text: She found herself looking for her wedding ring. The woman was sure that she didn’t misplace it, because she hardly took it off, except for an occasional clean every six months. She had searched everywhere and she was becoming desperate. Her wedding ring was all that she had left of her late husband. Her dark, wavy hair was in disarray. Her clothes were caked in dust. Searching through the storage room was her last option. Her hand brushed against a box. Could it be? Curiously and eagerly she got the box from the cabinet. Her dark brown eyes gazed at the innocent box. The box was filled with letters. A light gasp escaped her mouth when she recognised the familiar handwriting. Messy, yet intelligible. It was her husband’s letters; she never found out that he kept all of his letters for her, even the ones that he did not send. Hands trembling from emotion, she opened a letter. “I came up with some shitty poetry today,”She read aloud. “It’s a far cry from my best work, but I hope and pray that it cheers you up. I don’t know if you’ll ever read this, since it was my fault for being a complete arse for the past few weeks. But please, my dearest, write to me if you have the time.” The woman paused.Her emotions nearly overtook her. She could clearly hear his voice as if he was beside her. Was it her imagination? It was only a few weeks after the horrid news that she received. There was nothing that could bring her husband back. “Here it is, my beloved, a short prose of a love struck would be poet for his muse. “Oaths are not meant to be broken. Names have power; your name that has escaped my lips has left me enthralled, enchanted by the very thought of us being loved so deeply that the oceans cannot fathom its depths.” She glanced at the paper. She spoke his name for the first time since he passed. Her husband always had a way with words. Something in the short prose-- or was it poetry-- stunned her and made her choke out, trying to stem the flood of emotions that overtook her. Her husband’s stories and poetry always calmed her down. She had to learn more. •• It turned out that he had left more than a dozen letters in the storage room, all of them unsent to her. She spent hours poring over his words, his emotions and his messy scribbles and short drawings. There was one letter of his that tore her heart apart. It was grief that finally took hold of her, aided by simple prose. “To sleep and to dream are two intertwined things. A dream can last seconds-even a few minutes. It fades. But what if I dream of you even before I have met you? It seems that I have known you for forever and a day. So intertwined our souls are. To dream of you is a delight. Whatever happens, my beloved, I will find you in another life and we will be together again. Until then, I will wait for you.