text: August 4, 1892 Dear diary, I have awoken this morning with the very same cold that has haunted me for nearly a week now, and I am starting to wonder if I have brought this unending ailment upon myself through my own hubris. The light cuts through the shades and stabs my eyes with a precision I long thought improbable of nature alone. How could this illness possibly prove the result of a weak constitution when my heart always beat so strong? For a while, I was convinced that my suffering could only be the result of a man’s meddling, though who the man behind the meddling might be, to this day I could not say. But I have always known my sheer determination to see me through any trial of nature, so the only possibility that seemed to remain was that of an attacker intent on concealing himself among friends. But now I think to myself, has the world not proven itself a force beyond measure? Nature has taken down many a soul far kinder and more generous than myself. Perhaps this sickness is not the vengeance of a man wronged by my family, but of a vindictive light snuffed when I let myself walk into the darkness. Did I let myself wander into the dark? Have I grown weak hiding from the light for too long? Am I now suffering for my grave misdeeds? I am no longer sure of my conviction. My pain continues, and the light will not relent. I’ve danced with the devil for some time now, I suppose. I can no longer deny the truth of the matter. Every penny in the bank, every prayer around the table, I’ve descended further and further from the nature of who I was intended to be. The light embraces those who rejoice in the natural order, and yet I continue to stand by my family that finds fortune in their artificial shade. Perhaps I let my hope for the material surpass the nature of the immaterial that dictates this world. I could have walked away. But I let the dim become my new norm. I believe it is too late for me to turn back the wheels of fate. Though I write with an energy I’ve not felt since my illness began, I am further convinced with each passing day that I will never recover. Just as the sun never ceases to shine, the world will not let up it’s torment of my shaded, jaded heart. Yes, I feel that my end is near. I fear that my soul shall never find justice or peace. It’s far too late for that now. If I am doomed for eternity, though, let it not be said that I let my fear diminish my final moments of solace. I will bask not in the light that burns me so, but in the life that I have chosen for myself. Family, friendship and fortune are my comforts. I could not have ever pursued another path. My child is here now, and she brings with her a reminder of why I’ve let my soul wander from its nature - as she draws the shades closed and blocks out the sun, I know I would sooner die in the embrace of love than live a spinster life without. The short time with my family was worth any torment that might lay ahead of me now. I wonder what will become of my dearest kin when I am long gone and buried beneath a growing collection of moments past. My love always promised that, without me, he could not go on another day; the words now seem a threat if these are, in fact, my final hours. I fear that he will prove himself to be a man of his word come day’s end. But will the children grow healthy and strong when I am no longer able to demonstrate those very same qualities? They have endured loss before, and I’ve no doubt they’ll endure again. Still, I wonder if these days they have shared with my doomed soul will bring them in turn to the dark. Will they overcome the shadow that my imminent demise is sure to cast on their future? No one is ever free of their past. Not entirely. Try as I might, I know I have never come close to healing their hurts. I know, going forward, my fate will always have a hold over their hearts. I hope that, with time, they will find a way to fill this space I am destined to leave in their home with laughter, with love, and with all the gifts I’ve been lucky enough to find in them. Might they even find their way back to the light to overcome the shadows of legacy and legend. The past will always be there, but I must believe that they can thrive nonetheless. I am beginning to feel drowsy once again - perhaps that is how it feels to come to terms with one’s own mortality - but my child continues to tend to me in my weakened state. I am certain now that I am richer than any of those living in their mansions, flaunting their toys for all to admire. She does not know the illness of a soul corrupt; she could be in the garden, planting and playing and savoring in the sunlight. But she stays by my side. She says she would rather be by my side. I think that she knows my death is at hand as well. If walking in the darkness has brought me to my deathbed, then I am grateful it has not brought me here alone. How strange it is to be here like this, though - for the longest time, I did not even know if she wanted me in her life; now, it is she that tends to me in my loneliest hour. These quiet moments of togetherness make my long descent from grace worthwhile. Even Icarus would have welcomed the fall if she had waited below with arms wide. She is stronger than I had thought she would be. Not a single tear escapes from those ghostly gray eyes as I scribble my final ruminations, and for that I am grateful. I know she will not be broken by my passing - a girl that strong is certain to overcome all of the odds. She will leave her mark on the world. Even nature itself will learn my sweet Lizbeth’s name. But for now, her strength is intended for me and me alone. I hope that, when the end does come, she might find it in her heart to extend to her father that very same strength she’s shown me. Heaven knows that this family will need it when darkness strikes them down once again. From your truly, Abby Bor-