I sat there in utter astonishment, reading and re-reading a letter that had been written for no one.  Its simple beauty and utter honesty were something that one had a hard time finding these days, and that I could scarce believe were in my two hands.  Absentmindedly, I pushed my long, brown hair away from my eyes to better see the treasure I had come across.  I had found it just lying on my table at one of my favorite cafés just off of Diagon Alley.  I came here maybe once or twice a week, sat in the same table, in the same corner, and, it seemed, pondered the same things over a strong cup of coffee.

            Today would be different.  I had The Letter to wonder over.  I flipped it over, and looked once again for more to this artist's writing.  I tried to deduce what sort of person would write such a thing.  It said simply:

To My One,

I will love you wholly and completely, without question or compromise, without reason or want.  But You, who are perfect in infinite ways, how will You ever love me?

It was left unsigned, and with no clue as to how long it had been sitting there behind the napkin rack.  Had the person left it there for a reason?  Was someone supposed to be coming to find the letter?  Deciding that must be it, I carefully folded the letter back up and made sure it was left the way I had found it.  Gathering my study materials, I left the café and started making my way back to Muggle London.  If the letter was there the next time I came, I decided, I would leave some sort of message.

            The next couple of days passed quickly in a blur of classes and work.  The two things in my life that took up most of my time, and left me too tired to do much else.  I headed to my café in eager anticipation.  I was hoping the letter was still there, but I knew that if the person who it was meant for had not found it by now, surely the waitress would have cleaned it off.

            It was still there.  Right where I had left it, tucked neatly behind the napkin rack.  I took it out, read it once again, and then pulled out a bic pen, and wrote on the back of the note:

To The Artist,

I do not mean to offend, but feel I must tell you this; your words stun the heart and weave a magic around a person.  It should be easy for anyone to love you.

It had taken me two cups of coffee, and thirty minutes, but I felt that I had something simple and explanatory enough to almost rival the author of the original letter.  Almost.