"I believe that's the last of the boxes," Anne called out. "Frederick? Where are you hiding?"
Anne walked the hall to the next open door.
"Ah there you are, my dear! What are you doing hidden away in a corner like so?"
Frederick beckoned her to come, still not saying a word. In his hand was a small wooden chest. He handed it to her with a wary smile.
Anne took it wordlessly and joined him on the floor. He looked at her with aching eyes, for fear the present would dissolve into the past. Anne took his hand as he spoke.
"I was not silent all those years. I did try to write you. I was just too proud to send them. I despised these letters. Every page, every word, was another fragment of my heart, scattered to the wind."
He turned away. Her eyes were too kind, piercing through all traces of bitterness with the sweetness of love.
"I didn't know what had become of these. I had locked them away first because I thought I hated you, and then later because I knew I loved you. I didn't want to spoil our present understanding with the misunderstandings of the past."
Frederick turned to face her, gently drawing her hands into his own, "Anne, my heart is more than whole now, but it was broken. And the blood stains still pervade these letters. The unacknowledged feelings would sometimes slip up into words and pages. It isn't pretty, but this is our past. These belong to you as much as me."
Earnestly, he searched her eyes, "Do you want to read them?"
