Chapter Text
The room felt too still. Lucy’s fingers trailed over the edges of Lockwood’s desk, brushing the scattered papers and the edges of the books he’d left there. Each item was so painfully, frustratingly him.
She wasn’t sure what she was looking for. Maybe nothing at all. Maybe everything.
Her hand hesitated over a small, locked drawer in the desk’s corner. She’d seen him reach for it a hundred times before but never dared to ask what was inside. It was private, part of the many mysteries that made up Anthony Lockwood.
Lucy’s breath caught. Her fingers shook as she grasped the drawer’s handle. It didn’t budge. Of course. Lockwood had always been meticulous with his secrets.
She reached for her belt, where her lockpicks rested out of habit. He would have rolled his eyes at her for this, but she could almost hear him teasing: You could at least pretend to respect my boundaries, Lucy.
“Not a chance,” she muttered under her breath.
The lock clicked open with ease, and the drawer slid out, revealing a small collection of items. Her throat tightened as she stared at what was inside.
At the top of the pile was a worn notebook. She picked it up, running her fingers over the faded leather cover. It wasn’t like the other notebooks he used for case files. This one was smaller, older, like it had been carried around for years.
She opened it, and her heart gave a painful lurch.
The pages weren’t filled with cases or notes about ghosts. They were filled with her.
There were fragments of conversations they’d had, quick sketches of her face, and even half-formed thoughts scribbled in the margins.
“Lucy, with that sharp look of hers, like she knows all my secrets already.”
“Her laugh is rare, but when it comes, it’s the best sound in the world.”
“She’s braver than anyone I’ve ever met. I’ll never tell her that—she’d only scoff.”
The entries blurred as tears filled her eyes. She flipped through the pages, finding more and more pieces of him, of how he’d seen her.
And then, near the back, she found something that made her freeze.
It was a letter. Not addressed to her, but to someone else. The envelope had already been opened, and her hands trembled as she slid the letter out.
To Jessica Lockwood,
Lucy gasped softly. His sister.
The words on the page were written in Lockwood’s unmistakable hand.
Dear Jess,
It’s strange writing to you after all this time, but I hope you can hear me, wherever you are.
I miss you every day. The house feels emptier without you, even with George’s grumbling and Lucy’s sharp wit filling the silence. They’ve become my family, you know. I don’t think I’d still be here without them.
Lucy…she’s changed everything. She makes me want to be better. Stronger. She makes me believe I could actually live up to the promises I made you.
I wish you could meet her. You’d like her, I think. You’d probably tease me for how much I care about her—how much I love her. I haven’t told her. I don’t think I ever will. But it’s true. She’s the reason I keep fighting.
I hope you’re proud of me. I hope you know I’m trying my best, even if it never feels like enough.
I love you. I’ll see you again someday, but not yet. Not for a long time. There’s still too much left to do.
- Anthony
Lucy let the letter fall into her lap, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed. She could barely breathe through the ache in her chest, but for the first time, her grief wasn’t just a void. It was full of him, of his love and his warmth, of all the things he hadn’t been able to say in life.
“You idiot,” she whispered, clutching the letter to her chest. “You absolute idiot.”
But she wasn’t angry. She couldn’t be.
She sat there for a long time, the notebook and the letter resting in her lap, as the house seemed to shift around her. The emptiness wasn’t as suffocating now. Lockwood was gone, but he wasn’t entirely lost. Pieces of him were here, tucked into the corners of this house, the pages of his notebooks, the echoes of his laugh.
Later, as she stood in the doorway, ready to leave, she paused and turned back. The house was still, but it felt warmer somehow, less hollow.
“I’ll take care of it,” she said softly. “The house, the cases, everything. I’ll take care of it all. For you.”
She stepped out into the night, the letter tucked safely in her pocket. The ache in her chest was still there, but it wasn’t unbearable anymore. It was something she could carry.
And as she walked away, she could almost feel him beside her, his voice low and teasing in her ear.
“I knew you’d break into the drawer.”
Lucy smiled through her tears. “Shut up, Lockwood.”
And for the first time since he’d left, she laughed. It was a watery one, filled with all the anguish and despair she knew would stick with her for a long time. But it lit up a spark of hope within her, the belief that maybe one day, with the help of the people who loved her, she could heal. That she could listen to his favourite song on the radio and smile at the memories she had with him instead of break down at the reminder he was truly gone, or watch his favourite film and not think of the fact he wasn’t here to laugh at the jokes. She could never forget Anthony Lockwood, no matter how much she sometimes wished she could, but maybe one day she could accept it.
Hope was buried deep, almost impossible to find, but it was there. A seed he’d left behind in his words, in his love.
Lucy took a shuddering breath, her fingers brushing the edges of the letter.
“I’ll keep fighting,” she whispered. “For you.”
And somewhere, in the silence of the house, she swore she could hear his voice, warm and steady.
“Thank you, Lucy.”