Or merely the man he believed himself to be when he stood before me?
The question lingered.
Again.
And again.
Each letter I read only deepened the wound, each word pulling me further into a storm I had sought so desperately to avoid. His voice—inked across parchment—felt alive, as though he stood behind me, pleading still… reaching still…
Breaking.
And yet—
So was I.
By the time I reached the final letter, my hands had grown still, the parchment resting loosely between my fingers as my thoughts refused to settle.
There was no peace in understanding him.
Only confusion.
Only ache.
Trying to distract myself proved more difficult than I had imagined. The calm I had once found within this place now slipped through my grasp, replaced by a restless unease that coiled within my chest.
