What would you do if there was nothing in your life but hopeless thought—and a box of thoughtless hope?

Life is a maze of opportunity. Some paths only loop back on themselves, while others branch out far and wide—only to leave us lost in a dead end, with no more progress to be made. No one has ever found an exit.

What's the point, then?
Such a hopeless reckoning is completely logical. Yet that logic will be shattered by an unexpected delivery—a filly in a box—a bundle of reckless hope.

It's the wandering that matters. The little accidents in these blind alleys—the moments we bump into unawares—light the way for everyone to follow. Besides, even if our vision fails and leads us far astray, all dead ends can be escaped if we just step away.

I recommend that you read this story here on Ponepaste due to formatting restrictions on Fimfiction. Otherwise, or if you enjoy my work, you may find that entry at https://www.fimfiction.net/story/572068

My Little Derp

Snap back to reality.

That is almost always the best course of action. I'm not sure about this situation, though, because there is nothing left to do about it. There is no goal to strive towards, nothing new to learn, no one to work with in an effort to improve society. Worst of all, I couldn't prepare for it, because there is no way to prepare for that entire society ceasing to exist.

It came out of nowhere. The only warning I got was a news article about some supervirus that was sweeping the globe. I did what I could, of course; I got all the personal protective equipment I would need and claimed all the days of leave I had to self-isolate.

The very next week, my workplace closed down. Everything closed down; that many people were falling sick. I could only watch the casualties pile up until the news crews came to interview me, the last person alive in the entire district. Now that I have been immunised, I stand among houses and cars left forever vacant as the most capable person to have lived here.

Now what?
The best course of action is always to prepare for the future, but there is nothing to prepare for. I have more than enough money to live the rest of my life in peace. My body is healthy and my muscles are strong. I will most certainly work hard to maintain this state, but what is there to accomplish with it? I've gathered knowledge in many areas, but what is it worth when there is nowhere to apply it and no one to impart it to?

Some small part of me says I've done enough; says I've earned the right to kick back and enjoy life. It's preposterous. There was a time when I did believe that everything always had a good ending; that no matter how many obstacles life threw at me, there'd always be a way to step around them, let go of my troubles and live happily ever after, like how all the TV shows always went. Now that I've grown up, I know better.

The world is cruel; a single off-guard moment can ruin a life. I learned that lesson the easy way; I've seen so many others learn it the hard way. I must not forget it, whatever it takes—if it means I'll have to leave this place behind, so be it. If it means I'll have to find a new job and a new purpose, so be it. However I do it, I have to stay ready, or it will be the end of me.

But I sure do wish that wasn't true.

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Have I gone insane?
I wouldn't put it past myself. Day after day I have breakfast, check the news, exercise, shower, have lunch, look for new jobs, check the news again, exercise again, shower again, have dinner, check the mail and sleep. I'm on autopilot, and I'm going nowhere—the travel restrictions all around this ghost town have made sure of that. My body remains in peak condition, but my brain feels a little number every time I wake up, so much closer to losing its grip on reality with each passing day.

Is holding on even worth it? The pandemic has taken away every person I have known, every colleague and relative; who knows what the rest of the world will be like when I get there? Sure, I can just start over. I can go somewhere new and live a new life with new people around me, but does it mean anything if it can all disappear in an instant?

But I must stay calm. This thought does not give rise to any significant action. It is pointless. Go back to logic and reason; there will I find a solution.

What happened that makes me think I'm insane?

I may have hallucinated a cartoon character that does not exist.

How did this happen, and why does it make me think I'm insane?

I found it while walking up the stairs. I was walking up the stairs to my front door after checking the mailbox, and I almost tripped over a cardboard box in the middle of the stair landing.

My first thought from that point was How did I not notice this while going downstairs?

My next thought was What even…

In the box was some creature lying on its side, the size of a puppy, but its four legs ended in hooves instead of paws. With that and the mane on its head, it was more akin to a miniature horse—a miniature horse that had wings.

There was only one place this thing could be from. That was My Little Pony, the cartoon I had most adored growing up, where everyone had a place, no matter their ability or their status. My Little Pony, the cartoon that had been my motivation for years thereafter, with a drive to bring that peace to Earth. My Little Pony, the cartoon that is the furthest from the truth a fictional world can go, because the rules of nature dictate that every living creature fends for themselves first and foremost—but my younger self had been enthralled by the colourful characters, and how they always got along no matter the trouble, all their hearts united in building a beautiful world for everyone. It was a perfect world—a world I now know cannot exist.

The only other thing I remembered about the show was that this pegasus, the grey and blonde one, had been my favourite pony. There she was, a filly fast asleep with little feathers tucked tight against her sides. She didn't belong in this cardboard box on this human Earth, but there she was.

There she was, but why? The box certainly hadn't been there yesterday, or I would have noticed it then. Someone had to have put it there, and whoever they were, the messy scrawl of Give to good home on the side of the box suggested they were in a hurry to do so. Why put it here, though? If they had wanted other people to find the box, they could have put it anywhere but this deserted neighborhood—a neighborhood purged by a virus that has infected real horses and proven just as lethal without the proper treatment.

I didn't know why.
I only knew I had to do something.

Such were the thoughts I had as I tiptoed the rest of the way to my living room with the box cradled in my arms. Such a nonsensical belief it was, that a fictional character could so simply appear before me. Yet I believed it, and here I am in my kitchen with a tray of muffin batter ticking away in the oven and hardly an inkling of what to do when it's ready.

That's how it happened.
As for the current situation, I did put a pair of mitts next to the oven, with which to take out the hot tray after the baking is done. At least that bit of logic is still intact.

There is now a cardboard box in my home, inside which I may have seen a vision of a character from a TV show. That's why I think I may be insane. Now that I've come to my senses, the next step is to check the box again. Put it back where it was if it is empty after all.

The grey and yellow shape, almost certainly a figment of a feverish imagination, is still there.

Kneeling down, I wave a hand in front of it. The image persists—clears up, becomes an object, takes the form of a pegasus.

Shockwaves emanate from my chest, pulsing through my feet, fizzling through my skin. Am I still hallucinating? Am I not? If so, what am I looking at? Is it real; should I expect to see more? Is it fake; who would do this to me, and how did they make me believe?

But I must stay calm. Insane or not, these thoughts will amount to nothing without the right context. Either I'm insane, or I'm in a lot of trouble, or I've been pranked by someone who somehow knows I used to love this cartoon. I can start planning when I know what to plan for, and to know what to plan for I have to do this now.

With my thumping heart guiding my hand, I reach into the box. With every beat my fingers jitter toward the yellow patch, until they make contact.

Its texture is not the roughness of cardboard. It's not slightly sticky as paint would be, or the brittle dryness that would give away a toy's shameful imitation of hair. My palm glides over the smooth strands, picking up a tinge of body heat. No artificial material could replicate this touch; this is the hair of a genuine living being. This is the mane of my favourite filly from the television, and she—

—has snapped awake
—has scrambled to her hooves
—has her little head back in my hand. She's pushing into my palm, saying… making some noise. My mind is too busy to move my hand away, let alone make any sense of the sound.

Finally, I come to the following conclusions: the filly exists. She's alive. She, the pegasus pony in the box, is enjoying my hand petting her messy mane; how I got that good at this I have no idea. Lastly, I'm in a lot of trouble.

Why I'm in trouble is such an open-ended question it would not be practical to answer it now. I am surely in trouble, though; this scenario is that absurd. In front of me is a creature of a species mankind has never met, let alone laid hands on. Having been abandoned for unknown reasons in the middle of nowhere, she is now in my home, showing some form of attachment to me. Simplifying it into an end goal, however, and taking into account the life-threatening plight she was previously in, what I need to do to create lasting positive impact…

The filly pulls away before my thoughts are through. Now she's stretching her neck to see over the wall of the box, to look up at me with a face I haven't seen in ages: the bright blonde mane in contrast with the grey coat, and two golden eyes.

Something's missing from them. I'm not sure what, but I do recognise in them a gleam of pure carefree innocence. She's fearless, living her best life with no worries about the future. She's confident, moving forward past any challenge. That's why she was my favourite.

But she's looking at me now. I've come so far as to wake her up this late at night. I have to do something.

I raise my hand and say, "Hello."

No response. Still her eyes are boring into mine.

I try again. "How are you?"

Without a word she reaches up and pulls my hand toward her, fondling it in her tiny hooves. I can't blame her; she has nothing else to look at in this place. She has nothing to do, no one—nopony else to be with—much like me.

What do I even do about it? It's not like I can pet her forever. I can't do much else in the way of lasting positive impact—unless—

A high-pitched ding rings out. The filly's head flicks toward the oven. I did at least think this far—I spring to my feet, shove my hands into the mitts lying on the kitchen counter, and remove the baking tray that now carries three fresh blueberry muffins.

Her eyes follow it in my hands as I lay it in front of her box and discard the mitts. She sniffs at the fragrance; she may not know the purpose of what's inside, or even what they are. I don't know much about these ponies, either; I don't know how their society runs, or what their typical diet consists of. I've even forgotten this filly's name—but there is one last thing I remember about her. Her favourite food will be muffins.

I bite into one. It's soft and sweet, as muffins always have been. Now that she knows what they are, I grab another and lower it into the box. Break off a bit for her to have first. Keep eating the first muffin with my other hand, so she knows it's safe—and watch.

She snaps it up and swallows. Her pupils dilate. Her stubby wings unfold feather by feather, her lips curling into her cheeks. She moves past my hand and sticks her face into the rest of the muffin, stuffing her little mouth with it, and in less than a minute it's all gone. She's looking over the box again, at the last muffin in the tray… of course I have to give it to her.

There's no going back now. Seeing her eat with that much delight—delight that I've created for her, all with such a simple act as baking a few pastries—the phone in my pocket could alert me to the world's most lucrative job offer right now, and I still wouldn't turn back. I couldn't tear this great happiness from this filly's hooves and walk away with a shred of fulfilment. However long it takes, however much it costs me, she will live the best life I can give her.

She's jumping for joy. In that cramped box, she still finds the space to jump for joy. This is the filly who can ignore life's pressures and stay smooth-sailing, who I have now hoisted out of the box and is now galloping all over my house. This is the filly I loved in my youth, here for me to love today.

She must have had a name in the show, though. She's in my room, all tired out from exploring my house—she was at it for almost an hour, revisiting every nook and cranny, even some I could have sworn never existed. She's curled up in her box—I hope she's dreaming well—and this may yet be the last thing on her mind, but I will one day need something to call her by.

The sky rumbles, striking me with the day's last recollection. Her name is Derpy.

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Her name should be Derpy.
Some say it's Ditzy Doo. Some say it's Muffins. My Little Pony should have been a kids' show; it's odd that it had enough fans mature enough to disagree on a character's name, even when the cartoon has only ever called her Derpy.

I guess I should be grateful to the bronies. They were also mature enough to write stories and publish them online, and one of them happened to be about someone who'd found a pony in a cardboard box, also with Give to good home written on it, and been forced by their heart to care for them over an arbitrary period.

It was a desperate time.
Official material from Hasbro and parenting guides for human children can only take me so far when there's a pony living on Earth with me. Having to rely on a piece of fanfiction to make plans may be ridiculous, but whoever wrote it, it's too similar to my predicament to ignore.

So the filly is my little derp.
So she has been for three months, give or take a little. She isn't speaking yet, but that should come in due time. No television, though; I have never needed a TV set, and besides, these ponies don't have such things in Equestria. Neither do they have consumer electronics, or frozen food, or modern conveniences at all. It's hard, abstaining from all that when Derpy's awake, but she does not need them, so neither do I.

As for me, I don't know how running around this tiny place entertains her. I'm probably too old to learn that.

Not that I mind; her happiness is her business. Having created it for her with my own effort, I'm happy with it, too, and sometimes, like when I watch her walk into the cardboard box I've sanitised for her safety and shrink into sleep, or when I sit next to her as we blow bubbles out the window, or when I say, "Derp derp," and the next moment she's running at me, rushing to snuggle into my chest—sometimes, I catch my own heart pummelling my ribcage, trying to break out of it and get just that little bit closer to my little derp.

This must be what that story meant by a heart exploding. It's a good feeling, but I'd rather my heart keep me alive. I can't lose it now, not when I finally have something meaningful to do.

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Did I do something wrong? Derpy hasn't spoken a word after an entire year. All I'm getting from her mouth is incomprehensible babbling. Am I not teaching her right? Am I not speaking enough myself, so she can learn from me? I let her sit next to open windows. Did the virus get in and do something to her? Or is she not speaking to me because she doesn't like me? She still won't sleep in my bed; could it mean she doesn't trust me enough?

Stay calm, stay calm. Logic and reason.

Derpy isn't dumb.
Say "muffin" and she trots over to the kitchen to look into the oven; say "How many do you want?" and she taps a hoof on the ground once or twice accordingly; say "What's your name?" and she goes off, comes back with a pencil in her mouth and prints D e r p y in legible enough script on a piece of paper from my pocket. No problems here.

It's not my fault Derpy isn't sleeping in bed, either. I've done all I can to hide the cardboard box she came in—I even got a bigger box so I could fit a pillow in it—to no avail. She will walk in circles, her eyes flitting around the entire house, then prod my leg until I follow her and bring her box back to my room; only then does Derpy go to sleep in it.

And she does it all with a victorious grin on her adorable face.

So I'm still doing fine.
Besides, I don't remember Derpy speaking all that much in the show. Maybe I just need patience.

As for the virus, I can't do anything about it. There are no vaccines for horses, and even if there were, I wouldn't risk it; my little derp is so much more than a horse.

I can make educated guesses, though.
The government plans to rebuild this town from the ground up because there's practically no one living here any more. Good for them, being forward-thinking like that; alright with me, because I would have to move Derpy somewhere bigger sooner or later—but they're calling in construction crews from places the pandemic never reached, places that never had to vaccinate people. It would seem the builders are not worried about catching the virus. We should be fine too.

With that, I've been taking her—rather, she takes me to explore the great outdoors almost every day. She'll be at the door until I get my keys, then she'll be at my heels until we're out of the house and running off to wherever she dreamed about the night before.

There's this hill in particular with a towering tree at the top, and around it the view shifts from a patch of woodland, to clean green fields, back to the empty residences where we live. No matter where we go, she always returns here, sits under the tree and makes bubbles for us to watch, dancing in the wind as the sun slides behind the woods and into the earth.

Pragmatic though I may be, I must admit it's beautiful. I only wish I had found all this when I was younger, back when the pandemic hadn't happened and my little derp wasn't here, back when there were fewer things on my mind; maybe I would appreciate it better.

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She speaks now; Derpy can finally call me dah—ddy.

I couldn't get myself to applaud her.
It took her a year and a half to form her first word. Even now, she only knows a select few. She writes just fine, but many a time I have failed to grasp what she means. I'll shake my head, and she'll string phonemes together in a fruitless effort to express herself until I give her another piece of paper.

Yet, when she does spell it out it in a way I understand, she will somehow smile like she had never failed at all.

She flies now, and I didn't have to teach her. She had her own motivation; I've seen her jump from her hill over and over, face strained, wings whirring as bubbles floated around her. I would take over the bubble wand, advising her as well as a flightless being who read a little about aerodynamics could, while she tried and bruised her knee, tried and bumped her head, tried and kept trying.

Twenty months after she came to me, Derpy was hovering. Twenty and a half, she propelled herself backward, then forward. Twenty-one, and, tracking a bubble through the air, she stretched out a hoof and popped it for the first time. She let out a chuckle—and tumbled all the way down the hill.

I found her sprawled at the bottom with her right wing twisted and dangling on the grass; it would leave her grounded for the next two weeks. Yet she lay there and admired her other wing, waving it up and down, somehow beaming brighter than the sun.

Today, meanwhile, is the first of March, the exact day I found my little derp in a small box two years ago. In celebration—and because this place is so empty already, and because I've bought a camera drone with which I can keep an eye on her, but mostly in celebration—she can now fly anywhere she wants, as high as she wants.

So Derpy whizzed away, broke above the clouds for the first time—and dove back down to write Nothing to me. Explaining that we humans who couldn't fly had no reason to build anything there, I expected disappointment; she had probably dreamt of a city in the sky like there were in Equestria.

She just nodded and made her way back up. She's using a cloud as a trampoline now. I watch it darken in the distance, listen to it thundering each time she lands—and an image flashes before my eyes of my little derp burnt black as she was in season 2 episode 14 of the cartoon.

Yet she jumps higher and higher and somehow howls in laughter while a storm brews under her hooves.

How can she laugh? I worry about so many things; when will she be able to talk properly? Can she handle moving out? What if she falls and hurts herself again? She should be even more worried; I've only told her about her pegasus power to stand on clouds half an hour ago. She only learned to fly four months ago. She could lose her footing and fall a fatal height at any moment—then again, I don't know what it's like to stand on a cloud. Or to have wings. Or to be happy like she is, without a care in the world.

How does Derpy stay happy when so many things could go wrong? I hope I can at least learn that from her. She can only bring me happiness for so long; when that's gone, I want to be happy too.

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Derpy should have gotten her cutie mark by now, with the way her wings bounce between bubbles and her hooves shred the soapy spheres apart.

At least, she was that agile until she overshot a bubble for the first time in months. She recovered quickly then, but already her eyes were drifting away, one up into her forehead, the other toward her chin. They strayed further and further, and she missed more and more often. Nowadays, Derpy doesn't go after the bubbles so quickly any more.

I anticipated this.
I didn't anticipate, after asking about seeing double and hearing that it would last forever, after moving away from her favourite hill to a barren plain soon to be smothered with high-rise concrete, that Derpy would remain as cheerful as she has for the past four years. I didn't anticipate, after seeing her new face in the mirror behind the door of this brand-new bungalow, after a litany of failures to pick things up properly, that Derpy would call her eyes 'silly'—not ugly or wrong or anything that would suggest having impaired vision was a detriment.

The parenting guides tell me this is the healthiest way for a child to manage a disability. That's what I encouraged her to do, because I don't know enough about parenting to try anything else—and Derpy just believes me.

That, or this is what she would do anyway. I don't know how she does it, not when she's lost so much of what she loved.

It has forced several changes to her life. She doesn't play with the bubbles every day, like she used to; some days she'll just sit on a cloud up above and let the wind carry her wherever it wants. Then she'll fly back home—still at staggering speed—and tell me where she went. I'll listen to her describe the view through her eyes, and she'll be smiling, and I'll smile too because, illogical though it may be, she's happy and I'm proud of that.

There's a lot more I'm proud of. Derpy hasn't asked for the pencil and paper in my pocket for a long, long time. Her voice has come a long way since her first words—long enough for her to mimic the three words every parent supposedly must hear at least once.

Not that I in particular need to hear them; I've surmised as much since the time Derpy outgrew that cardboard box she had slept in for so long. I'd readied the bigger box from years past, but she'd written I want to sleep here and fluttered onto my bed. That may have been her way of speaking her mind without a voice; now she has one, and she's confirmed that—

"I love you, daddy!"
So she says with rigid intonation, every syllable drawn dazingly long, in a voice barely intelligible by all reasonable metrics. They're reasonable in that they miss the most important part—it's Derpy's voice, and it says these words to me while we lie in bed, without fail, every night.

"I love you too, little derp," I reply.
And she keeps her silly golden eyes open to peer into mine for just a little longer before she goes to sleep.

I'm proud of what I've done to let her love me. Everything has somehow worked out—everything other than her cutie mark, but that should be for the better. A life of popping bubbles would be all but pointless. Derpy doesn't need to know that.

Still, I can't rest on my laurels. I need to stay ready, because a single off-guard moment can ruin everything.

Thus, I wait for the curtains to fall over her eyes. Wait three thousand and six hundred seconds more. Ease myself off the bed. Tread my way to a separate room. Read through her words on that two-year-old scrap of paper three times—and prepare for what comes next.

The reference material—that piece of fanfiction I found way back when—foretells two disasters looming over us. I'll stop them. Everything will be perfect, and we will live happily ever after.

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I've done it.

Derpy had seen lots of people on the ground—more than there used to be, with foreigners moving into the newly built districts. Some of them drove cars and vans out of one big building to lots of different places and gave envelopes and parcels to people, then went all the way back to the start to get more. She thought it would be fun and wanted to try it.

Thus, the first challenge approached: I had to give a pony a proper job in a human world.

There was no way I would let Derpy make face-to-face delivery like that yet. My Little Pony—at least, the iteration she's from—hadn't been on air for decades; there was too high a risk that someone unfamiliar with the cartoon, opening the door to see an alien with their mail, would panic and do something terrible.

Driving a mail truck was out of the question with her silly eyes. So was air freight; jet planes were too fast and too large, not to mention too dangerous, for any pegasus to contend with. Drone delivery was all the rage—but no one would make those deliveries here, in a still-developing district, because they wouldn't earn enough money.

No one but me, because as far as airborne postal services go, I have something else—somepony else—to do it for. Thus, the Pegasend Foundation was born.

This way, those we take mail from can be informed of what to expect, so they don't freak out. The receivers don't mind the pegasus too much when she's behind a pane of glass; some even prefer it to trusting a noisy robot with their stuff. My little derp—she's quite a sight, the grey and yellow pegasus zipping from window to window, so familiar with the local landscape from her explorative past and so speedy she does the work of ten whole drones. She's been making new friends, too, since I let longtime customers pay extra for her to deliver to their doorstep.

Sometimes, Derpy makes mistakes. Sometimes there's an accident and Derpy drops her mail, but most times she catches it so it's alright. Sometimes Derpy reads the address wrong and goes to the wrong place and some people get really angry when she does that, but Dad taught Derpy how to read things with only one eye so now it's okay—for seemingly the same reason she's okay with her eyes being off-centre. I have given up on finding out why; I've just accepted that she doesn't mind.

More importantly, when she comes back home in the evening and finds me waiting, she'll smile from ear to ear. I'll call, "Derp derp," and she'll still dash into my arms. She'll still take me outdoors on Sundays, and she'll still blow bubbles into the sunset.

Derpy has learned how to converse, how to fly, and how to make a living. Her days are joyful, and she's a functioning part of society. She sleeps alone in bed now; every second I watch her lie there, my heart is ready to explode, and this time I would be a little more at peace knowing I have secured her independence, so that she can still do great things if I were gone.

Thus, the first challenge is beaten.
Onto the second—my heart is yanked to a standstill.

Other than Derpy's speech impairment, the piece of fanfiction I've referenced thus far has been scarily accurate. It predicted that this filly would learn to write with her mouth within a year. It called that she would fly within two. It forewarned that she would want a job; all these I have heeded, and they have all come true.

It predicts that I will lose Derpy soon.
I remember it now and it already does this to my heart; I can't tell how badly it will hurt me when the day comes. I can make it hurt her less, in the few moments between her being gone and her being gone.

I've done what I can. I've introduced Derpy, gradually, to the new world where all the other ponies live, unicorns and earth ponies and pegasi too. I've assured her that she can make many more friends there because lots of the ponies are nice, and I've told her that somepony, perhaps one of the princesses, will come someday to take her to Equestria.

Somehow, she wants to go. She's somewhat confused about how she came to the people place if people can't go to the pony place, but I don't know about that either, but Derpy's still really excited because she'll get to meet all the other ponies and give them mail and they'll all be happy like everyone here!

Which I am—but I don't get it.
She loves me, but she's fine with losing me forever. How does she do it? I would give an arm and a leg—their value as a sacrifice to equine authorities notwithstanding—if it meant a little more time with her, I would give an arm and a leg and all my—no, Derpy wouldn't want that, because I wouldn't go outside with her any more. She may as well be my daughter. My entire life has revolved around her for a decade. Her entire life here has been with me. She should be at least as pained as I am about being apart. How is she not?

That's my responsibility, isn't it?

Tomorrow will be the tenth anniversary of my little derp's arrival. I have her present ready—a magic device that tells stories with videos. I've downloaded all the episodes of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. Tomorrow we will watch the first one. Twice a week, on Wednesday and Friday evenings, we will watch the next. Then she will more or less know their way of life, and she'll be ready to leave when the time comes.

The reference material foretold two disasters. I'm stopping them. Everything will be perfect, and my little derp will live happily ever after.

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Due to unforeseen events relating to our esteemed mailmare, the Pegasend Foundation will not make deliveries until further notice. I apologise for the inconvenience.

Seriously? You get your daughter depressed in the prime of her life and the first thing you think about is business? You're pathetic.

I'm pathetic. I'm terrible. I want to drive my arm through the brand-new television that brought forth this catastrophe, but my arm won't move. I can't move. It won't change anything; the catastrophe has already happened, and I can't fix it any more.

I could have; I saw it coming years ago, and I still chose to ignore it, to downplay it, to believe that it wouldn't be a problem. I should've known it was. The past decade, all my plans and all her life—it's all for nought now. I was off guard, and it ruined everything.

I've failed, and I didn't even get past the intro.

Everything was going as planned. First of March, we took an off-day to celebrate and made birthday muffins for breakfast, like we've done since Derpy's fifth birthday because muffins also come from the oven, and Derpy likes muffins more than cake. That's what she said, anyway.

They're regular old muffins, just with a candle stuck in them. Not that I would complain; I get to watch her bustle around the kitchen to make her favourite food in the morning, and when the muffins set our tastebuds alight, it's a sign of her readiness for life.

If only I'd seen the warning signs myself.

Everything was going as planned. We went to the local airport to watch aeroplanes—safely, because everyone is familiar with Derpy now that she's carried their mail for a few years. The entire world knows her, even; some tourists come just to buy some random thing online and see the pegasus slot it through their window, wave at them and fly away.

The travellers that ran into us there were expectedly surprised. There were many friendly greetings, many compliments on her cuteness, and plenty of headpats. Someone even gifted us a box of pastries from overseas. Either way, no one tried to hurt us.

If only I didn't do that myself.

Everything was going as planned. Back at home, after dinner, we sat in front of the TV to start the first episode of My Little Pony.

Wide open were Derpy's eyes while the tale of the two princesses played out. Seeing her first other pony that wasn't a still image, she was pointing at Twilight Sparkle, exclaiming, "That's a unicorn!"

Everything was going as planned until she mused, halfway through the opening, "Dad, why does everypony have pictures on their butts?"

I don't remember what I said then, but Derpy had sprung off her seat, forgotten to hover and crumpled to the floor. Scrambling to her hooves, she'd cried, "You mean I can't do anything good?"

Then she had trudged upstairs into her room and locked the door. Whatever other sound she made then would have been drowned out by the last notes of the opening song, but I don't need to hear any of that to figure out what I've done.

My little derp knows that she is missing a cutie mark she should have by now. She is a blank flank, and being a blank flank is bad. That made her sad, and I, the dad, knew that this was bad knowledge to have, but my tongue slipped and now she knows.

It was all my fault.

I could've prevented this in a million ways. I could've pushed her harder toward the bubbles, could've tried to get her good enough at popping them, despite her eyes, to manifest her cutie mark. I could've bet on her getting it back along with the soul she left back home, could've focused on acceptance on Earth. I could've claimed to have misspoken that first statement, could've convinced her that having no cutie mark was alright. I could've told another lie, given her a fake, anything—but it's too late for that now. I've already failed.

Derpy will hate me now. This isn't the reference material, where the pony's origin created tension; that has no lasting consequences, so would be easier to get over. This—I've stated, in my very own words, that she has no talent. I've labelled her a useless prick. I've implied she will be for a long, long time.

Worst of all, I catch a part of me agreeing. I know it's not true. I know she has other talents—but she would be better at everything she did if her eyes were normal. I hate that. I hate that I hate it.

I've tried to stay calm. It's no good. Logic and reason aren't helping me like they used to. Why would they? The facts all point to me at fault, and I can't change that.

This isn't the good home you deserve, little derp. Not when I'm around.

I'm sorry.

Half-wished it was a nightmare. Of course I wouldn't be bailed out so easily; I have gone too far for that.

I washed up. I made something healthier than muffins for breakfast. I checked the news on the phone in my pocket. It isn't there. It's next to my bed because I'd sworn never to use those things exclusive to Earth in front of Derpy.

Who's still in her room—that much I know, from rigging a camera to watch her windows and lying outside her door overnight—but as far as I know she's an empty shell. My little derp—that mare who floats through her troubles—is no longer with me.

All my life I've seen people lose everything to a single mistake. In this cruel human world, no one is safe from consequences; there is no forgiveness or forgetting. The victims of that great plague ten years ago didn't prepare enough for it, so they were punished. Now it's my turn; I didn't prepare enough for yesterday, so I have been punished.

I wanted to keep Derpy safe from it. I should've known it was impossible; I'm human myself, born and raised in that cruelty. Of course some of it would spill out of my mouth, into her heart, to break it as this world believed she deserved. She's inferior, so she has been punished.

I can't help it, either. It's reality she has fallen to, that having no cutie mark is the mark of a good-for-nothing. I can't lie about reality. I could lie about the magic TV because it won't affect her in Equestria, but being a blank flank very much will.

There's no guarantee Derpy will regain her cutie mark when she's back home. If that worst case does occur—more likely than ever with what I've done to her—she'll be deficient, because everypony else will have cutie marks. She'll be singled out and left behind. She will be punished; no matter how inclusive Equestria is, it's only fair that the more provenly capable go further in life.

So my mistakes will never mend. My failure will haunt my little derp forever. She will be miserable, and it's all my fault.

What do I have to show for it? I'm in a new house, at the head of a company that has lost its lifeblood just as I have lost mine. That's all that's changed. I'm back to the dark days, the days before I had a daughter. I've failed, so I am punished.

If I hadn't checked the mailbox ten years ago, I wouldn't have failed yesterday. If Derpy hadn't come into my terrible home, I wouldn't have ruined her here. If I didn't have this reckless hope, I wouldn't have lost her.

But Derpy would've been left cold and hungry and alone in that abandoned wasteland. She may never have gotten out of her cardboard box had I not found her, unready though I had been. It's thanks to me that she lives just a little longer.

Isn't this the same deal? This home may not be the good home she deserves, but it's still her home. It's here that I rebelled against the cruel reality that's out to crush her carefree spirit. I drove it away once; I saved her life. Now I'm due to save her soul.

Thus, my train of thought reaches the end of the line, just outside my room. It brought me here to get my phone and check the news. I can't—I still have a chance to do something, to try and help my little derp. I can't throw it away and betray her just to protect my own feelings—I may not love her right, but I can still love her just a little more.

Thus, I turn around and knock on the other door.

"I unlocked it."
So she says, flat and listless, but there's still that rising inflection at the end only Derpy makes. She's still in there. I can still reach her.

Through all my fears and my mistakes, I only know I have to do what I still can, while I still can. So I push through like I've always done.

But why?

Derpy's lying limp in bed. Her head is turned toward the window; wherever her eyes are right now, they're not looking at me. "Why don't I have a picture on my butt?" she mumbles into the air as I sit beside her.

"They're called cutie marks," I begin.

If there's anything she will need when—if—she goes back home, she will need to know why she will be ostracised. She will need to know what that mark signifies, what lacking one implies, and, if she ever gets the chance, what she can do to escape her fate.

"You mean I'll get a cutie mark when I find something I'm really, really good at?"

At some point Derpy had sat up straight with her ears perked. She always listened like this when I talked about Equestria; I suppose this is how curiosity kills cats, when that knowledge shatters one's self-image.

"Yes."
"Oh~h," she exhales. "I thought I would never get one."

There had been a misunderstanding. She'd believed that she would be worthless forever. I've at least managed to resolve that. But still…

"But I don't have one, and that means I don't know what I'm good at yet."

"Yes."
After all this time, too. What good am I as a parent if I couldn't help my little derp find her calling after ten whole years?

For that, pointless though it may be, I can only give her an apology. I'm so–

"So I just need to wait until I find what I'm good at!" All of a sudden Derpy's smiling again. "Then I'll have my cutie mark."

But she might stay a blank flank for all her life. She'll never know whether she will ever get a cutie mark, and whether her life will mean anything. She might not find out until it's too late.

I've almost opened my mouth to make that rebuttal when the counterpoint hits home; Derpy will never know whether she's destined to be a blank flank forever, either. She can't look into her destiny at all. She can't see the future—she has no reason to worry about something she can't do anything about.

I can't see my future. I have no reason to worry about it.

I can't go back in time to change my past. I have no reason to worry about that, either.

"Dad, are you okay?" says Derpy, stretching forward to stare into my face.

I'm far from okay. My hands are trembling. Other than that I can't move, this time because I'm reeling from epiphany.

It took her all of two sentences to show me how she handles failure. From the moment they happen, they aren't failures any more, just problems that may be worked on. It doesn't matter whose fault the problem is; what they've done is in the past. It doesn't matter what troubles it might bring; that is confined to the unknowable future. Making it better, now, is the best thing to do.

That's how she accepted her handicaps so readily. That's how she got over all her accidents at work. That's how she stayed optimistic until she thought she was worthless; that's how she's optimistic now. It makes so much sense.

"Dad?" Derpy calls me again, leaning in closer. Her head's tilted to align her skewed pupils with mine. "I can wait for my cutie mark, right?"

"Yeah," I agree. I might not know how to make it better, but I can think about that another time. "Your cutie mark can wait, too."

"Then let's go mailing again!"
So she says with her hooves splayed wide, in a voice flowing like a gentle breeze and a tone bouncing with youthful energy, her words shining with simple conviction. There's the little derp I had for ten years; now I have her back.

…her words are shining?
No, the light's coming from behind her. Even Derpy twists back to see the two glowing patches on her left and right—at the light blue circles on her hindquarters.

And I'm the one who helped her get them.

"There's my cutie mark!" Derpy exclaims, pointing at herself. "Look, Dad, there's seven bubbles. But"—she runs a hoof over them—"I'm not playing with these now, so what does this mean I'm good at?"

"Mmm… I don't know yet. Maybe I'll figure it out later."

Given the prior events, I do have a rough idea. I at least know it has nothing to do with popping bubbles—but now is not the best time to tell her. Instead I continue, "Now, today's a special day because you got your cutie mark, so we still don't need to go mailing. Let's play outside today!"

"Yay!" Derpy cheers, steps off the bed and trots downstairs. I follow her, also with a new spring in my step and peace in my chest.

The reference material foretold two disasters. From behind them a third arose, but my little derp gave me the strength to overcome them all. She deserves so much more than one extra day of rest for what she's taught me—I'll make sure she gets it.

It's been a long time coming—I'm finally ready to live like her, happily ever after.

––––––––––––––––––––

It was a long time coming.

The Pegasend Foundation has come a long way; it is the only mail company in the district now. That includes regular mail, cargo, and drones—demand kept growing as more people moved in, and Derpy, swift though she was, needed a few robotic helpers.

Then I figured to get air taxis, too, because people already associated our brand with flying. Not that I would have ever let Derpy carry strangers into the sky; too many of us are far too heavy for that. Still, the taxis were a great success.

One thing led to another, and we now handle all the postage and much of the transportation of the entire country. We even have plans to expand abroad, to areas that don't have such infrastructure yet. Derpy was looking forward to visiting those new places and meeting all those new people; I can only imagine they would love to see her too.

Those times are almost behind me now.

The support team has forwarded me a message from an old customer, asking whether the pegasus mail service will ever be available again. I've come to expect what reading one of these does to me—the words on the display blur away, and I find myself peering into it, into a window of my past, at myself going to answer the doorbell of my old bungalow on a Saturday night.

My heart taps my ribcage a little harder than usual. I stare it down, breathe in and reach forward—all like I did when I found a miniature horse with wings, and a horn on her head, standing under the peephole.

Ponies had come in my sleep to take my little derp away, many, many times. Sometimes it would be this lavender one; other times it would be white and much bigger, the size of a horse from Earth. I would jolt awake and hurry on tiptoe to the other bedroom; seeing a light-colored mane and tail in the dark would put me and my fears to rest.

Dreams could only fake me out for so long, though. If anything, I was lucky it was the weekend so postage would not be disrupted. My endeavors to give Derpy a safe and happy life, her gentle introduction to My Little Pony, the clause in Pegasend's terms of service that reserved my right to terminate operations at any time without notice—everything had led up to this last goodbye. It was time to follow through.

I opened the door and said with a bow, "Greetings, Twilight. What business brings you here?"

"Sorry—" she bows back "—sorry to disturb you this late at night, sir. Have you seen an equine creature, around my height, with a grey coat and a blonde mane?"

Glowing curves emerged from the floor while she spoke, tracing the outline of a familiar face.

My breath left my throat in a sigh. "Yes, I first met her sixteen years ago. I adopted her and have been–"

"Adopted?"
Her front hooves had almost left the ground. Twilight's eyes darted between me and the staircase nearly hidden in the shadows, leading to the bedrooms. "You mean she was a filly when you found her?"

"Yes." How had she come to that conclusion so soon?

"And that means you—you're Derpy's father."

At least I had gotten her name right. "That is one way to describe us."

"Oh no, oh no, not this agai–"
Twilight froze halfway between throwing her hooves over her head and folding to her knees. It took her a while to steady herself and continue, "Derpy Muffins Hooves lived in Equestria, a foreign world, before a magical incident caused her to enter yours. Her being here threatens the stability of our realities; thus, I have come to bring her back.

"May I… may I meet your daughter, please?"

I nodded along throughout her explanation. All this the story I had found online had predicted—except the part about this happening again. That wasn't my question to ask, though, so I answered, "Derpy's asleep right now. Please wait until tomorrow morning."

"And you'll let me take her away then?"

"Perhaps one hour after she wakes up, so she can have breakfast and get ready to go. Then, yes, you can take her home."

"And Derpy—your daughter is fine with this?"

"She has been aware of this possibility for quite some time. Looks forward to meeting all the ponies, really, so I'd be hurting her to not let her go."

"I'm afraid you don't understand." Twilight's line of sight shifted around the frame of my front door while she elaborated. "To minimise entanglement with foreign worlds, I must negate any influence on living beings who travel between them. I've taken precautions before coming, so need not reset myself, but…"

"Ah."

Her eyes finally fell at my feet. "I must replace Derpy's memories with those from before she came here. In other words, she will forget the past—how long was it again?—sixteen years with you. Is that clear?"

Gone.
All my plans had been for the other extreme—for the case where Derpy went to Equestria as-is. All my plans now flew out the window.

Twilight raised her head and repeated, "Is that clear, sir?"

This much I had already considered, though, and made peace with long ago. So I closed my eyes and nodded, "That's alright. Go ahead."

No response.
I dared to wait a few seconds more before opening my eyes—to find the alicorn still staring at me in silence. I had believed a mare of reason like her would be thankful that this went smoothly—

"How?"
—but only that one word fell from her mouth.

The awkward part—the information I shouldn't have had—had been brought up. Bracing for an interrogation, I stated, "How I knew this would happen? See, I–"

"How are you not hurting?" she clarified.

Apparently I wouldn't be interrogated yet, but I still scratched my head. "Hurting? Derpy's not that clumsy to injure–"

Twilight's horn slashed upward, raising a translucent, sparkling purple dome behind me that arced through the front wall of my house, into the floor to cover us both. The momentum pushed her onto her rear, where she sat and screamed, "How are you not heartbroken over losing her? She won't remember anything from this world! You'll never see her again!"

Again, again… her words ricocheted off the floor and the barrier flowing behind me. I had twisted back to check the stairs, but Twilight kept yelling, "You two have been together for sixteen years! You've loved each other for that long, and from tomorrow onward it will all be for nothing! You don't dread that even a little? You wouldn't try to stop me, to prevent this if you could? You don't even have any last thing you want to do with her?

"I've seen Derpy herself panic over the mere idea of her own foal being lost. I've seen that foal, right now, despondent despite ample substitute care just because her mother has been gone for sixteen days. I've seen first-hoof a per—a parent and child beg not to be torn apart when presented with this very scenario! And you're—do you love Derpy? Do you love her, or do you not?"

Her tirade complete, she hung her head panting while the echoes subsided.

Still no one came downstairs—either Derpy had slept through all of that noise, or she was already listening from her room. Twilight shouldn't have put this barrier up for no reason, so I chose to believe the former; either way, my answer would be the same. "I have raised her for sixteen years. She loves me as a parent, and I love her as my–"

"And you'll just let her go? Losing her is no big deal to you?"

"I would explain if you didn't interrupt me so much; you will take her away regardless, so there's not much–"

"I don't get it!"
Her hind legs shifted. An instinct that had been honed for more than a decade dropped me to my knees; Twilight flung herself at me and landed in a hug.

"How in the world do you shrug this off…" With each word she sobbed, a glittering ball grew at the tip of her horn. "I've caused everyone so much pain, my friends so much pain, and it's all my fault."

The world disappeared into white before I could close my eyes.

Just as abruptly, it gave way to daylight through an open window in a bare blue sky.

I couldn't move. My entire body was gone, replaced by an orb on a wooden table in a circular white room. Oddly enough I could still think about turning my head, and my vision would follow; thus I noted the brick walls behind the table and an exit hatch in the floor.

The table was covered in papers. There were sketches, diagrams, instructions with jargon I didn't understand, one drawing with two circles and many lines between them, and a picture of a pony. It wasn't Derpy, but—the one that came to Earth in that story I had referenced all those years back.

It had, indeed, been information I shouldn't have had. Not the time to worry about that, though.

Dull grey smoke billowed within a transparent cylinder, sitting at one end of the room. At the other was a wall of azure energy, and behind it stood Twilight Sparkle, face completely dry, reading a scroll from top to bottom, again, and again, and again.

Eventually she set the parchment down. She turned to face me—the orb—and pronounced, "Standard clear-weather charm; target: mana-synthetic rainstorm cloud; no loose objects unguarded in blast radius as estimated from known records."

Only then did I notice my vision through the orb was tinted blue. Another barrier; this was an experiment in true scientific fashion.

Then I saw a speck in the window. A light grey speck; Derpy Hooves zooming in, wearing a red polo shirt, a matching cap, and the serene smile I'd seen on her face so often while she carried mail with me. I had seen her with this attire in the cartoon—seen my little derp giggle at her own antics too—but watching this Derpy in the flesh was all the more surreal. If I could have made the orb exude tears, I would have, knowing she would be just as happy here as she had been with me, memory loss or not.

Still, if there were any reason this vision came to me, it was clear what would happen next. So I kept my attention on the delivery pony as, wings thrusting forward, she slowed herself, squeezed through the window, touched down, stuck her muzzle into the pouch slung at her side, drew out an envelope, declared through her teeth, "Here's a letter for–"

At that moment, Twilight Sparkle cried out loud.

At that moment, a purple bolt and a streak of lightning came together with a bang and a spark jumping all over the room. Twilight's hooves pounded on the barrier protecting her, but we could only watch Derpy's body get struck and vanish and her uniform crumple to the floor and the discharge dissipate, leaving a yellow dot fading into nothing.

Twilight, too, lay motionless. The barriers were dissolving; the curtains were jerked shut, the room thrust into shadow. "So, it happened again," she muttered. Her head snapped toward me—

—I was back in the doorway of my house with the alicorn in my arms. It appeared she had recorded her tests in 360° true-to-life video with that orb and streamed a clip into my mind at the speed of thought. Truly, she was—

"—the Princess' greatest student of magic, a student that doesn't learn from her mistakes!"

—still bawling, "I'm among the greatest sorcerers in all of Equestria, she says—what kind of sorcerer scatters the essence of innocent ponies across all these other worlds just to invent a new way to work with the weather? First I don't vet its safety and it goes out of control and zaps my friend away for two whole weeks; I should've known by then to keep others away and I didn't even seal the window! She was doing her job; she didn't deserve this; she would—"

Twilight slumped over my shoulder and choked, "It's my fault. It's all my fault…"

She, too, had suffered an irrecoverable failure. She'd fixated on her wrongdoing, and the helplessness had left her in shambles. She needed help, like I did back when I'd made my mistake six years ago—so I spoke into her ear.

"Twilight."

There was a hiccup.

"You could learn a lot from Derpy, you know."

"Learn what? She's in so much more danger here than anypony else."

"Yeah, it may have been your mistake that landed her here—but you're still alive."

Twilight pulled back her face, damp with tears, to look into mine. "Does that mean anything?"

They must have been the same tears Derpy had cried when she'd been mistaken about what cutie marks meant, when she'd thought not having one meant her life was meaningless. Now that she had had hers for a while, I'd figured it out. "You know what her cutie mark means? They're bubbles. They can't control where they go, but they keep drifting through their life, no matter how the wind shoves them."

Twilight blinked. A couple of seconds later, she gasped.

I had said that with a smile, recalling the epiphany my little derp had blessed me with. Twilight, of course, would think about it deep enough to understand. Derpy hadn't when I had told her five years earlier, but she didn't need to; she embodied that concept with her very life.

So Twilight swept her face dry and hugged me back—not as warm as Derpy would have been, but she still held me tightly enough that I could be sure she would not let this lesson go.

After a quick experiment of our own to confirm time on Earth still passed 365.24 or so times faster than in Equestria, Sunday came. I'd surprised Derpy once she'd gotten out of bed to make that special announcement; the blueberry muffins she made for breakfast that day were the sweetest I have ever eaten. They were her muffins, for the very last time.

It was a special day, so I just took her to her favourite hill and watched her make bubbles that danced in the wind as the sun slid out of the earth, climbing up the new apartment blocks and into the sky. For the very last time.

The air crackled behind us—and Derpy was galloping up to the first other pony she'd seen in her life, running to Twilight Sparkle to greet her and look her all over and admire her really big wings and her magic horn and her neat straight-cut mane and tail in awe. It made my heart threaten to explode. For the very last time.

They spoke at length, Derpy about how she was a super-good mailmare for all the people in the district, Twilight about how everypony in Equestria liked her too before she went to Earth. I soaked it all in, soaked in Derpy's words foaming with excitement. For the very last time.

At last, Twilight took a deep breath and said, "Well, is there anything you want to say before you go?" throwing a glint at me.

As Derpy followed and looked my way, I knelt, stretched out my arms and shouted, "Derp derp!"

She stood there for a bit—and leapt forward. Flexed her knees, spread her wings, shot through the air, bowled me over; there we lay in our wings and arms for seven eternal seconds, with my thoughts looping over the heat from her body and the texture of her feathers, for all these feelings and sensations I felt for the very last time.

When I got up, her eyes were both locked on mine. Derpy only ever did this when she was looking at something really far away. It would give her a big headache after, but here she was with the golden eyes she'd had from the first day we had met; eyes that wobbled under the weight of emotion.

Even if I could have started with that little filly in a box all over again, I would have too much prior knowledge. I'd avoid all the catastrophes and miss all the precious moments that resulted; it would never be the same. All that was left was to make this farewell a good one for my little derp.

So I put my hand on her shoulder and swore, "I'll still be a good person here, and I won't forget you, Derpy. Don't worry about me, okay?"

"You promise?" she pressed with words creaking like glass.

I gave her a squeeze. "I promise."

"Okay…" Derpy wrung the tears from her eyes. "Then I'll be a good pony in Equestria too."

"You will be. And, no matter what, I'll always love you, little derp."

"I love you, daddy!"
So she said in a voice tinged with fragments of sorrow yet firm and resolute, the way it should have been.

I wasn't done yet, though. I had rehearsed my final words under my breath every night, since the day Derpy had gotten her cutie mark. Shifting back onto one knee, I proclaimed, "Throughout my–"

But there had been a pattering of hooves on the grass once I had let go; Twilight cantered up to Derpy and hugged her too. "Thank you," she said, "for showing us a better way to live."

She'd gone and said it all for me so briefly. I had no objections.

Having received two hugs in succession, Derpy gave me a blank look.

"Thank you, Derpy," I clasped my hands and concurred.

She nodded, turned back to Twilight, stroked her mane and sang, "You're welcome!"

Twilight let her continue for a while before stepping away and walking over to me. "Lastly," she acknowledged, "thank you, sir, for keeping that lesson alive to reach me."

"I only did what I could."

"No, see, Derpy's parents in Equestria don't take very kindly to her. She was lucky to find a new home with the care she needed. Here, where she's even more out of place, I expected worse—but," she affirmed with a hoof on my heart, "from what I've heard from her, she was even luckier to have found you.

"Others—even some of my friends—see her only as an odd one out; a pony too flawed to participate in life who just happens to be useful on occasion. You looked deeper. You saw Derpy's unique abilities, recognised her enduring desire to do good, and embraced them. More than that, you put yourself on the line to get her somewhere you two could realise them together."

Twilight glanced back at Derpy, still sitting where she'd been hugged minutes ago, gazing into the sky. "Even when her imperfections held her back, you stayed behind her and spurred her onward. Even when she lost sight of her own strength, you kept your faith in it and helped her find her way again. You believe in her so much, you've drawn on her experience to become a better person—all these incredible acts for something that shouldn't exist."

I spotted a sparkle in the corner of Twilight's eye while she beheld the urban sunrise. "Perhaps Princess Celestia was wrong; if there are more people like you out there, humanity may not be so bad after all."

To that much praise, I could only lower my head and respond, "I am most honoured."

"Please stand back now. Get up, Derpy; it's time to go!"

I could already hear her shuffling around on the grass. Likewise, I straightened, swivelled round, and plodded down the hill.

"Bye bye, dad!"
Looked back up at her shaking a hoof goodbye, and waved back as a light beside her swelled ever stronger, washing away the alicorn's silhouette, the tree on the hilltop, and, bit by bit, the image of my little derp—

Gone.
All this shimmers between my eyes and the computer screen while I type out a salutation, select the appropriate reply template, and watch it cascade down the message box.

I had intended to shut down the Pegasend Foundation when Derpy was gone. It had served its purpose; it had delivered to my little derp the happiest life I could have given her. Now that she was happy somewhere else, there was no point in going on.

The longer I thought about it, though, the less sense giving up made. It would have gone against everything she had taught me.

Derpy had never had big ideas about being the best mailmare in the world. She'd only started because it looked fun. The novelty must have worn off eventually—and she'd still wanted to go mailing because she could fly really good. That had been her place on Earth; it had put what little talent a mare with silly eyes like her still had to its best use, contributing to a better world for everyone to live in.

There I was, a businessman who had only known an office for most of their life, at the helm of a foundation that was the backbone of a whole town. I may never have founded Pegasend if not for Derpy, and she may have taken much of its identity with her, but she had left behind an organisation with a lot of business to be done. If keeping it around to liven up her life for so long had meant anything—I could do business really good.

One thing led to another, and we now handle all the postage and much of the transportation of the entire country. All this we provide as a non-profit, at low costs, and what surplus we do earn is donated to charity. It's the least I can do following my early years of mindless toil, with all the money I saved up back then. It's the least I can do for the world that punished me for hurting my little derp—punished me, gave me a lesson, and let me try again.

This is my place on Earth. I did not reach it through a grand strategy spanning a lifetime. It came to me by accident—a miracle I had never prepared for. Yet I dared to take a chance on it, and with nothing but the end in mind, I have made it mine. This is a place where I can steer humanity toward a world as perfect as Equestria; insurmountable though that goal may be, Derpy has shown me I don't need to be perfect to make a difference.

Through all my fears and my mistakes, I only have to do my best. The results will follow. So I have, and so I will for as long as I can.

Besides, if anyone else still remembers the pegasus and contacts Pegasend about her—if they still haven't moved on—I'll know to share her philosophy with them. Maybe it'll set them on a better path, like it did for Twilight; like she did for me. Like it might for you.

A high-pitched ding rings out. The reply having filled itself in, I blink the memories away. Read it over one last time—

This is for you, little derp
—and hit Send.

Thank you for being a valued client of the Pegasend Foundation. Your early support was instrumental to our growth as an organisation proud to deliver better lives far and wide.

I understand you may have affections for the pegasus who made it all possible. I cannot blame you for that; she was an otherworldly gift, so cheerful and adorable I doubt anyone would resist. Rather, I am glad and honoured that she has brought you a brighter day.

However, the world she came from needs her too. It's only fair that she gets to share her blessings with those that first raised her to be the pony she was and gave us a chance to enjoy her presence. For more information, please read the attached document detailing how she came to me, Pegasend came to be, and I came to believe.

My greatest hope is to create a world where everyone can be as carefree and happy as my little derp is today. Mistakes may be made, expectations left unmet and regrets without redress, but as long as we keep moving forward, nothing is out of our reach.

So go forth, and create your own chances to make the world better. You can only fail yourself, but you can succeed for so many others. Do what you can, while you can, because you can.

Regards,

   

MyLittleDerp.md