THE LAST LETTER

CHAPTER 4

The gates of the Matthews’ mansion stood tall and unforgiving, painted black with gold edges that gleamed under the afternoon sun. The driveway was spotless, as though dirt itself was not allowed to exist there.

Even the flowers were arranged like they had been trained.

Her mother was already waiting in the living room, seated with her legs crossed, holding a cup of tea like she had all the time in the world. The television was on, but the volume was low. The housemaids moved quietly like shadows.

Her mother’s eyes lifted to Clara’s face, sharp and measuring.

“You’re late,” she said.

Clara swallowed. “The bus had issues.”

Her mother didn’t respond immediately. She simply watched her for a long moment, like she was studying a stranger.

Then she said calmly, “Go upstairs and change. Dinner will be served by seven.”

Clara nodded and walked away, but she could feel the weight of her mother’s stare pressing into her back.

That night, Clara lay awake in bed long after the lights in the house had gone out.

The silence in her room was expensive silence–thick curtains, soft rugs, air-conditioning humming gently. Everything was designed to feel peaceful, to feel safe.

Yet Clara felt restless.

She stared at the ceiling, her hands folded over her stomach, and all she could think about was Thomas.

His voice.

She rolled over and pulled the blanket tight, but she couldn't silence the feeling. It wasn't love yet

but it was close enough to terrify her, and close enough to make her want more.

By Saturday morning, Clara could no longer stand the distance.

She had spent the past two days pretending to be normal, pretending to care about her family’s breakfast conversations and her mother’s endless talk about “proper future decisions.” She had smiled at jokes she didn’t find funny, nodded when she didn’t agree, and tried to ignore the way her father’s eyes always seemed to scan her face like he was searching for a mistake.

But inside her, Thomas’s name kept repeating like a prayer.

So she did what she had never done before.

She made a decision for herself.

Clara sat at her desk, neatly bagging the advanced past questions and notes she had borrowed from her tutor.

She stared at the bag, thinking of the distant address Thomas had once mentioned. They hadn't spoken since, and they forgot to share contact, yet she felt compelled to go.

Getting out of the house was harder than she expected.

Clara waited until her mother went upstairs to rest and her father left the living room for a phone call. She told one of the maids she was going to the library to pick up a book for her literature assignment, knowing she was actually navigating toward that remembered address.

The maid nodded, not questioning her.

They never questioned Clara.

that was the rules given to them

She walked out of the compound with the small paper bag held tightly in her hands, her heart pounding like she was committing a crime.

At the front gate, the security man glanced at her.

“Madam Clara, you’re going out?”

Clara forced a smile. “Yes. I’ll be back soon.”

He nodded and opened the gate.

The moment she stepped outside, she felt like she had stepped into a different life.

When the taxi finally stopped, the driver pointed ahead.

“Na there.”

Clara stepped out.

And for the first time in her life, she felt like her skin did not belong where she was standing.

The street was loud.

Clara stepped out of the taxi and stood still for a moment.

The dust beneath her shoes felt unfamiliar. The road wasn’t smooth.

Her fingers tightened around the small bag she carried.

She had never been here before, not truly. She had passed through places like this with tinted windows and air-conditioning, but standing here was different. Standing here meant the world could see her.

She swallowed.

Then she remembered Thomas’s voice from one of their quiet conversations after class.

“If you ever want to find me, it’s No. 14, Ojo Street. The yellow building with a rusted gate.

At the time, Clara had smiled like it was just a random detail.

Now it felt like a map leading her into something she wasn’t sure she was ready for.

She turned slowly, scanning the street until she saw it.

A yellow building.

The paint had peeled in places, but it was still yellow enough to stand out. The gate was rusted, exactly the way Thomas had described. The compound wasn’t large. The walls weren’t high. There were no guards.

Just a small space that looked like it held an entire life inside it.

Clara’s heart beat faster.

She walked closer, her steps cautious, her breath shallow. She reached the gate and hesitated, her fingers hovering near the metal.

Then she knocked.

The sound echoed sharply.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Clara’s chest tightened.

Maybe she had made a mistake.

The gate creaked open.

A woman appeared

her face carried the quiet tiredness of someone who had worked hard for too long. Her wrapper was simple, her blouse slightly faded, but her eyes were alert and warm, and when she looked at Clara, she didn’t look annoyed.

She looked curious.

“Yes?” the woman asked gently.

Clara cleared her throat. “Good afternoon, ma.”

The woman’s gaze swept over her neatly dressed figure, the soft texture of her dress, the way she stood like someone who was used to space and comfort.

“Good afternoon, my dear,” she replied.

Clara swallowed. “I’m… I’m looking for Thomas Jensen.”

The woman’s eyes widened slightly.

For a second, Clara thought she might be chased away.

But instead, the woman’s lips curved into a smile,small, surprised, but kind.

“Thomas?” she repeated softly. “You’re looking for my son?”

Clara nodded quickly. “Yes, ma. I’m Clara. His classmate.”

The woman’s smile grew wider, as if she was suddenly amused by the idea of it.

“Ah,” she said. “So you are Clara.”

Clara blinked. “He… he has mentioned me?”

Clara felt her cheeks.

“Come in,” she said. “You are welcome.”

Clara hesitated.

Then she stepped inside.

The compound was small, but it was clean. Not the polished cleanliness of her own home, but the kind of cleanliness that came from effort. A bucket sat near the corner. Clothes hung neatly on a line.

The woman led her toward the small sitting area.

“Sit down, my dear,” she said. “Thomas is inside. Let me call him.”

Clara sat on the wooden chair carefully. It creaked under her weight.

The woman disappeared into the house.

Clara’s hands trembled slightly as she placed her bag on her lap. She looked around quietly, taking everything in the simplicity, the smallness, the life that felt so different from hers.

Then she heard footsteps.

And a voice.

“Who is it, Mum?”

Thomas stepped out.

And the moment he saw Clara, he froze like the world had slapped him.

His eyes widened.

His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out.

He stood there in a plain T-shirt and shorts, his hair slightly messy, his face bare of the careful school expression he always wore.

He looked… real.

“Clara?” he finally said, voice low,

Clara stood up slowly.

“Hi,” she said softly.

Thomas blinked again, his gaze moving from her face to the bag in her hands, then back to her face.

“What are you doing here?” he asked smiling.

Clara swallowed. “I wanted to see you.”

Thomas took a step closer, as if he needed to confirm she wasn’t a dream.

She stepped closer, holding the bag out to him.

“I brought you something,” she said. “Some past questions. And a few notes.”

Thomas stared at the bag for a long moment.

Then he looked at her again, his eyes heavy.

“You didn’t have to,” he murmured.

Clara’s voice softened. “I wanted to.”

For a moment, Thomas looked like he didn’t know what to do with kindness.

“Please,” he said, voice softer now. “Sit.”

Clara sat again.

Thomas sat opposite her, still watching her like she might disappear if he blinked too long.

His mother walked into the kitchen area and returned with a tray.

She placed a glass cup of water and a small plate of biscuits in front of Clara.

Clara’s eyes widened.

“Thank you, ma,” she said quickly.

“You’re welcome my dear,” Mrs. Jensen replied.

Thomas stared at his mother as if he couldn’t believe she was doing this.

The silence between them was different here.

It was fragile.

Like both of them were aware that this moment mattered.

After a while, Thomas finally spoke.

“You remembered my address,” he said quietly.

Clara nodded. “You told me.”

Thomas’s gaze softened.

He leaned back in his chair, exhaling.

“I didn’t think you would actually come.”

Clara looked down at her hands. “I didn’t think I would either.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Clara glanced around again.

“Your house is…” she hesitated.

Thomas smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Small,” he finished for her.

Clara shook her head quickly. “No. That’s not what I meant.”

Thomas watched her.

Clara’s voice dropped. “It feels… real.”

Thomas’s eyes held hers.

Then he nodded slowly, as if he understood.

“Do you want to go out?” he asked quietly. “It’s too hot inside.”

Clara hesitated.

Then nodded. “Okay.”

Thomas stood, and Clara followed him outside.

They walked through the street until they reached the school field not far from the neighborhood. It wasn’t like St. Austin’s neat sports ground. The grass was uneven. The goal post was slightly bent. But boys were already there, playing football with loud energy.

Thomas and Clara sat on a concrete block at the edge

Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small phone. It wasn’t new. The screen had a faint c***k, and the edges looked worn.

Still, he held it carefully.

“Can I have your number?” he asked.

Clara blinked.

It was such a simple question.

But it felt like a bridge.

Like something becoming official.

Clara nodded quickly. “Yes.”

She took out her phone, sleek and expensive, and for a second she saw the contrast between them again.

He typed her number carefully into his phone.

When he saved it, he looked up.

“And mine?” he asked.

Clara smiled.

She typed his number into her own phone.

Then she saved it.

Thomas Jensen.

Seeing his name on her screen made something flutter inside her.

Thomas stared at her phone, then at her face.

“Now you can reach me anytime,” he said quietly.

Clara’s voice came out softer than she intended.

“I think I already wanted to.”

Thomas didn’t reply.

But his gaze held hers, and the silence between them deepened into something heavier than friendship.

Something neither of them dared to name out loud.

After some time, Clara checked the time.

Her stomach tightened.

“I should go,” she said reluctantly.

Thomas’s expression changed instantly, like reality had returned to slap him again.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

they walked close enough that Clara could feel the heat of him beside her.

When they reached the road where Clara had gotten down earlier, she saw the taxi waiting.

But something else caught her attention.

A sleek black car was parked

It was one of her Dad's car