He was a letter writer.

Written letters had long become a thing of the past—after all, why would one write when one could receive instant gratification through an electronic device? All of these things made life so much easier.

In fact, Alan lived in a time where most people didn't know how to write. Everyone was proficient in reading, of course—after all, one had to read the daily screen to know the news and things that were going on. And all children learned how to type before they were five years old. But writing was not something that was used anymore, and it had become almost socially unacceptable to write anything. It wasn't against the law, but it certainly was frowned upon.

But Alan wrote anyway. The gift of handwriting and penmanship had been taught to him from his father, and his father and his father before him. At the time of his great grandfather, being unable to write had been considered illiterate. Pens and pencils, which had literally become obsolete, were very important to Alan, and he paid quite a bit to get his pens, which were shipped from somewhere in Europe.

He wrote to do lists, shopping lists, and he wrote at least once a week in a leather bound journal, which was one of his most precious possessions. But what Alan liked writing the most was letters. To those close to him (and some not so close), his letters were gifts from another time, and they enjoyed them. Sometimes, however, Alan was shunned because he wrote someone a letter, and in a few instances some people stopped speaking to him due to this.

He did not let this bother him and continued writing letters.

One day, Alan decided that he would write a letter to a woman he liked. He knew this was a risky venture, but one day after work, he sat down at his ancient writing desk (also passed down to him) and  painstakingly wrote Janice a letter, telling her his feelings and asking her politely if she would like to go out on a date with him, sometime. Alan loved this way of communicating—it plainly said what he wanted, and it wasn't awkward and he certainly wouldn't screw up. He knew exactly what he would say and he could re-read his penmanship to make sure it was what he wanted. Then he folded it up, put it in an envelope, and set it on his desk.

The next morning, he nonchalantly slipped his letter on Janice's desk when she was on lunch break. Unfortunately for him, he didn't see her for the rest of the day, so he was on pins and needles when he got home. He browsed the web for some time; then, his hands fidgeting, he sat down at his writing desk and started writing a letter to his father. Even though the postal service had went under many years ago, they still found a way to get letters to each other—even if it took up to a year, the letter would get to the receiver. Of course, Alan called his dad once a week as well, but the letter writing was just something that meant something to them—a reminder of how things used to be.

While Alan was writing, someone began knocking at his door. He looked up in surprise. Who could that be? he wondered. Smoothing back his black hair subconsiously, he walked to the door and opened it.

Janice was standing there, her brown hair that was normally up in a strict bun flowing past her shoulders. She wore a modest outfit that made her look beautiful, Alan personally thought, and her hands, ears, and face were free of any gadgets that one generally wore.

"Um, h-hello Janice?" Alan stuttered. "How did you find my address?"

Janice winked. "Looked it up in the directory, of course. It's not hard to find anyone's information if you know the right people."

"Well, why don't you come on in?"

She walked in and sat at the kitchen table with him. "I read your letter," she told him.

"And?" Alan was nervous to find out what she thought of him and his letter now.

"And, well... I do kind of like you, but I want to wait a bit. My ex-boyfriend dumped me recently, and I need to heal before I dive into another relationship." She noticed his raised eyebrows. "Honest. You can give me a rain check on that date when I'm ready."

Alan nodded. But he couldn't help wondering why she was here. She could have told him this at work, after all...

"But the real reason I came here..." she said, almost reading his thoughts, "...was to ask you if you could teach me some penmanship of my own." She brought Alan's letter out of her pocket and folded it on the table. "How do you do this? It's so legible, yet... It's just so unique. Can't you teach me?"

Alan's face lit up in one of the brightest smiles ever. "Of course! I'll supply you with a few pens and some paper, if you're really interested," he said, leading her into his special room with his desk.

He didn't stop smiling for a very long time after that, because now the letter writer could teach someone else his art.

Doyle had never seen or touched a dollar bill.

Of course, he had heard about what was called now as physical money—but it was only in the context of "It's a good thing that we all got rid of physical money a long time ago. It's really less hassle!"

Doyle was used to the concept of EC. After all, it was all he had known, and he had possessed an EC card since he was eight years old. That was the age the government gave children EC cards, and parents were required to place an allowance (however meager they wished) into the card.

EC, or electronic currency for short, was adopted by the United States and most European countries before Doyle was born, and even before his parent's time. The switch to EC had been done rather quickly, by an exective order by the president of the day, so he had heard. There had been government sponsored bonfires of paper money, and most coinage was seized by federal officials and melted into ore. That was all Doyle had heard about the transfer to EC. Most people didn't talk about it, and since the switch had been done years ago, there was not much to say.

But Doyle had always wondered about those days of old, where one fumbled for change to hand over to another person, instead of swiping a card. EC cards even stored grocery and chain store reward programs, so one could just use one card—your EC card, which you never left the house without. One would be in real trouble if they went to a store without an EC card. Your card also served as an id, accepted universally.

Doyle was thinking of all of these things as he walked to his grandfather's house. Hands in pockets, he continued to wondered what life used to be like back then. Was it better? Who knows.

He reached his grandfather's house and knocked on the door. "Pops?" he called in through the door. "Come in!" his grandpa responded. A pause, and then, "Do you have your key?"

"Of course," Doyle answered. Taking the key card out of his pocket, he swiped it through the key slot. There was a satisfying click as the door opened.

Pops and Doyle sat at the kitchen table, while Grams made tea for the both of them. The electric teapot chimed as a reminder that it was ready.

Pops, Grams, and Doyle sipped their tea in silence for a few minutes. There was some idle chatter, small talk that kept the table lively.

"Pops, tell me a story."

His grandfather set his tea down and folded his hands. "What kind of story, Doyle? I have so many I could tell!" He chuckled.

"Tell me a story about physical money, Pops. I've been wondering what it was like lately."

Shockingly, Gram's face fell, and started to turn pale. She said nothing, but to Doyle's utter surprise, she picked up her tea and walked out onto the porch, the door snapping shut behind her.

Doyle looked at Pops, eyes wide and eyebrows raised. "What was that about?"

Pops shook his head. "It's something she and I don't agree on. We love each other very much, but we don't agree on some things. This is one of them."

He stood up, pushing his chair in. "Come with me, Doyle. I want to show you something." He lowered his voice. "But you have to promise not to tell anybody."

Doyle promised.

His grandfather led him into his bedroom, Doyle confused about what was going on. He bent under the bed and pulled out a metal safe. Swiping a key card and punching in several codes, the safe swung open. Pops took out a plastic binder and what looked like to be a bulging leather envelope. He handled them with the utmost care, as though he was afraid at any moment something terrible would happen.

"You've got to promise me again not to tell a single soul, Doyle. There are traitors everywhere, and what I am about to show you could get me killed."

Doyle gulped. "I promise, Pops. I swear I won't tell anybody."

Pops nodded, satisfied with his grandson's answer. Setting the items on the bed, he opened up the folder. "This," he breathed, "is real money. The way it should be."

He wordlessly handed Doyle a rectangular bill. "That, son, is a one dollar bill. Be careful with it." He chuckled. "It wasn't worth much in those days, but it was something."

The young man examined the dollar in earnest. It felt papery, but sturdy, in his hand. It was a strange color of green, a shade he had never seen before. On the face was a portrait of a frowning man wearing what looked to be a wig. On the bottom of the portrait in little words it said, "Washington." The back of the bill had a strange pyramid symbol on one side and a weird looking eagle on the other side.

"Who's Washington?" Doyle asked, looking up.

Pops sighed. "Washington was one of the founders of this nation, a little under four hundred years ago. Today's government has washed our origins away, stripping it down to the bare minimum. Names have been all but forgotten."

It was true. Doyle didn't have a history class in school, but he did have a Patriotism class, as well as a class on Leadership, and Loyalty. He had always wondered why there was not a history class, but he had dared not ask his teacher.

Doyle sat on the bed, and held his grandfather's hand. The young man noticed tears on Pop's face.

"Our country... forgotten..." Pops murmured.