The Letters He Wrote, Chapter IX

The old farm was an eyesore. To make matters worse, the house out back was in great need of repair. And to make matters even worse than they already were, there was no one willing to repair all the shambles.

Because of those reasons, Will Fletcher was glad to finally have the old place off his hands. When the young Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell purchased the farm - if it could even be called that - Will had been so happy he'd almost knelt right there in the middle of the recently harvested cornfields. 

Then, he'd remembered that he wasn't exactly on the best of terms with God.

Not even the nippy late-autumn air dampened Will's spirits as he threw the last of his belongings into the back of the wagon. Almost everything else had either been sold or simply left behind for the young Mitchells. 

Though Will had never believed in ghosts, the old farmhouse reeked of memories that haunted his mind. The long hours in the fields had been able to distract him during the day, but during the night...

During the night, all Will could think of was all he'd lost. And he'd lost enough to fill an entire book.

The only thing that gave Will a reason to keep living was the fact that he was finally, finally getting to live his dream - to move to the East Coast and pursue a career in medicine. He didn't have as much money as he'd have liked to have had, and he honestly wasn't sure what he was going to do with his future, but he had to get out of there. It wasn't like him to make rash decisions, but he had been living in misery for the past few years and now needed a change.

And now, as Will practically leaped into his wagon to leave behind all he'd ever known, his heart pounded in both nerves and anticipation. He would pay for a stagecoach to take him out East, and then...oh, and then! Life would surely be complete.

Life had no choice but to be complete. If it wasn't, Will was going to have to take desperate measures.

The End

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