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To say that our situation was critical was an understatement. Everyone was at risk. The world had become radically different from what it had been in the days when Heather's letter was written. My memories of this precious time seemed like a dream now, of fairy tale worlds, where everything is bright and wonderful, as fairy tales ought to be. And even in these fairy tale worlds, that we had convinced ourselves to be normal, our world had indeed been comparable to that of a fairy tale. All this stood now in contrast with the gray and black reality that the Typhoon represented, a different reality that we had learned to comprehend over the years, and hadn't been able to escape from.
Maybe Heather's letter came to mind as a diversion for an escape from the reality that was confronting us. I had come across the letter just recently, while ordering my desk. I had felt good about reading it again, though; of course I knew its contents by heart. Except now, in the dark, in an atmosphere of crisis and apprehension the contents of the letter was drawn together with everything else into a combination of fears, joys, mixed together with the pain of my muscles being applied hard against the oars. And all that was pervaded by the puzzle of the Russian captain, who was no longer visible in the distance against the dark hull of his ship that barely stood out against the black of the enfolding night.
It was as though I could still feel my hands shaking, as they did so long ago when I had first put Heather's letter down onto the bed beside me. It had been written in fine handwriting on the sand-colored stationery that the hotel had provided. Everything had been sand-colored there. Heather had been delighted with the place. She had loved its location, its atmosphere, and the way it blended into the background of the beach. She had named it "The Sand Castle" and requested that we stay an extra day. Perhaps she had intended this extra day to be set-aside for a final celebration. Oh, how unaware I was of that!
I had noticed the letter the moment I woke the next morning. I found it stuck behind the telephone dial. Some tiny wildflowers protruded from the turned over flap of the envelope and some heather. We had picked those together the evening before, some with tiny blue blossoms. I could still remember her shriek of delight when she found the patch of heather. Perplexed, I held it in my hand with the envelope. The first paragraph cut deep into my soul, but I couldn't cry that day. No tears came.
I looked at the wildflowers again, and the heather. I knew I would treasure those tiny blossoms for the rest of my life. Eventually the tears came; bitter tears, but I felt no remorse. We had done nothing wrong, committed no crime, we had dared to jump ahead farther than we could see, into an unknown world. That wasn't a crime. Nothing evil had been done. No immoral act had been committed.
I reached over to her side of the bed to figure out how long she had been gone. The empty bed was cold. It was a quarter to ten. A streak of sunshine came into the room through a space where the curtains didn't quite meet. I got up and opened them wide, and the windows. Fresh air came flooding in. How often we had sat like this together, or in bed propped up with pillows, looking out onto the world.
My hands were still trembling when I sat down by the open window with the letter, holding it in my hands again. I closed my eyes. Only reluctantly did I open them again to read on.
"By the time you read this, dearest, I may have reached my friend's cabin," she had written. "It's not far from the Sand Castle. I'll be thinking of you. But, please, don't come looking for me. I know my leaving will hurt. Forgive me for this, it hurts me, too. Forgive me for having fallen in love with you. Try to understand that this pain is a small price to pay, considering the alternative. I trust you agree.
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