[ It's been a few days since Adam's seen Anathema around the house. Not entirely unheard-of — she sometimes goes and spends her nights elsewhere — but it's stranger still when he goes in to unlock the shop for the day and she doesn't appear. She never misses a shift if she can help it; in fact, she's usually early to everything, already sipping a matcha latte from a nearby coffee shop by the time he gets in.
Her communicator and network ID is deactivated, too.
The radio silence goes on for a week, before a harried-looking solicitor shows up at the door of Jeopardy #004, knocks, and delivers a stuffed folder into Adam's hands, containing a stack of paperwork and a letter, in handwritten and surprisingly archaic cursive.
Anathema's ancestor had once sent messages ahead to the future, tidying everything up in advance as much as she could, and it turns out that Anathema is much the same: ]
In the Event of My Unexpected & Inconvenient Disappearance —
Dear Adam,
If you're receiving this package, it's because I haven't been around for a week and my ID has remained deactivated, thus indicating a Port-Out. I don't want to make this melodramatic, because who knows, it might all be temporary — this happened back in January 2020 — and I might be back soon, but I'd rather not leave any loose ends hanging in the interim. The customers were extremely put-out last time.
You have custody of the shop in my absence, whether temporary or permanent. If you don't actually want the responsibility (I know something of unexpected & unintended mantles that you never asked for—), that's fine too: the owner didn't have any imPort employees before me, so you can hand the management back to her if you like.
But you're a good man with a sensible head on your shoulders, so I know it'd be in good hands with you. You'd be amazed, how rare common sense actually is.
And at the risk of embarrassing myself utterly if I return tomorrow, but because I do think people ought to hear these things: I've loved living with you and working with you, and I consider you my best friend in this place. You'd think it would be too much exposure to someone, inviting a housemate to work with you as well, and I prepared myself for disaster— but it actually worked out marvelously. I'd do it again anyday.
My rather stupid precognition means I can only see about some 5 minutes ahead, so I'm not sure if I'll return. But in the event that I don't: it's been a pleasure, Adam Parrish.
Yrs, Anathema Device
PS: You need a haircut. You keep forgetting to get one, so that seems safe enough to say in advance. PPS: The odd glowing ball in my desk is a memory holovid, not any kind of cursed artifact. Safe to donate to the imPort Museum. PPPS: From past accounts, it seems likely we have no memory of this place whenever we're gone. But regardless, the sentiment holds true: If I knew to miss you, I know I would miss you.
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a delivery.
Date: 2020-11-11 05:10 pm (UTC)Her communicator and network ID is deactivated, too.
The radio silence goes on for a week, before a harried-looking solicitor shows up at the door of Jeopardy #004, knocks, and delivers a stuffed folder into Adam's hands, containing a stack of paperwork and a letter, in handwritten and surprisingly archaic cursive.
Anathema's ancestor had once sent messages ahead to the future, tidying everything up in advance as much as she could, and it turns out that Anathema is much the same: ]