better. Judging by the cover, it promised grit and heartache, but it mostly detailed rations, the weight of wool uniforms in the West Virginia heat, and how many men died of dysentery. Important, sure, but nothing that stirred anything in me beyond a yawn.

I leaned back in the chair, exhaling hard through my nose. Sunlight slanted through the high windows, catching the dust in lazy spirals. For a moment, I wondered why I’d bothered coming at all.

Then I reached for the third book.

It was older than the others, bound in faded navy cloth with no dust jacket and only it’s title etched in gold on the spine. The moment I cracked it open, something shifted. The pages smelled older, mustier. I turned to a chapter halfway through, and began to read.

It wasn’t just history, it read like real voices. Real people. A woman describing the way the cannon fire rattled the china cabinets. A boy, no older than twelve, tasked with carrying messages between soldiers. Letters written in trembling hands to husbands who never came home.

Something about the voices in the pages pulled at me. I could see it all. Feel everything. The soot. The fear. The way time bent under pressure.

The pages fluttered under my fingertips. I turned another—then stopped.

There, pasted crookedly between two brittle pages, was a black-and-white photograph. A group of Union soldiers stood in tight formation, posed in front of a canvas tent. Underneath, their names were listed neatly, just below the photo. Samuel S. Johnson. Patrick M. Meyers. Finnigan J. Walker.

I blinked. That name. My heart skipped.

Finnigan.

It echoed in my head, pulled straight from James’s last letter. I stared at the man in the photograph—young, with a crooked smile. His hand rested lightly on the shoulder of the man beside him.

My gaze shifted and my heart hammered hard against my ribs.

The soldier next to him was striking—dark hair, a neatly tailored uniform, and a calm, unwavering expression. Something about his eyes felt unsettlingly familiar.

The name beneath him read: Captain James P. Walker.

My breath caught.

It wasn’t just the name. It was the certainty in my gut—the instant, impossible recognition. As if some part of me had always known what he looked like. As if I’d seen his face before. . . somewhere behind my eyes, in sleep, or maybe memory.

Winston whined quietly at my feet.

I leaned in, my eyes locked on James’s face. He wasn’t just handsome, but familiar. Too familiar. Like a word on the tip of your tongue, or a song you know before the first note plays.

Captain James P. Walker —I read again, over and over until the letters began to bleed together. This man, the one I’d been writing, was no longer just a name on a letter, but a face.

A face I couldn’t shake.

The edges of the room seemed to blur as a strange weight pressed down on my chest—an invisible pull, like gravity had shifted and I was no longer anchored to the present. The air turned thick, electric, the way it does before a storm.

I blinked hard, but the photograph didn’t change. James’s eyes stared back at me with that same quiet intensity—calm, measured, and yet somehow knowing. My fingers trembled as I brushed them over his features, tracing the sharpness of his jaw, the line of his mouth.

I’d never seen this picture before. Couldn’t have. And yet— I had . Not in any conscious way, and certainly not in any way that made sense.

Déjà vu clamped down like a vice.

I pressed a hand to my chest, my heart thudding beneath my palm like it was trying to escape.

How could I know this man?

The letters had been one thing, but this? This was something else entirely. And it terrified me. Because if I knew him, then everything I believed about time, and memory, and what’s possible, had just cracked open at the seams.

After a quick glance to make sure no one was watching, I ripped the photo from the page. I knew it was wrong, but I’d make peace with karma later.

Then I shot to my feet, nearly tripping over Winston as I rushed to return the book to its shelf.

“Time to go,” I said, fumbling for his leash.

The woman behind the counter glanced up, concern creasing her brow as I hurried past. “Are you okay?” she asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I think I have, I thought, the weight of the photograph burning like a brand against my thigh.

“I, uh. . . just remembered I left the oven on at home,” I said. The lie rolled off my tongue a little too easily—it was starting to scare me how natural it felt. “Thanks for all your help.”

I stepped into the fading daylight, the chill brushing my skin like a warning. Winston stayed close, his usual tug replaced by a hesitant pace as if he, too, sensed something had changed.

In my pocket, the photograph seemed to pulse with a quiet urgency.

I didn’t know what any of this meant—not the letters, not the pull in my chest when I saw his face. But something was unraveling. Not just around me, but inside me.

And for the first time, I wasn’t sure if I was chasing the past. . . or if it was chasing me.