Sadness

 I cannot decide whether I am justified for this or not. My wife has found a calling, as she often does, and decided to leave with it. Not leave me, at least I should hope not. Time to her is not as set in stone as it is to me.

The letter is scrawled hastily, as if something is more pressing, something that is happening soon. The typical handwriting of Stitches is ruined by this, and it is written with such haste, that he does not remember to address it properly. Nameless, it continues to whom he writes it for, without greeting.

The winds brought scent of spring, as though attempting to cheer all hearts it touched. Birds began to sing again, in that cautious manner they did whenever winter seemed to dwindle.

Normally this would bring a brightness to Daphne's soul and make her slightly less prone to scowling. It was not so, this time.

   It's late, but I decided to write my thoughts down for a moment. 

   I remember a long time ago, before I had ever seen war. Times were better then. Love was easier to find, because your heart hadn't grown into a hunk of iron yet. You let war consume you. You let it seep into the rock that is your flesh. It was you, Azkas, who forgot how to show compassion.