Shit EVERYBODY Cares About! ol' jimmy

[Spasoje's Revenge]

Many passed through, most unremarkable, my memory is rather selective. People slip away, their names fade, regardless of how long they've been around. But not Jimmy Numale. He showed up, he was quiet, reserved, but one thing he was not is "unremarkable". I still remember him like it was yesterday, hanging about at the inn, keeping up with his exploits, he was the realest guy around. His demeneer concealed his competence, he was dependable. He was a friend. He wasn't like the dime a dozen shmucks you pass by on the daily. I may never meet someone like him again; I was lucky to catch his acquaintance in the first place. But a character like that, you can't keep him still. An elusive bastard, he is. As discreetly as he appeared, he slipped away, on short notice. He was my top guy, but now? The only thing left of him are his letters. I still reminisce, I don't think I'll ever forget him. A part of me still holds hope he will reach out, that he is watching from the shadows as he used to and that he will reappear in all his mystery when the time is right... But I fear he moved on. I fear he forgot. I am left without closure, my memory will remain restless and I will be left only to wonder.

 

[KingCargo]

The letters are a lifeline, a thread connecting me to a past that feels both vibrant and distant. Each one is a glimpse into his world, a world I was fortunate enough to be a part of, if only for a fleeting moment. His words dance across the page, filled with the same wit and wisdom that made him so captivating in person. He wrote about adventures that seemed almost mythical, tales of places I could only dream of visiting, and encounters with people who, like him, were anything but ordinary. In one letter, he described a night under the stars in a town I had never heard of, where the air was thick with laughter and the scent of something delicious wafted from a nearby kitchen. He spoke of a woman with a voice like honey, who sang songs that made the world feel alive. I could almost hear the music in my mind, the way he painted the scene with his words. It was as if he was inviting me to join him, to experience the magic of that moment, even from afar. But as I read on, the tone shifted. He began to hint at shadows lurking in the corners of his life, whispers of danger that seemed to follow him like a dark cloud. I could sense the weight of his burdens, the secrets he carried that he never fully revealed. It was a reminder that even the most remarkable people have their struggles, their demons. I wanted to reach out, to offer my support, but the distance between us felt insurmountable. The last letter was different. It was shorter, more abrupt, as if he had been interrupted mid-thought. He spoke of a decision he had to make, a path he needed to follow, and I could feel the urgency in his words. He promised he would explain everything soon, that this was not goodbye, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was changing. The ink was barely dry when he vanished, leaving me with nothing but questions and a gnawing sense of loss.