Click.
A small drawer slides open, revealing a bundle of yellowed envelopes tied with a faded ribbon. My hands shake so badly I nearly drop them.
The top envelope bears a name in elegant script:Brigitte.
Not Grandmother. Not Mrs. Faulks. Just Brigitte. A woman's name. A person, not just a role.
My pulse slams against my ribs. The ribbon's silk frays beneath my fingers as I untie it, the delicate fibers threatening to crumble. The first letter unfolds, revealing bold, passionate handwriting that seems to pulse with urgency.
My dearest Brigitte,
I sink onto the edge of her bed, unable to stand. Unable to process what I'm seeing.
I write this under the dim light of a candle, its flame flickering like the fragile hope I cling to in these dark times. The sounds of war surround me—boots on stone, the distant rumble of artillery—and yet my thoughts are only of you.
War. Artillery. This is old. Very old.
I fear what this world is becoming, the shadows of battle growing longer with each passing day. But more than anything, I fear the day when I can no longer reach out and feel your warmth, when your laughter becomes a memory lost in the din of war. The nights are cold here, but colder still is the thought of a world without you in it.
My grandmother's laughter. I try to remember it and can't. When did she stop laughing? Was it before I was born, or did I just never notice?
I hold on to the moments we shared, the stolen kisses under the stars, your smile that has kept me alive more times than I can count. I carry your love with me, a shield against the madness that surrounds me. It is my only armor, my only strength.
Stolen kisses. My prim, proper grandmother who never raised her voice, never contradicted Father, never showed a hint of passion about anything—she had stolen kisses under the stars?
If I do not return—though I will fight like hell to make sure I do—know that every beat of my heart belongs to you, now and always. Until I can hold you again, I remain yours, in this life and the next.
Forever yours,Anthony
Anthony. The man in the locket. The fire to Grandfather Henry's steadfast earth.
A memory surfaces, sharp and vivid...
I'm six years old, curled in Grandmother's lap in the sunroom. Afternoon light streams through the windows, turning everything gold. She smells like lavender and powder, and her arms around me feel like the safest place in the world. The only safe place in a house full of Father's cold disapproval.
"Vivvy, darling, let me tell you a story of two men I once knew." Her voice is softer than usual.
I nestle closer, captivated by something different in her tone. Something almost... wistful.
"One was like fire." Her voice takes on a dreamlike quality I've never heard before. "Passionate, intense, burning so bright it almost hurt to look at him." Her fingers absently stroke myhair. "His eyes... oh, Vivvy, they held entire worlds. When he looked at me, I felt like the only person in existence."
Even at six, I can hear the longing in her voice. The loss.
"The other was steadfast as the earth, reliable and strong. A rock in stormy seas, always there, always constant."
"Like in fairy tales, Grandma? The dashing prince and the noble knight?"
"Oh, if only life were so simple, my love. Both men held pieces of my heart in such different ways." Her laugh is sad. So sad.
"But you chose Grandpa, right? He was the best one?"
A shadow crosses her face. "I chose between them. For family, for duty." Her hand cups my cheek, her eyes boring into mine with sudden intensity. "But remember, Vivvy, true love... it leaves its mark on you forever. It shapes you, changes you in ways you can't always see."
"Does it hurt?"
"Sometimes, my darling. But the pain reminds me that I once loved and loved deeply. And that's a precious thing." Her smile is bittersweet.
Now, sitting on her bed with Anthony's letter in my hands, I understand. She wasn't telling me a fairy tale. She was confessing. Warning me. Trying to give me something she never had—a choice.
