Constantine sighed as she put down the last of the boxes, the force disturbing the dust and making her eyes water a bit. “That should be the last one for the living room.”

She heard the door open, and the realtor—all crisp suit, pointy shoes, and gelled hair—entered the room with a stack of papers in one hand. “I’ve contacted a few potential buyers for the house. We only need to finalize the papers and have you sign them for the house to be officially on the market. Thank you for volunteering to sort through the things here. Do you have any plans for them?”

“It’s no problem. These are all my late great aunt’s things, after all,” Constantine replied. “I still don’t have any solid plans for them. For now, I’ll see if I can use some of these in my home. I’ll probably donate the rest.”

“You are the only heir left, correct?”

“Yes,” Constantine nodded. “It was initially left under my late father’s name, but as he does not have any siblings, and I am also an only child, the attorney updated the papers under my name.”

“Well, then I’ll leave these all to your discretion,” the man said, indicating the boxes, as he noted the address of the property. He looked around the living room, now more spacious-looking with all the furniture packed in boxes. “Still, this is a beautiful house. A bit spacious for a single person, but the location was beautiful and peaceful. This place would have served you well.”

“Well,” the woman paused, giving the man a bit of a smile, the light not reaching her eyes. “I don’t have much in life to worry about these days.”

The realtor didn’t stay much longer, saying that he’d have to prepare the remaining necessary documents and left. Constantine did a quick review around the house to see what else she missed, but then the sounds of booming thunder suddenly echoed through the walls, and a quick look at the window showed the dark clouds quickly gathering. She hadn’t realized that it was already this late.

“Great,” she mumbled, a bit put off. At this rate, if she insists on returning home, then she’ll probably be drenched.

Not like she could consider her apartment her home. Not yet, anyway, with the furniture being too new, the walls still too empty, the smell too unfamiliar.

She ate one of her last two sandwiches under the light of her phone, wondering if she should pull out another box for things she could take home, when she accidentally knocked over her food container and spilled the last of her food.

“Great,” she sighed, moving to pick up the mess—

[Quite clumsy, sweetheart. You need to be more careful, or you’ll end up hurt.]

Constantine could feel her lips pursed as she heard his voice inside her head, one that she had been trying to forget for weeks. So far, all her efforts had been for naught, and as if barely any time had passed, she could still hear his words as clearly as she had heard them yesterday.

[Are you ignoring me? Did I do something wrong?]

[You’re being overdramatic now. Can’t you try getting over whatever it is rather than taking it out on me?]

[Is that how little you trust me?]

[Please let me explain. It’s not what you think!]

[I miss you. I miss your voice. Please open the door. Please let me see you.]

Constantine put the container with the spilled food in the sink, deciding that she’d clean it up tomorrow. Somehow, she felt so drained, like all the work she did that day and more was suddenly weighing her shoulders down. She knew she had some explaining to do to her relatives and friends. They're probably worried, but she was unsure if she could handle giving any explanation yet.

Not when it concerns Anthony.

“Shit. Great.”

Tell-tale pricks at the corner of her eyes made her rub them almost furiously, the slight sting grounding her. Constantine took a quick deep breath, willing the feelings to ebb out of her. She should stop making them ruin her day. She’s already tired of crying.

Wishing to get her mind off things, she went up to the second floor to see if she could use any room to sleep. She checked the first room, gazing at the framed pictures that covered the space. Old bottles were neatly arranged in an ornate-looking vanity, along with a lone small picture frame of a young woman. Constantine picked it up, recognizing the familial features in the young woman’s face: the wavy hair pinned in a neat bun, the heart-shaped chin, the small nose, the large eyes. This must be her Great-Aunt Marta.

A small key was taped securely behind the picture frame. From the design, it should be the key to open the small drawer of the vanity table, which was proven correct as she tried it on. Now curious, Constantine slowly opened the drawer to see a rectangular-shaped object. She raised her lamp higher for better light and picked the leather-bound object, the smell of the yellowing sheets of paper and dust assaulting her senses.

'A book?’ Constantine thought, piqued. She remembered that there was a small study room on the first floor with a couple of tall bookshelves that housed a few books, mostly about art and history. She wondered why this one was specifically hidden.

With her whole attention now engaged, Constantine moved to sit down on the floor. She flipped through the pages carefully, minding the book’s age, and read along the blank-ink words across the pages. It seemed to be another history book. She turned the cover, wanting to know the title of the book, when a small black-and-white picture of a young man in a uniformed suit fell out. On the back of the image, the year 1875 was written.

The page of the book itself was covered with multiple notes in its margins. Constantine peered closer and quickly realized they were not notes about the book; they were love notes.

[I went to a snack party at the insistence of my sister the other day. She said I should go out more rather than spend my time inside the house moping. And yet, no matter the topics of conversation during such occasions, I still find our talks more engaging and interesting. The thought only made me miss you more.]

Constantine flipped through another page, and the penmanship looked completely different from the previous one. 

[I am counting the days for Sunday to come, as I will be able to meet with you again. I have planned a small surprise for you at our usual place, as we couldn't see each other on your birthday. I cannot wait to see you.]

Every available space within the pages of the book was filled with notes and sketches of ordinary objects: flowers, tables, a coffee mug. As she skimmed through, a piece of paper fell down her lap along with a small black-and-white picture of a young man in a uniformed suit. Constantine couldn’t recognize the uniform, but she could see what looked like an insignia of a golden one-winged eagle. A member of the military, perhaps?

She picked up the fallen paper and traced her fingers on the written words with a feather-light touch. The edges were stiff and smudged with what she thought was mud. It was a letter, and by penmanship, written by one of the authors of the love letters scribbled in the book. This time, however, the handwriting looked more shaky, the lines slightly crooked.

Beloved,

They say words can be parting gifts, but would these words of mine ever be enough, even as I still pray for another day to live, for another day to wait for your reply?

My heart aches so deeply that any words I use would never be enough to describe it. Even the sky seems to share this despair of mine, as it continued to rain since the day started. It has barely let up, but I find myself hardly caring even as it makes the entire camp cold and damp. What do I care for the weather when a death sentence is all but imminent?

I feel like crying and shouting for someone to hear the agony deep within me as I recognize the end. An order has been issued for us to march into battle before the crack of dawn. I tried to keep myself together, conscious of how fear could easily slip through a man’s cracked mask, and yet I could still recognize the same fear racking my comrades’ frames. They knew, as well as I, that this might be the last march of our lives.

I wish I could see you again, love. I wish I could gaze at your face so I might capture a picture of it and keep it with me. Much like the day we first met, under the showers of yellow petals carried by the wind. I told you that I’ve never seen anything more beautiful, and you shake your head in bashfulness and doubt. I never lied; until now, even through all the magnificent sights I have seen, you remain the most beautiful one in my eyes.

I feel like I’m starting to forget the shape of you, and that, more than the thought of dying, scares me beyond comprehension.

“I will come back to you.” That was what I promised you. And yet I fear I might have to break that promise. I could only ask for your forgiveness. But, if my wish could be granted even beyond the boundaries of time, then I wish, if you allow it, to spend the entirety of my next life with you. And maybe in this one, I could give you all the love and dedication that you so deserve.

Goodbye, my love.

B.D. Clarke.