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Henry sat at the dining room table, staring at the envelope lying before him. He dragged his eyes away from the elegant script on the front, looking around the room almost in desperation. Seeing his medical bag lying in the corridor where he had dropped it, he slowly stood up and walked over to it. Picking up the bag, he unclasped it and checked the items inside; relieved to see that none of the vials had broken. Setting it on the table that lined the wall on one side of the corridor, he looked back up the stairs once before returning to the dining room.
It was too quiet. The silence rang in his ears in a way that seemed impossible, and he struggled to hear anything beside his own ragged breathing. Again, he looked around the room, but his attention was drawn back to the letter lying before his seat.
It couldn't be – she could never have done that to him, surely. Of course, he remembered trying to do the same to her once; but she had a chance to stop him – he hadn't even been home.
He sank into his chair, blindly reaching for the letter. His fingers ran over the cream paper; and he closed his eyes to see the picture of her sliding the letter into the envelope, of her hands writing the name across the front. His own trembling hands took the letter out, carefully unfolding it.
He breathed deeply, able to smell her fragrance in the paper. He traced the letters that danced across the page, avoiding the moment where he would have to read what was written. His finger faltered when they traced across spots that had been smudged with water; and he pulled his hand away.
My Dear Henry,
First, before I even begin this: pick up the bag you dropped in the hallway and check that none of your chemicals are reacting. Thank you.
I know what you're doing – you're ignoring this. You came in that door, and you ignored this letter. You always were best at ignoring the obvious, Henry.
I know you've searched the house for me, and I'm not there. You always knew that though, even before you saw this letter. You knew the moment you walked in the door that I wasn't there; you always know things like that.
Henry, I'm not leaving you. Well, I am leaving you; but never for the reasons that you're thinking right this moment. I said once, when you tried to leave me, that I didn't care how this ends – and I find I still don't; not as much as I care about you.
I'm dying, Henry – I'm surprised you haven't diagnosed it yet. It's cancer, and it's incurable. There's nothing you can do – nothing you can ever do. You're going to be around forever, Henry; you haven't even touched on the surface of what you're meant to do. I'm not going to burden your life with memories of my death.
My last gift to you is going to be ignorance. While I'm sure that one day you'll find the information necessary to imagine it, you will never have the actual memories of me wasting away, of struggling to keep me alive through another day of pain – trust me, Henry; this is for the best.
I love you, Henry. I always have, and I always will. Right now, I know you doubt that; I know you're questioning everything you've ever done to see what you could have changed – stop. Henry Morgan, stop. You have a life, and you will not waste it searching after me.
I've loved every moment we've shared, and I wouldn't have traded a second of it for anything. Do something with your gift, Henry – use it to help people. I love you, always remember that of me. I don't ask you to forgive me, just that you remember I loved you.
Tell Abraham that I loved him.
Forever and ever,
Your Abigail
Henry dropped the letter as if it had scalded him, blind to the fresh teardrops that stained the page. Stumbling back out of his chair and away from the letter, as if it were a venomous beast, he sank to the ground. Burying his head in his arms, he let himself cry, his sobs almost ripping him apart.
This is why he never let people close, never let himself care – it never ended well. Whatever relationship he entered into was doomed from the start, and there was nothing he could ever do to change it.
If he could change anything, would he? Would he give up meeting and falling in love with Nora; give up sharing the wonder of their short marriage with her? Would he give up the late nights he spent with James; the edifying discussions they had that spanned every subject imaginable? Would he give up ever knowing some of the immigrants; spare himself the pain of fighting a losing battle? Would he give up sharing the innocence of children; witnessing their complete faith in him no matter the circumstances?
If given the chance, would he give up meeting Abigail? If he knew the fate that waited for him, would he still court and marry her, or would he turn away the first time he saw her? Would he give up the infinite moments of joy they had shared together, just to avoid this one moment of agony?
And what of Abe? He was no longer a child; he was old enough to make his own decisions – without his mother, what kept him here beside an old man stuck out of time? Abe would leave too, whether by chance, design, or death – he would still leave. Would Henry choose to back away first, to distance himself from the only other thing in the world he loved? Could he deprive his son of his last remaining family just for his own selfish desires?
Could he ever do it? Could he ever look beyond the joy and peace to the pain and sorrow that inevitably lay beyond? Could he ever prepare himself for the heartbreak, or would it always surprise him and shatter his soul anew?
Oh, my friends – my friends, forgive me; that I live and you are gone. There's a grief that can't be spoken; there's a pain goes on and on – empty chairs at empty tables, now my friends are dead and gone.
Oh, my friends – my friends, don't ask me what your sacrifice was for. Phantom faces in the windows, phantom shadows on the floor – empty chairs at empty tables where my friends shall meet no more.
AN: And I just permanently ruined another song... *sighs* Nevertheless. I hope that you had no need of handkerchiefs. Thank you for taking the time to read this! Gramercy, and God bless!