Mary,

I see it all so clearly, the way it used to be. And then the way it isn't. Something's been broken, something in me or the world around me.

There's no coming back from this. Some lines, once crossed, cant be uncrossed. Like words on paper, never to return. Ink spill erasure.

I can still hear that terrible sound in my mind. The foreboding siren that took you away all those years ago. It tore through the air, and I thought it would rip the world apart, the way it ripped you from me. I don't think I could ever forget it. How could I? I do hear it sometimes, echoing in my head, stretching out like a melancholy wail through a dark, empty room.

The twisting branches sway in the cold wind, the leaves fall red and orange and yellow, and I'm still standing here on the sidewalk in front of the house, looking at the fallen pieces. How long have I been here, Mary? How long until the siren sweeps me away, too?

There is no turning back.

—Theodore

Mary,

The gate's nearly lost beneath the serpentine weeds. They twist around it, clawing up the fence, trying to reach you. I should clear them, but I don't have it in me. I can't blame them. If in their position, I would take any hold I could get to approach you.

I returned to this house expecting its familiar embrace, but it's all wrong now. The staircase an inch taller, the halls a foot wider.

How can I be gone and still here at the same time?

—Theodore

Mary,

I keep calling out for you in the night. I know you can't answer, but I still do it.

Please don't make me dream alone. Every time I close my eyes, I reach for you. I try to find you in that darkness, but you're never there. Just empty space where you used to be.

I'm tired, Mary. So tired. But I'm afraid of the quiet that comes when I sleep.

I wish you were here.

—Theodore

Mary,

The finality of your absence is sinking in. I am submerged in a murky black ocean, and I am running out of breath. After all of this time. You're really gone. I am out of air. I gasp and my lungs fill with cold water. I have been waiting for something that will never happen.

I keep thinking that maybe one day I'll turn a corner or open a door and there you'll be, smiling at me like it's all been a mistake. Like you've just been out for a while and now you're back. But that's not how it works. You're never coming back.

I don't know how to make sense of it becuase it *doesn't* make sense. The days blur together. I get up. I go to bed. And none of it feels real, but it is. It's real and you're not. And you're dead, and I'm not. And I hate that I'm still here when you're not.

I wish I could be stronger, Mary. I wish I could be better. But it all feels pointless without you.

—Theodore

Mary,

It's happening, and I don't know how to stop it. I can still hear your voice sometimes, but it's quieter now. I see your face when I close my eyes, but the edges are blurred. The little details—the way you used to laugh, the exact shade of your eyes when the light hit them just right—they're slipping away. I never thought that would happen. Not to you.

You're fading, Mary. It feels like you're dying all over again, and I can't hold on. I try. I try so hard to remember everything, every moment we had, but the memories are soft now, like they're dissolving before I even notice. I thought I'd always have them. I thought I'd always have _you_.

I don't want to forget. I don't want you to fade. But it's like trying to keep water in my hands, slipping through no matter how tightly I hold on.

I can't even hear the music the same way anymore. The songs we used to love feel distant, like echoes that get softer with each passing day. I play them, hoping they'll bring you back, but even they're quieter now.

I'm scared, Mary. I'm scared of the day when I wake up and realize that you're gone—not just from this world, but from me. From my mind, my heart. I don't know what I'll do then.

I just want to keep you here with me. But you're slipping away. And I can't stop it.

—Theodore