The Letter
The evening wind traced long shadows of the rocky hills across the earth with gentle care. That wind carried with it the melancholy scent of iron, rendering the Colorado air all the more parched and dry. In that place where sand, wind, and light melted together in faded hues like an old postcard, Elizabeth Winslow held her small fists clenched quietly, yet firmly.
“One more.”
Her father’s voice possessed the uncompromising severity of a military command, devoid of tenderness or encouragement. Liz drew her delicate shoulders tight, twisted at the waist, and extended her small fist straight forward. The sound of impact against the mitt rang as faintly as autumn leaves falling to earth, then dissolved into silence.
“Your hips are weak. Drive it upward, Elizabeth.”
“...Yes, sir.”
Her father would never address his beloved daughter by such an endearing diminutive as “Liz.” Yet this was not born of coldness, but rather from his dignity as a soldier—nay, as a man. Liz understood this truth deeply.
Colonel Garrett Winslow. A stern Alpha stationed at Fort Carson Army Base. Each time he returned home, her father would teach his Omega daughter the art of the fist—with few words, yet with meticulous care. The sandbag hanging in the depths of the garage swayed gently as it received Liz’s graceful punches, like memories stirring in the breeze. Those modest vibrations seemed to travel warmly through her father’s camouflage uniform, through his sweat-dampened shirt, into the very depths of their father-daughter bond.
Her shirt clung to her back with perspiration, and the band holding her hair had somehow come loose. Paying no mind to the beautiful ash-gray strands brushing her cheeks, Liz assumed her stance once more with quiet dignity.
Never once had her father spoken the word “femininity.” Whether one was strong or weak—that alone was what mattered for survival in this world.
At that moment, a postal courier’s bicycle came to rest gracefully at their front door. Her father moved his chin just slightly, conveying through gentle eyes the message: “Go and fetch it.”
Within the mailbox lay a single envelope. How exquisite it was—crafted from thick, cream-colored paper, its golden university logo gleaming like a star! With her heart aflutter, Liz silently presented it to her father. He, too, said nothing as he carefully broke the seal.
Her father gazed intently at the contents, then slowly released a deep, quiet breath through narrowed eyes.
“University of Colorado. You’re accepted. You did it.”
“Truly!?”
Liz could not help but cry out. Her father, wearing an expression more tender than usual, shared a high-five with his daughter. That dry sound resonated more deeply than any punch, reverberating through the very depths of Liz’s heart. From that simple gesture alone, the young woman’s heart overflowed with joy.
“No matter where you go, never trust Alphas. You take them down.”
In his voice could be heard fierce pride in his daughter, and something else—an ineffable pain that seemed to hover just beneath the surface.
When night fell, the kitchen filled with the ineffably nostalgic aroma of mother’s soup. From beyond the wall came the distant, gentle murmur of baseball commentary. Her mother, an Omega like herself, moved about busily, yet would turn from time to time with a worried expression.
“We must begin packing soon...”
Her mother’s voice was always delicate somehow, fragile as if it might break at any moment.
“...Yes.”
That evening’s soup tasted just a touch more salty than usual.
Returning to her room and sinking into bed, the old stain on the ceiling seemed to sway gently before her eyes.
“Wherever I may go, I shall remain myself.”
As she whispered these words, balanced between hope and anxiety, she felt the latter weigh just slightly heavier upon her heart.
Even so, something certain had begun to awaken quietly in the depths of Liz’s soul.
Pheromones—rich, bitter, yet somehow sweet—rose silently from the depths of the young woman’s body, like night-blooming flowers opening to the darkness.
