Dearest, Before I begin, I feel that I should warn you. I feel that the shock of this message will alarm you and for good reason. The very idea of what I'm suggesting still seems like madness, even to me. However, I strongly encourage you to read until the end. Once you've finished you are welcome to come to whatever conclusion you will. Though, we have never met face to face that I am only a stranger to you, my name only words on a page. With that said, I can only hope that my story will give you all that you will need to grant me credibility and enough information for you to make the most important decision of your life.

 I was once in your place, wounded by death, staring distantly at a letter that sounded as if the maddest of men wrote it. The letter itself looked even worse than the man sounded. Circular watermarks spread almost rhythmically across it, two at a time a short distance apart. Had it not been for my years of teaching I probably wouldn’t have been able to read the illegible handwriting. It was almost as if each letter of the writing were written in pain instead of ink. Even the parchment was odd; particularly the smell of it. One that was not more displeasing than strange and out of place. Smelled something like Sulfur. I can’t honestly tell you what kept me reading through the pages. If it was my own desperateness or the author’s, I’m still not sure but soon the distant feeling was replaced by an intensity as physical as gravity. As I read each line I struggled to hold back tears, choking as I added watermarks of my own to the large collection. I felt his loss as deeply as I felt my own. I could hear his voice in my head crying out with empathy for my lost one and I. Each word desperately reached for me, threatening to pull me into the page as he promised a solution to my pain. His words plead with me. Each bid me to disregard rationality and read just a little bit further. For days after I couldn’t get his voice out of my head. Nor his name, Evan.

Much like you, the circumstances of my life were very different before I found myself in the position to read my letter. I worked at a university as a professor of science. I followed a mundane daily routine that I was not quite fond of but continued anyway. I had friends with varying interests similar to mine. I had a wife. She slept beside me every night, the lavender scent of her hair in my face. Emma knew everything about me. She would answer my questions before I’d ask them and she gave me her special smile reserved solely for me. During the day I spent hours giving or preparing lectures for class. At lunch, I’d meet with my best friend, Pete, who worked in the history department of the university. In an effort to entertain, Pete would thrust himself into wild tangents of local history and folklore. If you let him, he’d perform a one-man reinactment of the story. At night, I’d come home to my Emma, who helped me to forget the dullness of the day.

The week before finals, I returned home after a string of late office hour visits, my mind predominately occupied by work. The day’s down pour of snow made the drive home long and irritating. I kicked my feet at the door knocking the snow from my boots, watching Emma though the bay window. She sat peacefully, painting the essences of the snow globe-like day. I stepped inside my home and without taking my boots or coat off I hurried towards her brushing my lips on her cheek before banishing myself to my mahogany desk in the study.

“ Can we talk?” she asked standing in the doorway.

“Right now? I just spent all afternoon with a bunch of students are complaining that I haven’t made a practice exam and that my exams are too hard. If I write them tonight I can hand it out tomorrow then go over it on Friday. Jesus, I haven’t even written the final yet and the exam is Monday.” I said, hoping she’d understand.

“ You think you might have a time later tonight?” she said as she walked closer to me. I opened the chemistry book that sat on my desk and began fumbling through the pages, silently reflecting on past exam questions.

“ Sorry Em but this is probably going to take me a while, maybe all night since I apparently need to figure out how to write fair questions. I’m not trying to blow you off, its just this could take a while and I have to get this done. We can talk after, I promise.”

 “Fine, When its convienient for you come find me." She added, as she left the study and closed the door.

 Under standard conditions being in the study excellerated my work process. I could look around the room and of all the things I saw something always inspired me. That day, I looked around and I only saw the room for what it was: walls furnished by a large oak bookshelves that held all my favorite authors’ novels, my published work and old textbooks from previous chemistry classes I taught. I saw the door that when it was open perfectly showed the place that Emma sat while she painted. I looked to the front of my desk to see the wide window that over looked an extensive length of our land and to each side of it one of Emma’s most recent portraits. None of it held any influence over me.

 After some time I heard the door open followed by several soft footsteps. I thought Emma must have sensed my deteriorating mood because she ran her thin fingers though my hair, kissed my neck and walked away without saying a word. In the background I could hear her humming some slow, sweet melody; a song that up until recently I struggled to replay. I don’t know how long I sat at my desk reading over my questions, wording then rewording my sentences before fatigue took over me. I slumped in my chair and stretched in tired frustration as I looked for out of the window for a distraction. Through the moonlight I could see the snow of the trees winding themselves around in coils with the aid of the wind. The door opened and Emma came in. As if by some invisible message she knew I needed her.

“You know what you look like you could use?” she said.

“A new job?” I said, running my hands over my face.

“And coffee.” She said.

“True but I think somebody drank the last of it this morning.” I teased.

“ Yes and that somebody is willing to go to the store to get more. You should close your eyes for a bit until I get back. You look tired.” She said jingling her keys.

“You are the most brilliant woman in the world.” I kissed her.

“Oh, Professor, do go on.” “You’ll get the rest of your compliment when you get back. Then I’ll have a cup of coffee, finish my papers, go to sleep.” I said to both Emma and myself glad to have an excuse to take a break. Emma smiled her special smile. She wrapped her scarf tight around her neck after putting each arm into her coat and I lay down on the couch not far from the door. She walked over bend down and kissed my forehead.

“ Something to remember me by. You’d better have some fantastic compliments for me when I get back.” She said then she left, door shutting loudly behind her. When I woke I noticed there was no coffee on the stand near my head and a loud banging at my front door. I rose making no attempt to hide my disheveled state. Walking I looked from side to side as I headed towards the door. Still there was no evidence of Emma, her shoes, coat and scarf were missing. I thought maybe Emma managed to lock herself out again. She had a way of easily getting into odd situations. Despite, the now closed curtains of our windows I could see it was still night but light was beginning to overcome the darkness. I looked to the outside through the crescent shaped window above the door for varification. Outside it was indeed becoming day. The air seemed to hold some magnificent power able to suspend motion. Snowflakes anchored themselves in midair. I opened the door expecting to see Emma but instead Pete stood looking blue in the face, his breath lingering in the air. His hands tightly clutching Emma’s scarf. He tried to speak but no words would leave his mouth. Instead he looked back behind him towards a police vehicle parked in my driveway, choked and cried.

“Is she hurt?” I heard myself say. He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to say anything. The look on his face told me everything I needed to know. I shut the door, leaving Pete outside. The thought sucked the air out of my lungs; collapsing my chest. I was not dead but my soul stretched and pulled itself away from my body in an unsuccessful attempt to join with her. I felt my body splitting in two. I lost myself, unable to control the eruption of emotion ceasing my body. Our home, which was just moments before warm and inviting was now haunted by emptiness.

Pete let himself in. I focused on the sound of his footsteps to steady my breathing. He had to fight through his sobbing to speak.

 “Roads are pretty icy. I was on my way to the store and I found her. She must have lost control of the vehicle.” He said as he continued I couldn’t hear a sound. Leaving Pete where he was I wondered through the house searching for her. Throwing open every door, looking from room to room hoping to find Emma gazing out of the window looking for inspiration to paint. I needed to see her with the sun in her face, her hand covering her eyes freeing me from her magnetic gaze for just a moment. I stopped searching through every room. I forced my mind to assume control over my body again. I knew she was gone and no amount of searching would bring her back.