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 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 melted wax and rising smoke lingered in the air, 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 open and with one deep breath he could smell the cool, damp Atlantic air. Watching silently as a brief storm passed, he noticed that darkness had quickly set in. A heavy fog had settled along the horizon, erasing any visible division between earth and sky—and at this point he knew his plans for the evening would have to change; the road would surely be dangerous and difficult to navigate.
Reaching high above his head he retrieved a bottle of single malt Scotch from the top shelf of the cupboard, and poured what would be his one and only drink. Resolute in his decision to keep a clear frame of mind he returned the bottle to the shelf and placed the glass of Scotch on the 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 from inside. 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 tattered edges 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. The 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, he 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.
