I picked up the letter and held it between my hands, turning it over slowly. The moment my eyes fell upon the page, I felt the ground beneath me tilt ever so slightly.
Every word I had written was gone.
Completely erased—as if an unseen hand had passed across the paper with a silent eraser, wiping my words from existence. Nothing remained of my letter.
And yet the page was not empty.
Right in the middle, a single sentence had been written in a crooked, uneven script, as though the hand that formed it had been trembling:
"Simon… I loved you, and you left me to die."
The blood froze in my veins.
A surge of terror tightened around my chest, so sudden and fierce I thought my heart might stop beating altogether. I stepped backward instinctively, my heel striking the edge of the chair behind me.
My hand shook.
The paper slipped from my fingers and drifted slowly down to the floor.
I did not dare pick it up.
My name was written there.
And her voice… Sarah's voice… echoed inside my head.
Suddenly I turned and rushed out of the room, as though something unseen were chasing me. I wrenched the door open and hurried toward the staircase.
My footsteps thundered down the stairs so fast that I nearly stumbled twice before reaching the ground floor.
I pushed into the small café beneath the building where I lived. The place was almost empty at that early hour of the morning. Only a few customers sat scattered around, quietly sipping their coffee.
I dropped into the nearest chair, my breathing still unsteady.
The café owner approached, and I spoke quickly before he could say a word.
"Coffee… and some bread."
He nodded and walked away.
But the sentence would not leave me.
Not even for a moment.
It echoed in my mind again and again, like a whisper trapped inside my skull.
"Simon… I loved you, and you left me to die."
What was happening to me?
Five years had passed since Sarah died in that cursed accident… yet she still haunted me.
Not a single day had passed in which I truly forgot her.
Almost every night she returned.
I saw her in my dreams.
She never screamed.
She gasped.
That same final gasp she let out just before life slipped away from her.
She would walk slowly toward me, her eyes heavy with reproach… and then vanish with the first pale threads of dawn.
Was that not enough for her?
Why did she still torment me like this?
If she truly loved me…
why would she haunt me?
I was lost in these thoughts, the pipe hanging loosely between my lips, nearly slipping from my mouth without my noticing.
Then suddenly a voice broke through my haze.
"Simon… Simon!"
I lifted my head slowly.
The waiter stood in front of me, waving his hand impatiently.
"Your coffee's gone cold… what are you waiting for, man?"
Only then did I notice the cup sitting on the table.
The waiter's name was Peter. I had known him for years. It had long been my habit to stop by the café every morning before starting my day.
He was used to seeing me cheerful—smiling, joking, always ready with a quick remark.
But today…
I must have looked different.
He studied my face for a moment before speaking again, this time with a hint of concern.
"What's wrong with you, Simon?"
I forced a faint smile.
"Nothing… nothing at all. Just didn't sleep well last night. That's all."
He nodded slowly, though it was clear he wasn't entirely convinced. Still, he said nothing more.
I lifted the cup and took a sip.
The coffee tasted unusually bitter.
Or perhaps the bitterness was inside me.
A few minutes later I paid the bill and stepped outside.
I had to get to the station.
With hurried steps I made my way toward the train station, heading for Oxford—where the sail-weaving factory that had hired me was located.
The factory stood beside the River Thames, and I had heard it was one of the oldest workshops in the city.
I glanced at my watch.
I was late.
And this was my first day of work.
A quiet sigh escaped me.
I only hoped I wouldn't cause trouble from the very first day.
When I arrived, I paused for a moment before the large iron gate of the factory. The building looked old, weathered by time, yet there was still a sense of life and activity within its walls.
I pushed the gate open and stepped inside.
A man in his early forties greeted me. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a short beard that lent his face an air of quiet authority.
He smiled politely.
"Are you Mr. Simon?"
"Yes… I'm Simon."
Then I added quickly,
"And I apologize for being late. I know work started an hour ago."
He waved the apology away with an easy smile.
"That's quite all right. We all have our circumstances."
He extended his hand.
"My name is Abraham. I own the factory."
I shook his hand and thanked him.
"Today we won't start work immediately," he said. "First I'll show you some of the equipment we use here."
He gestured toward the interior.
"Come along. Let's head down to the workshop. Two workers are waiting for us."
I followed him through a long corridor until we reached a wide workshop filled with the rumble of machines and the smell of cloth.
Abraham began explaining the different fabrics used to make ship sails. Then he pointed toward the massive sewing machines lined along one side of the room.
He spoke with clear enthusiasm.
But my mind…
was somewhere else entirely.
That sentence still echoed in my head without mercy:
"Simon… I loved you, and you left me to die."
I heard Abraham speaking, yet barely understood a word.
When he finally finished, he gave my shoulder a friendly pat.
"Well then, Simon… that's enough for your first day."
Then he smiled.
"Be here tomorrow at eight in the morning."
"Of course," I replied immediately.
But he smiled in a curious way—almost as if he already knew I wouldn't arrive at that hour.
Perhaps because he didn't know me.
And he didn't know that most mornings…
I don't even wake up before eight.
But the truth was, something else troubled me far more than the time of work.
That voice.
That sentence.
And that past I believed I had buried five years ago…
Yet now it seemed
it had never truly been buried at all.
To be continued…