The Voice Letter

The XO Chronicles | Volume 1 | Chronicle 2

"To whomever finds my son —
please, I beg you,
keep him safe.
Raise him into a good man."

The voice began.
Trying to pace itself.
But beneath every word, something urgent moved —
something apparent, perhaps,
to the sensitive ears of its audience.

"His name is Arthur.
Just. Arthur."

A breath.

"I am sorry to burden you with this.
I assure you it is our very last resort.
I would have wished for nothing more
than to raise him myself."

Then, quieter:

"When Arthur comes to his mother or me one day
and tells us who looked after him —
we will repay you
with water and batteries
that would last a lifetime."

And:

"When he has grown a strong body
and learned a critical mind,
please pass him this memory capsule.
This would, if god allows,
lead him to his mother."

Leon tapped the Halo. The voice stopped.
The light pulsed —
slow and soft, like breathing —
and waited.

Art knew that Leon was not his birth parent.
Just his roommate, as Leon always said.
He had never had a problem with that.
But to say he had never wondered
would have been its own kind of lie.

"Do you remember," Leon asked,
"how we became roommates?"

Art looked up.
"You found me in a capsule
left outside the temple gate."

A silence.

"That was a lie," Leon said.

He did not look away when he said it.

"Twelve years ago I found you in a capsule.
But not at the temple gate.
You came crashing from the sky —
during one of my expeditions,
out in the desert.
An emergency pod.
You were only hours old.
Minutes from the end."

He was quiet a moment.

"This Halo came with you in the pod."

Leon stood.
"You should listen to the rest on your own."

He left the room swiftly,
without looking back.

Art watched the wide shape of Leon's shoulders
fade into the dark of the corridor.

Then he looked down at the Halo.
It was still breathing. Still waiting.
Giving space and time —
a silence shaped for him
to prepare his mind.

He tapped it once more.

"Arthur —
if you are listening to this,
you have survived.
You have fallen into good hands.
For that alone,
I am grateful.

I do not know how many years it will have taken
for you to become strong and sharp.
But anything less —
given what I am about to tell you —
would be asking you to die."

Cold sweat traced down Art's neck
as he listened to this voice —
his father's voice —
for the first time.

"Your mother is very special, Arthur.
And that makes you unusual.
Most who knew of your existence believe you are dead.
It is better that way.
For those people would do everything they could
to make certain you did not live.

Wherever you are,
I believe you are safe.
And that means the world to us.

But please understand this —
we did not abandon you.
We had no choice.

The voice stopped.

Art stared at the Halo.
The light still spun —
slow and deliberate,
loading, it seemed,
something it had been carrying for years.

Then:

"Whenever, wherever you are hearing this, Arthur —
your mother is still alive.

She has been —
will be —
waiting for you."

Footsteps.

Leon reappeared at the doorway.
A silhouette against the dark.

"It's time for bed," he said.
"You need it. To process this."

Art was still somewhere deep inside it all.

The Halo breathed with its light.
Patient.
Still.