Oh, Satine. My dear, sweet, Satine. I was blind not to notice your sickness; Blind to accuse you of betraying me when just hours ago, you held a crimson-stained hankerchief. I know you only tried to save me with your clever lies, but I would have been much happier dying by your side at the hands of the Duke then believing you didn't love me. I've began our story, but the memories are so painful I may stop. No, I couldn't do that; I have to keep writing. It's all for you, my muse.
Among the pieces I've written since your death, almost all of them are endings. I have books full of endings. Endings where you don't get sick and we are wed. Endings where we have a beautiful family and grow old together. Or, more realisticly, I have endings where I knew you were sick and I spent years sitting by your bed, whispering my newest love song in hopes of making you smile. I have several carefully thought out endings where there was never a duke and only just us. Those are the sweetest. Usually those are the ones that I despise the most.
Many times I've thought of putting one of these perfect endings into the end of our story. But to spoil such a pure love story would be a sin.
I want to thank you, Satine. Several times I've thought of giving up, but I remembered my promise to you. Satine, I love you.