Not fifteen this time, but nine—nine distinct attempts to read more into her brief note—brief but full of something Robin hoped was hate. Hate could be righted, redirected. It was a side of love. Better than apathy. Better than nothing.
(He told himself this repeatedly. Maybe he'd eventually believe it.)
At least now he had a name, knew something of her life now. Burroughs. It did not feel right, but it was something.
Still better than nothing.
(Still didn't believe himself.)
(He told himself this repeatedly. Maybe he'd eventually believe it.)
At least now he had a name, knew something of her life now. Burroughs. It did not feel right, but it was something.
Still better than nothing.
(Still didn't believe himself.)
11th September, 1893
Mrs. Burroughs,
I understand that my original letter would have caught you altogether off-guard. I had thought at first to come to you directly, but neither knew where to look nor wished to disrupt your life if you were happy. It cuts to the quick to learn that you are not.
There is nearly no explanation that I can imagine your ever finding satisfying, and that which there is—that is, the truth—is not something I may commit to ink and parchment. If not out of kindness or love or forgiveness, but merely out of curiosity, you would allow me to see you, I will do all within my power to help you understand. Beyond that, I will ask nothing of you.
Just an hour. Half. A quarter.
Ever yours, never once deserving,
R.
R.
— set by mj —