The echoes of exorcisms haunt her to this day, and when she dreams, she can hear the feet of beds etching wild patterns into wooden floors.
John, though - he writes her a letter once a month (on the third week, like clockwork) and fills pages and pages with words. They had started as apologies (Italy, all those years), and are now more akin to love letters, words to make up and fill years of lost time.
She clips many other letters to the low walls of her workspace, but these she keeps boxed, slipped in to the only space left on her bookshelf. And when words in Latin resound from the walls of her skull, she takes them out and reads them, to quiet the demons the ritual drove in.
