No. No.


Not my Moritz, not my friend, my pirate, my secret-keeper. That's not you. That bang was not your gun and you are not lying on the ground with your head a mess of blood and shattered bone. It can't be.

But it is.

How could you do this, Moritz? I thought you were brave! I thought you could do anything! I never told you that, did I? All that time we were together and I was thinking it, but I never told you. When I think on it, I realize there's a lot I never told you.

It's my fault. I know that and I'll take the blame. I'll take the blame, I'll go to Hell, I'll spend my whole life repenting if you'll just come back to me. Just... come back.

I want to kiss your lips and breathe life back into them. Be my Sleeping Beauty, Moritz. Please?

"Moritz, please! Please!"

But there are no lips to kiss and I can't keep looking at your face, so broken and unreal.

Your hands, though. If I take the gun away they look the same as always. I'll settle for them. And each time I kiss them your heart will beat, and it will grow stronger and stronger until beats on its own.

It isn't working. Let it work, Moritz! Why are you doing this? Don't you want to be with me?! I won't run away this time, Moritz. I won't yell at you, either. I'll walk you home. I'll hold your hand, just like this, and we can talk. I'll help you by asking you questions about the Hapsburgs. I'll do your equations for you. I'll recite Virgil with you and make it into a song so it's easier for you to remember. I promise, Moritz.

"I promise!"

Your hands, Moritz. God, I love your hands. You complained that they weren't big and strong like Melchior Gabor's, but they're ten times better than his. Your hands are small and neat and beautiful. You have artist's hands, did you know that? Just like an artist's. I'd know; I've lived with so many of them. They aren't hands that could lift a heavy weight or build a barn, but they couldn't hurt anyone, either. Your hands are too clever for that. They are meant for holding a pen and drawing a patch of wildflowers, for bringing a sculpture out of a slab of marble or a hunk of wood.

I'm starting to understand why you did it, Moritz. And I want you to know it's okay. You were scared. We all do stupid things when we're scared. I was scared too, only I got angry instead. I shouldn't have let you be afraid all by yourself. I should have protected you!

I want so many things, Moritz. I want you sit up and be whole again, I want you to say you'll never leave, I want...

"I want you back."

I can't have you, can I? I'll never have you again and that isn't fair. Nothing's fair, is it? We both should know that by now. Something tells me you already do.

And nothing stays the same, either. You're so much better than I'll ever be but you wouldn't – couldn't – last and show that. It's okay, Moritz. I saw you. The whole time, I saw you.

Except tonight. Tonight I was a silly little girl who got angry and wouldn't understand.

"Forgive me, Moritz, please please forgive me..."

I can't stay much longer. It's so dark and I'm scared. I said I wasn't afraid of anything and you thought it was true, remember? But Moritz, you wouldn't believe how many things frighten me.

And I also know that you won't be returning. Spring will fade away into summer, and summer will turn into autumn, but it won't make any difference. I see that now. But before I go I should tell you...

"I love you, Moritz. You never saw that and I never made you. But I do."

Forever and always.