The Final Letter

The old manor was surrounded by deserted fields as the sun had set. The shadows were long and dark. Dust and recollections of a time when the house had been a hive of life, laughing, and love permeated the disintegrating walls.

All that was left, though, were echoes of the past, borne by the wind outside as it rustled the fragile leaves.

With her fingertips trailing the outline of a yellowed envelope she had recently found, Amelia stood in the poorly light study. It had been kept out of sight in a secret chamber of her great-grandmother's writing desk, which had been abandoned decades earlier.

Apart from the word "Final" written across the front in a fine handwriting, the envelope bore no markings. She cautiously opened it, the paper inside crackling with age, her heart hammering in her chest.

Dear Samuel,

I'm not in this world anymore if you're reading this. I've really tried, really, really tried to remain, for us, for you. But I can no longer endure the weight of my grief. My dear, you have to realize that this is not your fault. It's just that the darkness inside of me is too strong for me to overcome.

Amelia was having trouble breathing. Each sentence was a bitter confession from a heart that had seen too much loss, and the words appeared to bleed sadness.

She had heard tales of her great-grandmother, a lady of dignity and fortitude, but also of deep sorrow following her adored husband Samuel's unexplained disappearance.

I've buried this letter since I know you could stumble over it eventually. Maybe it will make its way to you when you most need it, or maybe you will read it at a time of despair.

Samuel, nevertheless, know this: I cherished you with all of my being. And this love is what I carry with me when I leave this planet behind.

Amelia read on, her eyes racing over the beautiful lettering that had been written so many years ago, and the room appeared to grow colder. It felt like a mausoleum, where the dead lingered, unable to move on, instead of the house that had once been her haven.

Samuel, do you recall the evening we spent dancing beneath the stars?

It felt like nothing could ever break us apart at that moment—the sky was clear, the air was warm.

However, life is harsh, isn't it?

It only provides. It never takes. It is with shaking hands that I am writing this letter, aware that I shall never again see your face or hear your voice murmuring my name in the darkness.

The faint echo of music flowing down the halls, the delicate rustling of fabric, was nearly audible to Amelia.

She pictured her great-grandmother, radiant and youthful, spinning in her partner's embrace, with a bright future ahead of them. However, that future had been stolen, and years of waiting, hoping, and eventually giving up had taken its place.

But please, my love, don't cry for me. I travel to a place where I am impervious to suffering.

There, in the silence that lies beyond the stars, I shall wait for you. And we'll get back together when you're ready, at the appropriate moment. Live till then, Samuel. Live for each other.

As Amelia read the last sentence, tears filled her eyes. They had a peculiar, melancholic beauty about them, a love so profound it had outlived death. Her hands trembling, she delicately folded the letter and reinserted it into its envelope.

The chamber appeared to sigh as she stood there, as if the weight of decades had gently lifted.

The temperature rose and the darkness became less engulfing. The letter was her great-grandmother's last present to the man she had loved beyond death, and Amelia knew then that she had found peace.

With the note securely tucked into her pocket, she exited the study. The house no longer felt as depressing as it had before.

Maybe lighter?

Though Amelia couldn't be certain, she felt a quiet, painful understanding in her heart as she glanced up at the stars as she went outside into the chilly night air.

Love persevered somewhere in the immensity of the cosmos. It was a tie that could never really be severed, even though time and lives might change.