The Will to Resist

Letters Never Sent — The Furnace Ledger (Updated)



Eighteen and a half hours. That was the math before the rescue.

JP slid in, fixed it without noise. No speeches. Just, “I got you.” Now I’m the custodian clerk—trash, spills, quiet upkeep—and somehow still cleaner than the drama that walks upright.

I told him the truth: people don’t like him, don’t like me, because peace and precision make them itch. He already knew. He smiled the same way my old man Jeff used to when he saw through someone’s bluff. That nod said everything: keep working, I’ll handle the noise.

So I did. Took the Orchard quiz, ran the rewards program, clocked lunch on time. Old Dill Weed 2.0 tried to talk— I agreed politely, then let silence finish the sentence. He can stay pressed. I’m not here to fix people. I’m here to finish shifts, stack checks, and keep my head above their static.

JP’s cool. The rest can rot in their own rotisserie. The furnace made me, the wall shaped me, and the quiet keeps me alive.

Signed,


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