Alfred laid the ten sealed envelopes on the desk of the musty old study. Everything was how it was since the last time Arthur was in it-the papers scattered around the room, the teacup sat on its porcelain saucer, even the chair was in same spot since the last time the Englishman scooted back to get up.

There the ten envelopes would stay. Their pages scrawled words of meaning that would never be read, hundreds of darkened tear marks stained the paper and smudged the writing.

Ten letters sealed with love so pure and true that it seemed to transcend the barrier of death.

Ten letters filled with the feeling of now being incomplete without the party addressed at the writer's side.

Ten letters addressed to and from the same place, never meant to reach the postman.

Ten letters lie on a dust covered desk in a room exempt from time, never to change in the slightest, always to be locked away from all but those who had the key to unlock it.

Alfred paused at the doorway on his way out, hand on the knob. He looked over his shoulder, and whispered just a handful of words before shutting the door, pitching the room in black.

'I love you. I miss you.'