Letter 58
“You’ll love the ending.”
June 25, 1947
Ashford Manor
My dearest,
This letter was not meant for me.
I found it tucked inside one of the hollow books on your shelf—The Winter Guest, the same one you once pressed into my hands on a rainy Sunday and said, “You’ll love the ending.”
The pages were untouched. The spine stiff. It opened to reveal a slip of violet paper, folded twice, clean and deliberate. Not aged like the others. This one felt preserved. Protected.
I knew the moment I saw the handwriting; yours, unmistakably and the greeting:
Dearest E.
Not my name. Not mine.
And yet I read on. As if it were. As if I had to.
“I chose the lie so I could have you both. The truth would have ruined everything and still, I nearly told her. I nearly told her the day we planted the roses. But she was laughing, and I couldn’t bear to end it.”
The rest fades. Ink too faint, or my vision too blurred.
The roses. The day we planted the roses. I remember that afternoon. The damp soil beneath my fingernails. The breeze, sweet with spring. The way you looked at me, like nothing else mattered.
But something else did.
I am not angry. I am not even surprised. What frightens me most is the strange recognition. As if I’ve known all along. As if the lie made its home in my marrow.
So tell me, what does it mean to be loved inside a lie?
And what becomes of the one who was never meant to read the truth?
—Calliope.
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