The letter in her hand was at least ten years old, that was for sure.
Though the paper had once been of fine quality, its colour had faded to a dull yellow with age, the edges softened by time. Faint creases ran across the sheet, and the ink had dulled just enough to reveal the years it had spent hidden away.
Elain took the liberty of reading its contents.
Dear Amaranth,
How are you? I hope you have been well these past years. I know you are still grieving your loss, and I know you hate me for it. That's why I never dared visit you, thinking my presence would only remind you of what happened. I do not blame you, but please know I never meant for any of it to happen. I loved Roland too. He was family.
I have sent you many letters, though you never replied. It has been disheartening, but I still hope you might one day find it in your heart to speak to me again, as we once did.
