The old man sat quietly leaning back in his chair, his eyes narrowly fixed on one solitary object—a small wooden box placed on the edge of the mantle at the opposite end of the room. The box was painted in the color of dark red wine with a heavy lacquered finish that reflected the glow of candlelight from a table top nearby. Above the table the steady flame cast long graceful shadows on the wall and the faint smell of melting wax and smoke spiraled upward, lingering in the air and burning his throat.
Standing up he stepped forward, then paused for a moment to stretch his back—leaning forward, then backward, and finally from side to side. Looking out across the lawn he pushed the large windows wide open, and breathing in he could smell the cool, damp Atlantic air. Watching as the first storm passed he noticed that darkness had quickly set in as heavy fog began to settle along the far horizon erasing any visible division between earth and sky. At this point he knew his plans for the evening would have to change, as the roads would be treacherous and nearly impossible to navigate.
Reaching high above his head he pulled a bottle of single malt scotch from the top shelf of the cupboard, pouring what would be his one and only drink. Resolute in his decision to remain clear of mind he returned the bottle to the shelf and placed the single shot of scotch, neat on a table near the fire. From the mantle he took the wooden box and with one finger gently opened the tiny metal latch, removing the contents of the box and then replacing it back on the mantle. The single sheet of linen paper was worn around the edges but folded neatly into thirds and sealed with a stamp of dark red wax. Pulling his chair up to the light he sat and gently opened the letter, taking care not to damage the edges of the paper any further.
As he began to read, his eyes filled with tears and the soft sound of her voice surrounded him. He studied the angles and curves of each word and tried to remember her face, her eyes, and her hands. Her letter was both a comfort and a curse and he wondered if he would ever be able to move on. Taking one final sip he savored the long, smooth burn, and reaching into the desk drawer pulled out a pen and paper to write:
Beyond the forest 100 miles
Across a valley vast and deep
The body of my true love lies
Breathless in forever sleep
Resting there beneath the stones
Without my warm embrace
Lies nothing more than flesh and bones
And shadows of her face
I’ll dream your breath upon my skin
Like wind across the sea
And hold your love within my heart
Tis here you’ll always be.
Satisfied and comforted by his final response he folded his letter along with hers and returned them both to the small wooden box. Carefully securing the latch he returned to the mantle and knelt as if to pray, and after a moment or two of silence, he gently placed the box in the fire—staring at the flames as it burned.
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