A brittle wind moaned softly over the rooftops of the river-bound city. It rattled the boughs of the trees, who clung still to what leaves they could. Along a quiet, dead-end street near the city's south-gate, it pried at the wooden door to a humble shack, but it could not find a way inside. The door thunked and thudded in low, erratic rhythms, but the woman sitting alone on her bed did not notice the sound.
A small rectangle of yellow parchment was clutched in her hands. The solitary candle on the bedside table threw writhing shimmers of light over the roughly scrawled words. Her shoulders were hunched and her spine bent, placing her upper body over the letter like a dragon frantically guarding its hoard. So fiercely did she grip the paper that she had to release a tremulous breath lest she tear a hole in it.
Her eyes lashed ravenously over the writing, urgently devouring what it conveyed. Parted lips quivered with increasingly rapid breaths, and the midnight blue orbs fluttered to hold back tears.
When all that was left to consume was his name, she exhaled heavily. Her eyes slipped closed and her posture slumped. The letter sank to her lap, still gripped protectively. She sat thusly for a time, and then gave a sharp sniff. One hand relinquished its hold on the parchment to brush quickly over her damp eyes. She glanced to the darkened window beside her bed, noting the pale, cold moon and the shredded clouds that hurried over its face. And she smiled.
