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I loved him.

Quiet, polite, loyal, kind, handsome – the perfect suitor, and he chose me. I would have followed him to the ends of the world with naught but a handbag and a gown if he had asked, but all he wished was for me to be beside him – to support him, and to guide him and listen while he talked through the arguments between his heart and his head.

I buried him.

There was no body, for he was lost at sea – alone and away from all his family. How did he die? Was it slow? Was there another doctor to help him, or did he work himself to death helping others even while he himself was sick?

I mourned him.

Decorum allowed me to enter half mourning at six months, but I would have mourned for the entire two years. The black I wore on the outside mirrored the bottomless hole swallowing my heart. Life around me progressed, society forgot about him, but I still walked down to his grave and missed him.

I welcomed him.

Older, and haunted – and tired as if his journey was longer than could ever be imagined. He stepped into my life again just as he had the first time, and as I suspect he left it: with his manners wrapped around him like a shield and his hat in hand. And as he stepped into the graveyard, I felt my heart heal.

I trusted him.

Until death did we part – and even death did naught between us. My love had returned to me, but he returned with secrets – secrets that wore him down and were slowly breaking him. I asked him to let me in, to trust me as I always had him and to let me help bear his load – I asked to be allowed to do something for him in return for all he had given me.

I feared for him.

The secrets broke his mind and all reason left. He told me stories of a ship, of a slave, of a gunshot, and an endless ocean. He told me stories of death and water and immortality – he told me stories of madness.

I lied to him.

Betrayal is a bitter pill taken by both parties, and I broke my husband's trust. To protect him, to save him, to help him, I told him I believed him and I sent him away. To heal him, I ripped him from me and ruined the healing on the hole in my heart – and then I had no doctor able to heal it.

I wept for him.

A future was lost and the best soul in the world was broken. To protect me, he kept his load to himself, and he hurt me worse for the breaking of his mind. There was little hope, but daily I prayed the doctors would help him and send him back to me, whole and as kind as ever. Daily, I walked past his grave and mourned the passing of a man not yet dead.

I hoped for him.

Hope is man's greatest weapon against sorrow and despair, and all that I had against the overwhelming tears of his death. He died in the asylum – alone again, and far from family. I knew he fell far and passed in ignominy; but even as I fell down into black, I hoped he was sane. I hoped he was true with me, for he deserved more in life than what he was dealt this time.

I loved him.

I loved him with all my heart, and daily wonder if I had done wrong by him. The black I wear will soon be my shroud, and my dreams fade into ghosts. I hope his story was true – that he was immortal. There is so much good left in the world for him to do, and so many souls and lives for him to save. Sometimes, I see him in the distance, watching me – and I pray it is truly him. If he's out there, and if he remembers me through his life, I hope he may find it in his heart to forgive me – or at least to remember me. All I did for love, and for my Love I'll hope.


AN: A manifestation of my opinion of Nora (I mostly feel sorry for her, because her actions make sense) brought on by a music video on Youtube of Henry and Nora and made with the song Three Wishes. Thank you so much for taking the time to read this! God bless!