I'd found this bundle of letters at the back of my closet a few days ago, and I've been reading them with the utmost fascination. They've all been signed "Sincerily, RF", which is quite funny because those are Robert's intitials, and he has letters signed RS which are mine.
They were quite interesting, detailing a young man's adventures across Europe, being an amanuensis for a composer in Belgium and other such things.
It was all well and good until yesterday when I got to the last letter, dated December 12th, 1931.
In it, this man talks about how he's come to the end of his life, and there was only one solution.
And then that night, oh god that night I had such dreams.
I dreamed that it was me receiving these letters, and that it was my Robert sending them. In my dream, the moment I finished the letter, I got on the train and sped to Robert's rescue.
But I was too late. By only moments. And I held him in my arms as he died.
I'm shaken to my absolute core. I don't know what to think.