Repose

[A couple of poetry books from Rainer Maria Rilke and Jane Hirshfield. It's wrapped in a warm, blue blanket.

Note:

All the difficult hours and minutes
are like salted plums in a jar.
Wrinkled, turn steeply into themselves,
they mutter something the color of  sharkfins to the glass.
Just so, calamity turns toward calmness.
First the jar holds the umeboshi, then the rice does.

[What's delivered to him at town hall is simply a treasure map, hand drawn, with an X marks the spot.

Should he follow the directions, there is a small treehouse. The inside is lit with dozens of fairy LED lights, all controlled by battery of course. A small burner to heat up tea also rests on the floor along with a plush air mattress strewn with fluffy blankets and pillows that's large enough for two, should Jude ever want company.]

[Simple, black notebooks, socks and a nice green jacket.

The card says: Honestly, I have a jacket just like that.]

→ New Year's Eve brings a gala at the National History Museum. The museum itself a puzzle, the entire building is ever-changing, and leaning here or there can open secret passages and change entire levels. For the evening, the main floor is decorated in white and golds, and waiters wander with platters held aloft and bearing decadent hors d'oeuvre and flutes of champagne. The bar is open and the liquor is expensive, and there's no limit to how much ticket-holders can consume. Wandering is welcome and none of the museum's levels are blocked off for the evening. Wanderers might find hidden treasures and creatures from legends and nightmares, or they might find quiet and privacy for the evening. Getting lost is a distinct possibility, but guests will all find their way out come morning light.

→ The last mail delivery of 2017 proves to be a little bit odd. Letters are delivered to recipients all over town, but the letters are all postmarked between 1920 and 1970. The addresses belong to people in town, and searching archives will reveal that the intended recipients all did exist, but none of them are alive at present. The letters, which are all already opened when they end up in mailboxes, range from discussions about daily gossip, to love, to war. The post office, when asked, has no idea how this hiccup occurred.

[Once the letters are delivered. The forum name shows as Tod G. ...This time.]

( Dearest, )

[The first gift is but topped with an over-sized Christmas bow. It's rolled up and tied with thick, velvet ribbon. When unrolled, it's thick, heavy, and smells like good, clean laundry. The second gift was Santa's own. It smells like sandalwood and faded cologne, and is old enough to feel thin in the elbows and a little ratty at the throat. It comes wrapped and boxed, and with a little charm tucked into it. The third and fourth gifts are boxed together, wrapped up to match the second. Some extras are tucked inside. There's no card, but a name tag (bearing 'Marta') has a small 'Merry Christmas' written on the back.]

[Locked to Em Graves/Muerte/Death]
[She tries multiple locks.] Well, at least you remember what I like to drink.

[Locked to Eddie N]
So, Holly implies I'm a bad friend, Edison. Which means you now get peppered with a thousand concerns I was trying to spare you. Congratulations. How are we doing?

[Locked to Cat C]
Now they're openly flirting on the forums, Cat. Why did you get me involved???

ETA: [Locked to Eddie N]
Eddie, uh, what's up?