Arro arrived as he always did. On the winds, that vial on his ankle kept secure. When she unraveled the rolled paper it read in an exact, sweeping hand:

Dearest Jules, I know it is this body. This mind. This heart that brings you joy. It is yours that brings joy to me as well. But right now I cannot find that place you taught me to find. I cannot. Forgiveness. For myself. For all the things I have done. Seen. And still see. Today that place was not easy to find. So I decided a trip to the market, maybe for some supplies, maybe just to shake off the winter was in order. And then the market turned into the forest. And the forest into a trip where I will be unable to return tonight, or maybe even the next. And for that I cannot forgive myself. I cannot hate them for long because they have to carry me back to you. But for now the wind has taken them and set them on a path I did not intend to take. Please believe me. Please believe me when I say the night will never be warm again until I can spend it sleeping beside you. But today I could not find it. I hope you can find it, in yourself, for me because I've come all this way and cannot. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe some day. Forgive me. Always, Hawk