Every letter he wrote to her went directly into the fire. A morning ritual, sending her past to smoke.

Served him right, she thought. He hadn't said anything when she told him the news. Just sat there, staring into space for ages.

Then, without a word, he stood up and left.

She'd waited there, in the Hog's Head, telling herself he'd be back. She waited for hours.

A month later, the first letter arrived. A minute later, it was burning in the hearth. He'd had nothing to say to her then, there was nothing he could say to her now.