I slowly unfolded the letters. They were addressed to Mr. Whitaker, in elegant, shaky handwriting. Every line whispered longing, heartbreak, and hidden truth.

I see you when I close my eyes at night…”

“He’s away again. It feels wrong to miss you, but I do.”

“If I don’t survive this… promise me you’ll protect her.”

My hands trembled.

I felt the walls around my identity begin to crack.

These weren’t just love letters.

They were pleas.

The last one said simply: