P.S.
Something happened tonight. Ghost—you remember I told you about him, the quiet one who runs security—he had his mug broken in an accident. Just a beat-up old blue thing, but the way he looked at those pieces... It reminded me of the way Walker had looked at that filly last spring, the one with the broken leg that wouldn’t heal, when Dr. Garrison told him there was nothing more that could be done. That same quiet devastation, like something precious had been lost and couldn’t be fixed. Walker still won’t talk about that. I think losing this mug is going to scar Ghost just as deeply.
So I’m sitting here trying to glue this thing back together like an idiot, but the cracks won’t line up, no matter how careful I am. Isn’t that always the way? The things that matter most are usually the hardest to fix.
I’m trying to remember if I’ve ever seen someone break so completely without shedding a single tear. Is that what I looked like, back when I first came here? Maybe that’s why I’m sitting here with this broken mug and bleeding fingers, trying to put together something that probably can’t be fixed. Maybe we’re all just trying to glue our broken pieces back together.
I should go to bed, but I think I’ll try one more time with the mug. There’s something about knowing when to quit and knowing when to keep pushing. I never was good at telling the difference.
Yours always,
Anson
He set the pen down and stared at his words. The letter felt too honest, too raw, but he couldn’t bring himself to cross anything out. Maggie had a way of pulling the truth from him, even though he’d never met her.
He folded the letter and slid it into an envelope, adding it to the small stack waiting to be mailed. Maybe someday, he’d actually meet Maggie in person. For now, these letters were enough—the only place he could be truly honest. The only safe space for his thoughts to land, raw and unfiltered.
Not for the first time, he wondered what Maggie looked like. They’d started exchanging letters as part of an inmate pen pal program when he was still in prison, but in all these years, they’d never exchanged pictures.
For all he knew, she was an eighty-five-year-old widow surrounded by doilies and cats. It wouldn’t matter to him if she were. He loved her. She’d been his lifeline through his darkest days, and he’d be forever grateful to her for that. If she were eighty-five, he hoped she would live to a hundred and fifty, so the letters would never stop.
Bramble chuffed, and he looked over at his dog.
“I know. I know. It’s stupid to love her. For all I know, she’s a he living in his parents’ basement.”
The wolfhound’s eyes glowed like molten gold in the dim light of the workshop, and that unwavering gaze triggered an idea.
“Gold,” he muttered and looked back down at the mug. He smiled.
Hecouldfix it.
thirteen
The Hub was his island,his bunker, his sanctuary. The one place he could drop all his walls and just… exist.
But tonight, it felt more like another prison.
Ghost closed the door behind him, locked it, then set his phone on the battered metal desk with a click. The whole place vibrated with a low hum—the cooling fans on the server rack, the faint tick of the wall clock. He didn’t bother turning on the lights. He just stood in the blue-gray gloom cast by his computer screens, breath raw in his throat, pulse thumping a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
Cinder settled on the floor by the entry, dropped her chin to her paws, and fixed him with that watchful, waiting stare. He should’ve felt comforted by her presence, the quiet intensity of her loyalty.
But all he felt was a strange panic crawling up his spine, digging in with icy claws.
He braced his hands on the edge of his desk, letting his head hang low, and squeezed his eyes shut.
What the fuck was wrong with him? Eight years locked up had sandblasted his nerves until nothing stuck, or so he’d thought. So why couldn’t he seem to draw in a full breath?
It. Was. Just. A. Fucking. Mug.
Behind him, Cinder let out a low grumble seconds the knock came. It wasn’t hard or urgent. Just a steady tap-tap-tap, like the guy on the other side could wait until the end of time if that’s what it took. Probably Jonah. Or Jax. Maybe Boone. Hopefully not Walker.
He didn’t answer.
Another knock.
“Ghost. You in there?”
Jax. Of course.
