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The loop is a small place, limited by both space and time. For some, that sounds like torture, but for Millard it’s an okay way to live (it’s not ideal, but neither is being invisible, he supposes). The redundancy, the routine, is a consistent comfort for him; and the time -- oh, the continuous time -- is a true luxury. It allows him a chance to work on projects with no deadlines, no worry of illness or death, no problems, really.
But still, sometimes it gets to him. The lack of a future, the inability to grow, the limited places he could travel. At times, the peace and quiet of the loop begins to suffocate him (he’s sure it’s the same for the others, no one can be content all the time), trapping him in the fabric of his own thoughts. The twist and turn of a certain uncertainty, folding into an unyielding reminder of the non-future he will live in, knotting into the disappointment of every opportunity lost. What was, what would have been, and what will never come, he thinks. It takes a while for him to slip into this way of thinking, and getting out of it is the hard part. No amount of longing looks at his friends would prompt them to ask what’s wrong with him no matter how hard he wished it, he refused to choke down his pride and ask for help. So what does he do instead?
He writes.
Three days have passed since the start of the loop. It comes with a bitter parting with Abe and a mournful Emma. Though the house is only short of one resident, the home feels empty. The war cannot reach them in here as it continues on outside of the loop, which brings some comfort to the children. Still, the air in the home feels thick with tension.
The quiet scratch of the chair’s feet across the wooden floor is barely heard against the raging storm of Millard’s thoughts. He sets himself down in the chair and opens up a new journal, the blank page overflowing with promise or disappointment. The thoughts pound violently in his head as he takes the pen in hand.
Dear Mother,
I would like to preface this letter by saying I am sorry. I am sorry for scaring you, I am sorry for leaving with no note, I am sorry that this letter will never reach you, I am sorry I am only writing this for myself. But, I’m at a loss. There are no crossroads for me to turn down, no decisions for me to make, yet I feel as though I’m being split into two, and there is no one’s help that I want other than your own.
I’m sure you are familiar with the sorrow of leaving home against your will. I’m not sure who you were before Denmark, but
It seems as though I no longer live in this world. I do, physically, but I (and the rest of my friends) are stuck in September 3rd, 1940. Willfully speaking, of course. Miss Peregrine may be strict but she is not heartless. Abe, a friend of mine from Poland, left by choice after the loop was created. Though many of us ended up in Miss Peregrine’s home to escape the war, Abe has walked right back into the fray. I am amazed by his bravery, but I’m also concerned for him. Not only has he left us behind, but he also left Emma behind. You can tell how heartbroken she is before she even walks into the room. Even though we are all dealing with Abe’s absence, we are all aching for Emma as well. I wish I knew how to help her.
I just can't stop thinking about it. About all of this. Invisibility was one thing, but living the same day over and over again feels so... unreal, you know? And though I’m familiar with loss, it still hurts so much. Watching Abe walk out that door knowing he might not come back.
I miss home, sometimes. Though I consider Cairnholm my home, my heart still longs for Denmark from time to time. I see a beautiful tapestry and think of you, or a disgusted looking man exit the library and think of Father. Why, just the other day, I saw a young girl running around by the fishmongers who had the same smile as Margrethe (she even had the same gap in her teeth). Any time a plane flies over the island, I think of Hans and Otto. I truly hope that they’re fulfilling their dreams of becoming soldiers. and that they’re not
It’s funny how a world with so many people and things in it still manages to find a way to remind you of the people you love.
This has been nice. A nice moment in an otherwise difficult time to live in. Though I still feel as though I cannot breathe, I am starting to feel something else. I am not sure whether to embrace it or fear it. I wish I could send this letter to you. I wish you could understand. I wish you knew how much I miss and love you. I hope you’re safe. I hope everyone is safe. Sometimes it pains me to think about how I can go to sleep in a warm home surrounded by those I care for, while you could be laid out on a cold floor, alone. I’ve been trying not to think about it.
I miss you greatly,
Millard Nullings
September 3rd, 1940
Not even a week passes before Millard writes his next letter.
The parting of Abe was hard to cope with, but the subsequent death of Victor hurt more than anything. It almost felt unreal if it weren’t for the fact that Millard could almost feel his presence in the room down the hall. He finds himself walking to the door, sometimes merely placing his hand on the doorknob like he would be placing his hand on the shoulder of a friend. He doesn’t turn it, though. He stands and stares and wishes and hopes and riles himself up to a vengeful rage then simmers himself down to a violent flood of tears. Sometimes at night, he pleads to a God that he knows doesn’t exist -- but it helps to have someone hear that already carries the world's burdens on their shoulders.
It takes him multiple tries to write down his feelings. The first try resulted in no words and a ripped up paper, the second had H’s and D’s crossed out, not a word to be continued before Millard angrily sent himself to sleep, the third left another empty page, and the fourth, fifth, and sixth were just pages of large scribbles.
Now, Millard stands behind his chair, a firm hand resting on the top of the back, debating whether he wants to sit down and try again. What would it accomplish? It’s not like it’s going to be sent to anyone, no one will see it, it doesn’t matter. But on the other hand, it’s not going to be sent, no one will see it, it doesn’t matter. With that in mind, he scrapes the chair across the floor and drops himself in it.
The paper is a white expanse of void. Empty, empty, empty.
After a heavy exhale and a couple of ruffles of his hair, Millard raises the pen and starts writing.
You stupid swine,
I can’t believe your incompetence, you piece of shit. I do not think I have ever been this angry in my whole entire life. I don’t think I can even call this anger. It’s worse. Anger doesn’t feel this empty, anger doesn’t make you feel so hopeless. Anger should make you want to do something but I know that I can’t.
The amount of time I’ve stood in front of your door -- waiting and hoping that you’re in there, alive... It’s so foolish, isn’t it? Hoping for a change that you know will never come. Hoping that the past made an error and the present will correct it.
Wishes aren’t real, and the stars are the same ones every night so it doesn’t matter, but I keep finding myself with that childish word in my head: “wish”.
“I wish Victor was here”, “I wish that things would go back to normal”, “I wish everyone wasn’t so sad”, “I wish I could feel something other than white-hot rage or murky depression”. I wish. I wish. I wish.
Am I a pathetic child, or am I just empty?
I am sorry for my initial harshness. I know that your heart gets ahead of your heart sometimes, an unfortunate flaw. I know you meant well -- it’s not wrong of you to desire a normal life, I so desperately wish for one during times like these -- but I can’t help but think of a better scenario where you just thought about your choices for more than a second. Maybe you did. Maybe you’ve wanted to leave since you got here, and I’d have no clue. It never seemed like it, you walked around with such a warm and welcoming smile, rough hands patting shoulders, and affirming words when someone needed them most.
Right now, I think everyone needs you.
I Good bye
Write to you soon,
Millard Nullings
September 3rd, 1940
In the two decades after Victor died, Millard takes up studying the island. He writes and writes and writes, day in and day out, unhealthily so sometimes. Throwing yourself into a project is easy when you live the same day repeatedly with no threat of aging to death looming on the horizon.
When Emma bullies him into taking a break for a bit since “it will all be here tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after, and even the day after that, and probably the day after that too,” he pauses to consider, then folds under the weight of her pressure. He supposes that maybe he has been focussing on it too much, and maybe he hasn’t been taking care of himself because of it (but why would he? They’re looped, after all), so a break at the house doesn’t sound too bad.
It’s after the hours of cleaning and cooking and lounging with Emma that the itch to write really starts to get at him. He knows that if he tries to go back to his project, he’ll get an earful. Even if he wanted to write a to-do list, Emma would probably gripe at him for it since it’s his “day off” (whatever that means when it’s the same day every day). As the wheels turn in his head, Millard remembers something. He gives Emma a “thanks for today” and a pleasant “goodbye” as he yawns and heads up to his room.
It takes a few moments to find the old piece of paper, lodged between two books on a bottom shelf, but as soon as he gets his hands on it, he remembers what he says without even reading it.
Sorry it has been so long, Victor.
I truly did not mean to write my last letter with such… A bad manner. Distaste. An over-emotional scrawl. I especially do not think that you are a “stupid swine,” and I am, in fact, shocked that I even addressed you in such a way. Actually, no, I’m not. You can be a bit pig headed at times. Could be, I suppose. And it was such a short letter, too; hardly worth an envelope. Of course, I am not sending these anywhere, but the point stands.
I haven’t gone into your room. I have wanted to. Sometimes when Enoch or Bronwyn would sneak in, I would be behind them and I would try and get a glimpse of you, but even that hurts too much. I feel if I were in your proximity again, I’d combust or melt, or seize, or… something. Nothing good. It makes my heart beat so rapidly. Speaking of visitors, I’ve been keeping a tally of how many times the others have gone into your room. Bronwyn is at ten (and has been scolded all times but one), Enoch is at eight (and you probably remember most of his visits), Emma and Fiona are at four, and Hugh is at three. The younger ones and Horace have not been in at all. From what I have seen, anyway. But, as I said, I haven’t gone in.
No, I’ve been far too busy to visit, anyway. My plan is to try and document everything that happens on the island -- the perspective of every person and animal, it will be astounding! It takes up so much time, but I suppose I have an abundance of it now. Unfortunately, the Bird is strict about missing meals, as you know, and so that makes me lose precious moments (hopefully she will grow more lax as time goes on). Emma gets mad about how long I’m away for. If she’s so worried, why not come with me? It’d be nice to have some company, and she could learn a thing or two.
I think that it would be nice if you could be here with me. I wouldn’t make you write down observations or anything (I know that you hate being stationary), but there are so many parts of the island we haven’t seen. There are so many beautiful moments between the people on this island that we never even knew about. There’s a young girl here who looks almost exactly like my younger sister, I know that you would want to see her -- get an idea of what I could have looked like. The sunset is beautiful as well. I know it’s the same one every day, but I wouldn’t mind sharing it with you again and again. Sometimes I think of what could have been if you were still here.
I won’t visit you, as the Bird has forbidden us from going into your room. I know that there is no afterlife for us, but I also know that Enoch brings you back from somewhere. I hope that wherever you are, you could visit me. If you can’t, I hope that you enjoy wherever you are or whatever you’ve become. You deserve such wonderful satisfaction.
Yours, always,
Millard Nullings
September 3rd, 1940
The next letter doesn’t come until years later. Millard mourns his losses, and comes to accept the changes, then reopens the wound somehow and continues to mourn.
Yes, every day is the same. Wake up, get ready, eat breakfast, get unready, go out and study the island, get ready for lunch, eat, go back to study, get ready for dinner, eat dinner, do chores, bathe, go to bed. Repeat for decades. Oftentimes, the mourning period overlaps with any and all of these activities. Nothing Millard is unaccustomed to.
Another one of these same-days almost passes the way it should.
Emma and Hugh decide to get everyone together to go visit the house -- the real, unlooped house. They’ve done it before, usually not in such a big capacity, but sometimes nostalgia and/or boredom line up together perfectly, and so everyone sneaks their way from Miss Peregrine’s sights and out into the present. Things go smoothly, the house is old and in shambles just as they left it, the items inside are misplaced as they should be, there’s a boy in the basement--
There’s a boy in the basement?
Dear Abe,
You would never believe who I met today.
He was a bit softer where you were more firm, shorter than you by a good amount, but your faces were eerily similar. It was quite surprising, we almost thought you had come back to see us.
Jacob is quite the interesting one. He doesn’t even know he’s peculiar, for Bird’s sake! You told him so many stories of us, but never any about yourself? He may be dense, but I am sure at one point he must have asked you why you were with us. I find it hard to believe you never told him about any of it.
You know the feeling of loneliness you get when you first find out -- the way the world you know collapses all around you, but no one else can see it, so you’re the one who must pick up all the pieces. It’s a cold type of hurt, the type that burns you until you find shelter. I know you Abe, and I find it hard to believe that you left Jacob out in the cold like that. Good reason or not, you should have told him.
Jacob aside, I am extremely sorry about how your story had to end. Knowing that we lost another one of our own to the Wights’ -- knowing that you’re gone in general -- is unfathomable. They’re bloodthirsty monsters, no doubt about it, but it’s hard to know that it happened twice. Victor ripped apart trying to follow your noble lead, and years down the line, you, ripped to shreds, aged as you should be but still dying too soon. I truly wish Jacob could have said you lived a fine life, that you passed in your sleep with your family by your side, that you were comfortable in your final moments, just anything that wasn’t… This.
I’m starting to think that people like us do not get happy endings.
I cannot imagine the life you led once you left. Where you went, who you met what you’ve seen. Incredible things, wonderful things, I hope. Good things to hold you steady in the worst parts of life. You were a wonderful thing in a rough spot in all of our lives, I hope you know.
Emma is not taking this well, of course. I cannot help but worry for her with Jacob around. She’s fragile and impulsive, a dangerous combination, and I would hate for her to be hurt again. I will be keeping my eye on both of them, and if Jacob becomes an issue, I will not hesitate to intervene. He may be your grandson, but I do not think he inherited your strength.
Wherever you are, Abe, I hope you’re well. I hope that you can find Victor and anyone else that you’ve lost along the long road of life.
Rest easy, friend, it’s greatly deserved.
Millard Nullings
September 3rd, 1940
The world is changed when Millard writes his latest letter. Everything is different now. The loss of the loop and subsequent killing of an almost-god-wight-monster weighs heavy in all corners of Millard’s mind, and everything that comes with that -- a new chance at life, a chance to grow up in the modern world.
It’s unfathomable.
He looks around at his friends, and (because of the circumstances, maybe) they already look older. Some smiles barely reach the eyes of some, others will beam at the moment of eye contact with another -- hands and arms intertwine at some points, maybe some encouraging pats on the shoulder to say “I’m here, we made it.” Millard does not receive a lot of the physical attention as the others do (he is aware of their proclivities towards naked people), but he is kept close. Some will send him smiles even though they don’t know where his face is, or even if he’s looking. Questions of “how are you holding up?” to “what are you thinking of doing next?” are asked in passing. These small moments are safe houses in the storm of Millard’s ever-raging thoughts.
When he gets the chance, when they start settling down in Devil’s Acre and start working, Millard finds himself fixated on the passing question of “what will you do next?” He can’t see into the future -- at the moment, it’s too large to wrap his head around for any long-term goal -- but he thinks of one thing that could quell the question for a while.
Millard curls himself upon his bed, light streaming into the room through a dirty window. In his lap is a new notebook. He cracks his knuckles and rubs his hands before trying to pour out some of his thoughts.
Hello Mother,
It’s been some time since I’ve written to you, and for that, I apologize. These past few weeks have been busy, to put it simply. I could also describe them as horrifying, stressful, heart-wrenching, violent, nightmarish… The list goes on. But I am safe now. My friends and I are safe now. I’m thankful that I had to live through this experience with them and not by myself, or some foolish strangers. I think as time passes I get to love them all even more -- forgive me if that is too sentimental. I’ve been with these people for decades now, and now more than even I realize that they’re my family. Not the same type of family as you, Father, and the siblings, but one of fates own design.
Beautiful how that type of thing works: fate. Cannot say I believe in it, but the word “coincidence” loses the mysticism, so fate is the best choice.
Of course, I would have loved to grow with you all in Denmark, but I suppose it was not in the cards for any of us. I would have enjoyed being visible too, but I must say that spying on people is much more fun when they can’t see you at all. Still, I would have loved to see everyone else grow up, Margrethe especially. I’m sure she wouldn’t even remember me since I left when she was so young, but still. I’ve also found myself wondering if Hans and Otto miss me. We were all so different from each other, but I still loved them. Still love them. I hope they made it through the war safely. I hope you all made it through the war safely.
I am a bit afraid to live again. When your body stays in the same state for such a long time and when you relive the same day over and over again, it’s hard to consider how much you’ll change. The futurepresent is so… Much. All of it. There’s so much I’ve yet to learn. I’m excited, but scared. I just want everything to go well. I know that “fate” likes to throw in fun moments of despair and agony, and I’m sure that I am in for a lifetime of them, but I hope that there will be kind moments. Kind moments that are not repetitive and suffocating. Kind moments that I can appreciate by myself and with others. I don’t want my future to be only my future, I want my loved ones there with me. I’ll keep you all with me, even though I’m sure you’re far gone by now.
Perhaps I could get in touch with Margrethe or a grandchild of hers. I have a whole lifetime ahead of me.
I love you,
Millard Nullings
SeDevil’s Acre, 1886