The Letter

"Is there an Inheritor who can heal?", he repeated, his words echoing like a bad joke.

Outside, Los Angeles moved on, cars moving past his window, stray dogs barking down the alley. A siren wailed in the distance, then faded. But inside, the man stood idle on the couch right by his apartment's window.

He was twenty eight year old war veteran, living in a world where he couldn't see. The top half of his face was covered in thick scar tissue, burned from the bridge of his nose to his hairline. The fire had taken more than just his skin, it had stolen his sight. His blond hair thinned toward the front, where burns had scarred over the scalp. Sometimes, he tried to remember the face he'd had before. But those days were long gone.

His name was Lawrence Edwards. Most people called him Law. These days, no one called at all.

Until the knock came.

Three short raps, firm and familiar. Law didn't move.

Another pause. Then a sigh from the other side.

"Law. I know you're in there."

The voice was soft, gravelly, worn by cigarettes and years. Law exhaled.

"Eddie?"

The door opened, because of course it wasn't locked. Eddie stepped in like he'd done it a dozen times before. He was thirty two now, African American, broad-shouldered and well kept despite the lines growing around his eyes. He wore a loose-fitting polo shirt tucked into beige slacks with the collar slightly open.

"You don't stop by often."

Eddie paused. "No. I don't."

He crossed the room, his voice much quieter now.

"I told myself you needed space. Truth is, I didn't know what to say to you."

"You look rough, man" Eddie said.

Law didn't face him.

"What do you expect from a crippled, divorced man?"

Eddie ignored the sting. He hung his coat and stepped over a stack of unopened mail.

"Listen, my friend... I know you hate hearing this, but you've got to get out of here. Out of this apartment."

"So I can walk past the alley again and hear a bunch of kids cry when they see my face?

I can't see 'em, Eddie, but I can imagine how horrified they look."

"That's not what I meant." (Eddie reached into his pocket.)

"I got a letter. VA's been trying to reach you, they sent this to me when they couldn't."

"What does the VA want with me now?"

"They've opened up a new program. D.C. Rehabilitation Unit. Top-tier. Small cohort.

They say it's designed for cases like yours, long-term injuries with no progress."

"I'm not travelling across the country for some rehab"

"This one's different. Rumor is they've got Inheritor tech involved now, stuff reverse-engineered from fragments after the skyfall."

"My blindness could only be cured by a miracle."

"We're living in one, Law. I see slit eyes everywhere, people flying, lifting trucks, melting steel with their hands.

Hell, my uncle can shoot a damn laser out of his finger now."

"Yeah. And not one of them can heal."

(A pause. Then...)

"Why come all the way here to tell me this?"

Eddie didn't answer right away.

Then, softly:

"Because I owe you."

Law's reply was quiet.

"You don't owe me."

It came back like smoke.

France. 1943.

The trench had caved in with sounds of steel and shrapnel. The platoon scattered under the shellfire, and Eddie went down hard, trapped beneath a slab of collapsed timber and stone, shouting through gritted teeth. Chaos tore through the smoke, voices crying for help, others already gone silent.

Law had nearly made it out when he caught Eddie’s voice, raw, strained, barely there.

He turned without thinking.

Instinct drove him.

Back into the trench he dropped, hands sinking into mud and blood-soaked earth. Shells hammered the ridge as Law tore at debris, heaved the beam off Eddie’s leg, and hauled him upright, one arm slung across his back.

Eddie was cursing, blood soaking through both their uniforms.

They barely made it ten feet before a shell burst behind them, a phosphorus round. Close enough to paint the trench in blinding white.

Law felt the heat. Then the flash. Then the dark.

When he woke up in a field hospital, Eddie was alive.

But Law couldn’t see.

Back in the apartment, the memory hung in the air like smoke.

Law said nothing. The memory was enough.

"I'm not going," he said.

Eddie exhaled, not surprised.

"I figured."

Then, quieter:

"Tessie's there."

Law froze. The mention of his ex-wife's name caught him off guard. She has been working with WIN for years, but Law thought she still in Geneva working at WIN headquarter.

"What?"

"She transferred to D.C. last winter. Works in administration. Compliance wing, I think."

Law's jaw worked silently.

"I didn't even know what city she was in."

"WIN has transferred her to the capital. WIN office there are pretty close to the rehab center, from what I hear."

Law didn't move.

"You should've led with that," he said.

Eddie cracked a faint smile. "Wouldn't have changed anything."

He stepped closer and opened the envelope. "I'll read it to you."

"Dear Mr. Edwards,

We are pleased to inform you of your eligibility for enrollment in the Advanced Rehabilitation Program, located at the D.C. Rehabilitation Unit. This initiative utilizes state-of-the-art conventional and post-Inheritor technologies to support veterans with severe physical trauma, particularly those with long-term neural damage or sensory loss.

Due to the limited capacity of the program and sensitive nature of the work, participation is by invitation only. Housing and transport will be provided.

We believe this program offers you a chance to reclaim a part of yourself lost in service. We hope you'll consider it."

Eddie let the silence sit.

Then Law reached out and took the letter from his hand.

He didn't say yes. But he didn't throw it away either.

And in the quiet that followed, something shifted, small, but there. The kind of silence that came just before a decision.

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