That was the name he knew—the only thing left of a past he had never truly known. It was a whisper of something lost, something that once belonged to him before he was given another name. It held a trace of his parents, though their faces were nothing but shadows in his mind. He had no memories of them, no lullabies in the dark, no hands to grasp when he was frightened. All he had was a single letter, buried among the inheritance documents handed to him by the Seelys' attorney the day after his adoptive father's funeral. That was the day he realized, more painfully than ever, that he had always been alone.
Mr. and Mrs. Seely had taken him in when he was a child, giving him a home, a full name, and what should have been the warmth of a family. They had raised him, fed him, clothed him, and guided him into adulthood. But love? He had never been certain whether they had truly loved him, or if he had simply been an act of charity, a noble gesture on their part. Naturally, they had given him a different first name, along with their own middle and last names, burying him beneath something more acceptable, something more ordinary. But his true name had always been there, lingering in the corners of his mind, a silent reminder of the life he had never known.
Mrs. Seely had died three years before her husband, taken by lung cancer just as he had been. He still remembered the sound of her coughing in the night, the sterile scent of antiseptics mingling with the wilting flowers in her hospital room. He remembered how Mr. Seely sat by her bedside, silent and still as if he had already accepted that she was fading. And after she was gone, the house had grown unbearably quiet, filled only with the weight of her absence.
Now, Mr. Seely was gone too. And Anderson—Anderson Seely—stood in the lawyer's office, clutching the last tangible piece of his past.
The letter was in his wallet, its edges worn from the number of times he had unfolded it, traced its ink and memorized its every word. He no longer needed to read it. He knew what it said.
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NOATAK PRESBYTERIAN MISSION
Noatak, Alaska
January 1, 2000
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Seely,
I am writing to express my gratitude for your generous offering of one thousand dollars in support of our mission. The Lord's work is often difficult in these distant lands, yet through the kindness of souls such as yours, we can provide shelter, education, and spiritual guidance to those most in need.
Your letter was unlike any we have received before—not merely a donation, but an offer of true compassion. In our care, we have three children, all Inupiat, two boys and a girl. They have no family to look after them and no home to return to. They are quiet, watchful children, accustomed to solitude, yet yearning—whether they realize it or not—for the warmth of a family.
One child in particular I would put before you, should it be your wish to take him in. His name is Nanuq. He is of gentle spirit, sharp of mind, and accustomed to hardship. He asks for little and expects nothing, yet I believe a new home might kindle some light within him.
If you truly desire to welcome him, we shall make arrangements for his departure at your earliest convenience. I do not ask questions of you or your circumstances, for it is clear that any who would make such an offer must be of kind heart and steadfast faith.
Please let us know your wishes.
With the Lord's blessings and my warmest regards,
Reverend John
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He wondered—not for the first time—if Mr. and Mrs. Seely had chosen him at random, a simple name on a list of forgotten children. Had they hesitated before deciding? Had they considered taking the little girl instead, or the other boy? Had they ever regretted their choice? He recalled, not for the first time, Mrs. Seely's gentle smile and Mr. Seely's warm, measured voice. And he remembered, not for the first time, how desperately he had wanted to be the child they chose on that first day.
The house in Anchorage was his now, a vast and empty place filled with someone else's memories. But he hardly cared. After the funeral, he packed his things and returned to the dormitory at the University of Alaska Fairbanks, where he was finishing his research in geology and minerals. He had no desire to linger in that house, to sleep in its silence, to walk its halls and be haunted by all that was gone.
He supposed he would have to deal with it eventually—sell it, rent it, or let it sit there, frozen in time. But not now. Not yet.
The only thing in that house that had ever truly belonged to him was Mr. Seely's rock and mineral collection. It was the one thing they had shared, the one thing that had ignited his passion and given him direction. He had returned once, just to look at it, to run his fingers over the stones and imagine Mr. Seely's voice explaining their origins, how the Lord created them, where they could be found.
But it was not enough to hold him there.
His surname—Seely—had always been a source of mockery, an easy target for the cruel humor of his classmates.
"Hey, Si-lly! What's up?"
Their laughter had echoed down the corridors, their sneers cutting deep. But that wasn't all. They mocked his dark hair, his sharp features, the way he spoke so little, the way he stood apart. He was the charity kid, the outsider, the one with a past nobody understood.
And every time, he had met them after school, behind the buildings where the teachers couldn't see. There were no words there, only fists, only the sharp sting of knuckles against flesh, only the silent rage that burned in his chest. Every time, he had walked away with bruises blooming across his skin, his eyes swollen like a panda's. And every time, he had sat in the principal's office, enduring another lecture while anger rained down on him in the form of sharp words.
Mrs. Seely had pleaded with the principal, begging them to let him stay. But Mr. Seely? He had merely smiled. That evening, after dinner, he had taken the boy outside to the front lawn, where the grass was damp with evening dew, and he had taught him how to fight properly—how to defend himself in the battles that would come.
But fighting had not made it easier. It had only made him lonelier.
That name had been both a curse and a driving force. It had made him work harder, study more, and push himself beyond exhaustion. He had very few friends—not because he did not want them, but because he could not trust them. He had learned that words could cut deeper than fists, that laughter could be more painful than bruises.
And now, standing in the lawyer's office, he felt that loneliness settles into his bones once more.
"The estate has been settled. My condolences, Anderson." The lawyer patted his shoulder, his voice practiced and professional.
"Thank you, Mr. Jonathan."
"Do you have any plans for the future, Anderson?"
"I have to finish my last semester first. After that, I need to find a job to pay off my student loans, Mr. Jonathan."
The lawyer nodded. "If you need legal assistance, don't hesitate to call. Mr. and Mrs. Seely were dear friends of mine. Goodbye, and good luck, Anderson."
Anderson shook his hand, murmured a farewell, and stepped out into the cold. Snow fell in thick, silent flakes, covering the streets and houses of Anchorage in a pristine white layer. He watched as the flakes landed on his coat, on his shoulder, melting instantly, disappearing like they had never existed at all.
Why were the beautiful things always gone so fast?