1

I t had been too long since brightness and wonder had filled the halls. The woman grew listless and fatigued, complacent to remain in one room for weeks, months at a time, barely moving. Becoming another fixture in the space she inhabited. While everything around her was restless, shifting and changing to no avail.

So it began. Her youth, once vibrant and ever preserved, began to leach from her being, leaving spoiled wit and blemished skin behind—no longer even an echo of who she had been. Almost as if in retaliation for no longer being interesting, the sickness crept in, both of body and mind. She was not something to be enthralled with, not something worth holding and keeping. She was not enough.

The air felt suffocating, gravity pulling harder and making every movement that much more difficult than it had ever been. Her twisted fingers, bent with untold age, shook as she completed the letter. She took her time to fold the parchment in half and then in half again, giving her final words as much care as she could muster. One last time she lifted the quill to address the front of the note:

Florence.