Haven

Haven
ANONYMOUS MOVING IMAGES

video by Polina Kovaleva

Sometimes I have trouble focusing.
While Haven was pouring out her heart to me
I could only think of what could have been.
Here's what transpired on that day she returned.

There's a knock at my door.
I open it and she says.

"Can I come in."

And I say sure.
Can I get you something?
And she says.

"No thanks."

After an uncomfortable pause she says.

"The reason why I came here is because I don't think I can keep this to myself anymore."

She looks down at her hands, twisting a ring on her finger.
The air in the room feels suddenly heavy, the kind of stillness that happens right before a storm breaks.

"I know we haven't really talked about what happened. I mean, really talked about it since that night. But I saw something today that reminded me of what you said, and I realized that if I didn't come over here and tell you the truth now, I probably never would."

She finally looks up, her eyes searching mine.

"I wasn't just passing by. I've been sitting in my car around the corner for twenty minutes trying to find the words. I found the letters. The ones you thought were lost when the house was cleared out."

She takes a shallow breath, her voice dropping to a near whisper.

"I didn't mean to pry, but they were tucked into the back of that old ledger I took. I started reading one, thinking it was just business, but then I saw the dates. These go back years, further than anyone realized. They change everything we thought we knew about why he left."

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small, yellowed envelope, holding it out but not quite letting go.

"I think you're the only one who should decide what happens to these next. Do you want to know what's in them?"

She slides the envelope onto the table, her fingers lingering on the paper for a second before she pulls back.

"It's not what we were told,"

She says, her voice regaining some of its steadiness.

"The letters aren't about a debt or a business deal gone wrong. They're to a woman named Elena. They're dated from the summer of 74 through the winter of 75."

She pauses, watching my reaction...

"In the last one, the one he never mailed, it explains that he didn't leave because he wanted to. He left because he was protecting someone. He was being watched, and he thought that if he stayed, the trouble following him would find her, too. He wasn't running away from his life; he was trying to keep it safe."

She gestures toward the yellowed paper.

"The name of the man who was threatening him is in there. It's a name you're going to recognize."

She leans in closer, the light catching the tension in her expression.

"The name is Vince Falcone.

She watches me for a moment to see if the name hits as hard as it did for her.

I know, I know, the family friend I said.

"The man who sat at your table for years. But according to these, he wasn't just a friend. He was the one pressuring your father to use the production company as a front for moving things he shouldn't have been moving. When your father tried to shut it down, Falcone made it clear that the 'accidents' wouldn't stop with the equipment."

She points to a specific line near the bottom of the page, visible through the thin, aged paper.

"He wrote that he had to disappear to take the target off the house. He thought that if he was gone, Falcone would lose his leverage and leave the rest of us alone. But there's a note on the back of the envelope, written in a different hand. It's just a date and a set of coordinates."

She looks at me intently.

"Those coordinates? They aren't in another state or across the ocean. They're less than ten miles from where we're sitting right now."

She stands up and walks toward the window, looking out at the street for a moment before turning back to face me.

"The coordinates point to an old storage unit near the edge of the mangroves. The kind of place that'd been overlooked for decades. If Falcone was using the company as a front, there's a good chance whatever he was looking for, the reason he was threatening your father, It's still tucked away in there."

She reaches into her bag and pulls out a heavy, rusted key.

"This was taped inside the ledger's binding. I think your father wanted someone to find this eventually, but only when the dust had settled. Only when it was safe."

She steps closer, her voice barely a murmur.

"Falcone is old now, but his people are still around. If we go there, we aren't just looking for answers anymore. We're looking for the proof that could finally clear your father's name, or the thing that could put us both in the crosshairs."

She holds the key out to me.

"So, what do you want to do? We can burn those letters right now and forget I ever came over, or we can go see what he left behind."

I thought you came over for, you know...

She looks at me, and for the first time since she walked in, the tension in her face softens into something like a sad, knowing smile.

"I know."

She says softly, her eyes lingering on mine.

"And maybe in another life, or even just another night, that's exactly why I'd be here. It's not that I didn't think about it."

She looks down at the rusted key still sitting in the palm of her hand, then back up at me.

"But when I found those letters, everything else just, stopped. I couldn't sit across from you and pretend they didn't exist. I couldn't look you in the eye knowing the truth about your father was sitting in my car while I played house."

She takes a small step toward me, bridging the gap between the heavy mystery on the table and the energy that was building between us just moments ago.

"I didn't come here to ruin your night with the past. I came here because you're the only person I trust with it. But now that I'm here."

She lets the sentence hang, the silence in the room shifts from uncomfortable to something much more personal.

"The storage unit isn't going anywhere tonight. Do you want to talk about the letters, or do you want to talk about why you're blushing?"

She lets out a quiet, shaky laugh and sets the key down on the edge of the table, moving it away from the center of the space between us.

"Okay."

She repeats, her voice a little warmer now.

"No more talk of 1974. No more talk of Falcone. For at least an hour."

She leans back against the counter, crossing her arms and watching me with a playful tilt of her head. The shift in the room is immediate, the ghost of the past is still there, but it's been pushed into the shadows by the person standing right in front of me.

"So."

She says, her smile growing just a bit.

She reaches out and brushes a stray bit of lint off my shoulder, her hand lingering just a second longer than necessary.

As I move toward the kitchen, I can feel her eyes following me. The weight of the letters and the rusted key is still there on the table, but the air in the room has changed. It’s lighter, charged with the kind of electricity that makes the hair on your arms stand up. She walks over to the sofa and makes herself comfortable, kicking off her shoes and tucking one leg under her.

"You know. I almost didn't knock. I stood outside your door for a long time. I wasn't just nervous about the letters. I was nervous about seeing you."

She settles deeper into the cushions, the silence between us finally feeling comfortable instead of heavy. She looks over at the table where the old yellowed envelope is sitting, then back at me.

"After everything I just dumped on you, are you okay? I know that was a lot to take in before I decided to start teasing you."

She starts to undress. The fabric slides off her shoulders and pools on the cushion beside her, leaving her in the soft light of the room. The air feels still again, but this time it's different. The mystery of the letters, the tension of the evening, and the years of unspoken history all seem to narrow down to this exact moment. She doesn't say a word, but the question is right there in the way she watches me, waiting to see if I'm going to step closer or stay exactly where I am.

"The letters can wait."

She whispers, her voice barely audible over the hum of the house.

"Everything else can wait. Come here."

Hours pass.

The room is quiet now, the only sound the low hum of the air conditioner cutting through the humid Florida night. The harsh tension from earlier, the talk of 1974, the threats, and the hidden storage unit settled into a soft, hazy calm. She is curled up against me, the shadows of the room playing across the space where the old yellowed letters still sit undisturbed on the table. The moonlight filters through the blinds, casting long, rhythmic stripes over the floorboards. She stirs slightly, her breath warm against my shoulder, and she looks over at the clock. It's well past midnight.

"I should probably feel more restless about what's in those envelopes, but for the first time in a week, my head actually doesn't hurt."

She shifts, propping herself up on one elbow to look at me, her expression unreadable in the dim light.

"Are we going to those coordinates in the morning?" Or are we going to let the past stay buried for one more day?"

TO BE CONTINUED

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