Maybe tell me about those letters. Confession is good for the soul."I expected her to tear into me yet again, but instead she stayed silent for several seconds, running her fingers over the trim of her blanket. "I do belive my soul is past the point of helping.""That's not true. It's never too late."She looked at the town as we walked by, her eyes heavy with fatigue. And an ache so deep, it didn't have a name. I'd seen that look in my own mirror."I gave up that right many years ago," she said. "My fate is like those envelopes-sealed and tossed aside.
Jenny B. Jones, There You'll Find Me
fate, fatigue