My dearest Brigitte,
There's a strange shift in the air. I can feel it in every bone, a prelude to something I cannot yet name. I haven't received a single reply from you. I've heard from Henry, and he said he saw you not long ago. He mentioned you looked well, that you were smiling.
No. No no no.
It should have brought me comfort, but instead it twisted something inside me.
He knew. On some level, he already knew.
I try to focus on my duties, but my mind is always with you, wondering why your letters stopped, why I feel this growing distance between us. Is it me? Is it the war? Has it changed me too much? I look in the mirror and don't recognize the man staring back. I wonder if you won't recognize him either.
My throat constricts. The desperation in his words is palpable, reaching across decades to wrap around me and squeeze.
I don't know what I'm asking for. Just... some kind of sign. Something to tell me you haven't slipped away from me.
Forever yours,Anthony
But she had slipped away. Chose safety over passion. Duty over desire.
Just like she never fought for me.
The final letter isn't from Anthony. The handwriting is different—smaller, more controlled. Feminine. I recognize it from birthday cards and Christmas notes written in my childhood.
My grandmother's hand.
My dearest Anthony,
My breath catches. She wrote to him. Finally, she wrote to him.
This letter is one I never thought I'd have to write, but after months of silence, I cannot continue to keep my heart locked away from the truth. So much has changed since you left for the war, more than I could have anticipated. We've both changed, and I fear that the distance between us is now more than just miles.
Cold. It's so cold compared to his letters. So measured. So careful.
I've grown close to Henry. He's been here through all the uncertainty, through the fear, and somewhere along the way, my feelings shifted. It wasn't intentional, but I must be honest with you, as much as it pains me to say. I love him. And I've chosen him.
She chose his best friend. The man he trusted to keep her safe. The betrayal is staggering, even now, even knowing how the story ends.
I know this will hurt you. I never meant to cause you pain, but I couldn't wait any longer. I hope that one day, you'll understand, though I don't expect forgiveness. Please, take care of yourself. You are a good man, but I can no longer be yours.
Goodbye,Brigitte
Goodbye. Just... goodbye. After everything, that's all she gave him.
I stare at the letter, trying to reconcile it with the woman I knew. The woman who stroked my hair and told me stories. Who let Father control her, control me, control everything.
She made her choice for duty. For safety. For the man who was there instead of the man she loved.
And it hollowed her out. Turned her from that vibrant woman in the locket—eyes bright with mischief, smile wide and uninhibited—into the ghost who raised me. The woman who taught me, through silence and surrender, that love wasn't worth fighting for.
But the letter was never sent. It's here, with his letters, hidden in a secret drawer. She kept them all. Every single one. Even the letter she wrote to end it, she couldn't let go.
She carried this with her for her entire life. This grief. This loss. This choice she made killed something vital inside her.
Is that why she never fought for me? Because she'd already lost her own battle? Because she'd chosen safety once and knew, bone-deep, that it was the wrong choice, but couldn't bear to see me make a different one?
The weight of it presses down on me, suffocating. I sink to the floor, letters scattered around me like fallen leaves. Like all the words she never said, all the fights she never fought.
My grandmother loved someone deeply—loved him enough that losing him carved her hollow. And she still chose duty. Chose family expectations. Chose the safe path.
