Prologue

After three years, Valiant reunites with her childhood "friend." Tyler--who is head over heels for Valiant--invites her to join St. Arkive.
--Terrible summary, I know. I'm working on it--
--This is a rewrite--

            It started with a letter—a letter that led me on such a miraculous and terrifying journey. And it was a letter I kept until my final days. I had met many people, many who were irreplaceable even ‘till my death.

            It was a quiet summer. The mailman went and did his job. He handed me the letters since he knew I usually left the house for a morning walk at the exact same time as he arrived. It meant that I had to go back and put down the letters on the coffee table. If you opened the front door, the first thing that you’d see was the living room and its polar bear carpet. It had a one-two step stair made of white and strong marbles. The inner decoration of this house reminded me of an asylum and their quiet rooms. Too bright.

            When I slipped my shoes off and dropped the letters on the table, I saw one of them that stuck out to me.

            To: Valiant Lave

            From: Tyler Varando

            I can’t say it’s a letter, but rather, a birthday or greeting card. It opened vertically and inside contained such vocabularies, “Where are you?”

            Three years since I last met him and he appeared to be the same idiot that I knew just from this. No, his brain probably degraded even more without me. Or maybe this was a trap. Heck, it was a pretty good one. I had the urge to write back just to scold him. Although there wasn’t an address found anywhere, so it meant that Tyler handed it to the mailman. He must be close.

            Shoving my shoes back on, I darted out of the house with the card glued to my left hand. For once, he was in town, and he asked for me. If it was such a vague question like that, he possibly thought it was a brilliant puzzle for me to solve. Perhaps it had something to do with our younger days. Oh, and was it marvelous. Tyler often yelled, “Where are you?” at the playground because he knew that I was hiding there somewhere. I was proud of him, he was using a part of his brain. That was an improvement. If I could shed a tear, I would.

            The playground wasn’t far, but it wasn’t at a pace where I could walk there within five minutes. From my neighborhood, I had to make a left and head straight for a couple of blocks, then I would hit the obvious attraction for families. It was a park and also a playground for kids. I used to call it a playpark. This was where all the drama happened back in elementary. When I did get to my destination, I saw a boy sitting on the swings, whistling a familiar tune. He hit all those low marks like he did this a thousand times. “Dark Summer’s Day,” I blurted.

            He stopped. His coated brown hair that took the spotlight and the only place that was left of his original color was his sideburns, it gleamed black. Then he examined me with his russet eyes. A smile peaked upon the corners of his mouth and he had to yell out, “Vallerie!”

            Three years and he still called me by the name that I despised with an iron fist. So I clenched my hands, biting my lips in order to keep myself from jabbing him when he closed up. Swinging his arms around me, I was snuggled like a teddy bear. I played along for the sake of his fun—for two seconds—but then I pushed him away afterwards. “What are you doing here?”

The End

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