The Hunter Ambrogio, sitting on the cliff, wrote the last word of the love poem in ancient Greek and gave it to the wind. It was Japanese silk paper, and flew like a little feather in the slightest of breezes, up in the sky, towards the moon.
He watched it without words, engulfed by his emotions. Love, remorse. The memory of her.
No, he would not have chosen otherwise. All the horrors that came later were worth the love in the beginning. The chance to let her live forever in him, in their children. He listened for her in his own being, but she was silent now. Sometimes, when he wrote with passion, and concentrated on the words, he could feel her light touch in his mind. Like the slightest of caresses, an effort to communicate.
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