I wandered about the manor tonight as a ghost, haunting each room before finally opening the doors to the Baron's private library. My fingers played along the spines of his many books, likely unopened, I mused. I disliked that he was so unlikable, but I disliked myself even more for how very much I wished him ill. It seemed patently unfair to me, that I should end up in such a situation; the prospect of widow or drudge staring me down from wherever the fates might reside.

Letting out a shaky sigh, I turned to leave, when I noticed that the evening sun had created a pool of light upon the Baron's desk. The sun glinted off the glass jar of ink and beckoned me to write... but to whom? And of what? All that I knew and trusted knew of my plight. And yet... within my heart, a single letter remained unwritten.

I moved past the heavy chairs toward the desk, my skirts rustling like dried leaves in autumn as I passed. I lay my hand on the sheet of blank parchment there and it was warm, inviting me to pour my thoughts onto it. I sat, then plucked the quill from its resting spot and dipped the point into the ink, obliging the paper, and began to write.

"Edward:

You will never know the sorrow I endured at your handling my heart as if it were the mere plaything of a child who had grown too old for such frivolous diversions and so casts it off as refuse:

Unneeded, unwanted, unloved.

As I read your letter, above the crashing waves and the shrieks of gulls, above the noise of the marketplace, and cries of the purveyors and footfalls and wagon wheels, I heard my heart softly shatter. And each shard, as it fell, embedded in my very soul. You not only cast me out of your life, but into an abyss of darkness so pitch black and seemingly bottomless that I fell beyond its core, and upon finally hitting ground, found myself in a landscape that surely even the depths of Hell cannot boast. No tree bore leaves or fruit. No water lapped at the cracked and thirsty shore.

And there I resided; exiled by your cruel and off-handed rejection. You may be satisfied that your regard for me, once so highly esteemed, once taken from me, left me there to perish. You may well rebuke yourself for your behavior, for well you know that you did not display friendship to me as your letter proposed.

It matters not, for regardless how long I resided in the darkness, my tears cannot fall forever, although, in truth, they still fall, at times when I am alone, and left to my thoughts. But these more recent tears are not for you, but for myself.

My tears fall for who I once was; for surely you have committed the most unspeakable murder of t he innocent and naive girl who believed your professions of love, and who willingly gave up everything to run away to be with you.

And who is left standing in the shadow of that corpse? I look into my mirror and I do not see your victim, but a young woman who, daily, feels the sharp pains of healing in a still-hopeful heart. Her eyes have lost the glimmer of idealistic fancy, and her heart is now cracked, but not irreparable.

My heart still beats within my breast, and my eyes look outward to the future with the hopes of one who is wary but wiser, and the knowledge that out there, somewhere is someone who will claim this fragile and damaged heart.

Gently placing the quill down, and leaving the balance of the letter unwritten, I blotted the page gently, preserving each neatly penned word. It seemed apropos that I should leave it open and not sign it. I knew that someday I would be able to write a preferable postscript, and one that I would joyously affix my name to.

I sat back, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath before rising and carefully folding the letter into the shape of a heart. I walked to the mantel and held it up before the flames, watching as the glow transfused itself into a deep orange and red upon the paper, and did not shed a tear as I spoke quietly "Goodbye, Edward" before tossing the letter into the flames, watching it curl as it turned to ash.