He's sitting at another desk. He doesn't want to attend her funeral.
He's eighty now. The numbers add up to eight.
So he starts. Starts with a scrawl of meeting her. His heart, broken in his chest, stirs as he continues. Continues with a scawl of meeting her again. His chest, shriveled and old now, starts to rise and fall. He leads her through their forties. Fifties. Through old age. Through not wanting to get up in the morning. Each birthday card. Each walk in the woods. Each magical creature; she can talk for hours.
Ends with a scrawl of losing her.
"I'll see her again. Someday."