Dear Thomas

 There are some men you regret meeting only because you know how the story ends.

Thomas Reed was one of those.

He came into this world like most travelers do: confused, loud, and certain he deserved answers. But unlike the others I’ve guided—saved, really—Thomas never bent. Never broke. The world bent around him. Even the Pool took notice.

He was a fool, of course.

A loud, bright, stubborn fool.

But he was the kind of fool this place never learned how to kill cleanly.

Thomas laughed in places where men usually cried. He complained through horrors that would silence harder hearts. He treated Harlan like a brother long before Harlan realized he’d earned one. And he looked at Mela—my Mela—with a kind of open wonder usually reserved for miracles and sunsets.

He was gentle, though he’d deny it.

He was brave, though he didn’t understand the word.

And he was kind in a way that made him dangerous.

People like him unravel plans.

They soften the edges I worked so hard to hone.

And that—

that is the tragedy of Thomas Reed

He deserved a better death.

He deserved a final chapter he could recognize.

He deserved for the ending to break me, not him.

But the Pool requires what it requires, and I have walked this cycle longer than he ever lived. If there was another path, I did not find it. Or perhaps I lacked the courage to look.

Thomas should have gone home.

That was the promise, wasn’t it?

Chicago. His mother. 

A warm hug, maybe. A second chance.

Instead, he found me.

And I—

Well.

We do what we must.

That much, Dear Reader, I will carry longer than the centuries behind me.

If you ever wonder what kind of man Thomas Reed was, remember this:

He made even me hesitate.

And that is rare.

Very rare.