Sarah had come a long way since that fateful night. She had matured into a beautiful, talented young lady. Now a well known name on Broadway, she was used to fan letters. She hadn't expected this one, though.

"My beautiful Sarah," it began. "I hope this letter finds you well. It's been some time since I last spoke to you. I wouldn't be surprised if you no longer remembered me. I would like to arrange a time for us to speak again, to catch up on old times. I will be in town to watch your latest performance in thirteen days. If you would like to act upon my invitation, please respond before then."

It was signed simply with an elegant "J".

She had gotten letters before that requested her to meet people she didn't know. She never accepted them, but always politely replied explaining why. She figured this would be no different.

"Dear Sir or Madam J," she wrote with her well practiced penmanship. "As you choose to remain anonymous, I cannot be certain whether or not I know you. Unless I do know you, I will have to politely decline your invitation. However, please do enjoy my, and the rest of the cast's performance. We gladly accept your patronage."

She looked at the letter to confirm where to send it to. Oddly, the return address was unfamiliar and familiar at the same time. It was odd, to say the least.

The next day, after rehearsal, she found that she had another letter.

"Dearest Sarah," it said. "If my desire to remain anonymous is the only thing preventing our meeting again, then I shall gladly make you aware of who I am. Are you still interested in meeting me after the show?"

This time, it was signed "Jareth," just as elegantly as the previous letter. The name seemed familiar, and foreboding, but Sarah could not place where she knew it from.

"Dear Mister Jareth," she replied, her mind telling her that Jareth was most definitely a masculine name, "I am afraid that I still do not recall who you are. I do admit that your name is familiar, but I still cannot place it. If I can remember you, then there may be a chance of me wanting to meet you after the show. Unless that happens, though, then unfortunately I will not meet you. Perhaps a picture would jog my memory?"

She sent it, expecting that after the next reply she could simply say "no" with good reason. The response was in her room the next day.

"Dear Sarah," it said. "Unfortunately, I never bothered to actually own a camera, so I do not have any pictures of myself. However, I can describe my appearance, if it would help.

"I have golden hair and mismatched eyes. I've been told that my cheekbones are rather high and apparent. I am a man of great importance. I am also a talented juggler, if that helps at all."

"That's odd," she thought. "Who, in this day and age, doesn't own a camera?" Well, she had to admit, he's trying very hard to get her to meet him. Who did she know that has blonde hair, mismatched eyes, and juggles? And what did he mean by "great importance?" There was no harm in asking him, right?

"Dear Jareth," she wrote. "I am attempting to picture you in my head, but I cannot seem to do it. It appears I am familiar with several men who have blonde hair, but I don't know anyone with mismatched eyes, or at the very least, I do not remember them. I'm not sure about the juggling bit, as I don't think I know any jugglers. What exactly is this "great importance" of which you are a man of?"

Again, the next day she had a response.

"Dear Sarah," it said. "I have tried being subtle and patient because I am afraid the memories you may have of me, however deeply buried, are not fond ones. I am simply wishing to start with a clean slate and right the wrongs of the past, which unfortunately, you are a part of. I sincerely apologize if the memories only cause hatred for me, and I understand completely if you do not wish to meet me after your show. I will still see it, though."

This time, it was signed, still beautifully, "Jareth, the Goblin King."

The memories came back, and he was right. They were painful, brutal, and even terrifying. Under no circumstances would anyone consider them "fond". She did not, and would not trust him. This time, she didn't write a response until the day before the performance.

"Goblin King," it said. "I know I am going to regret this, but I will accept your invitation. I wish to express my distaste for you in person. There is a coffee shop close to the theatre which stays open late on performance nights. You should have no trouble finding it. Meet me there after the show. If you want to prove to me that you really have changed, do it then."