Her Letter.

A shadow darted past the corner of his sight, the sound of flapping wings were heard. A gust of wind blew by, the curtains ruffled a little.

Jean tilted his face to the half-opened window and looked out into the sunset.

It was brilliant; the intense orange and red light flooded the path where the residual warmth could reach and as if it was a tragic, poetic dream he was looking into, a flock of birds took off into the sky after a gunshot was heard.

The black creatures screamed.

Someone must be gunning down the crows. Too many of them.

But he neither flinched at the sudden gunshot nor move away; he continued to stare into the sinking blood-red sun and tried to recall the scent of her hair when they once watched sunset together. It was getting harder and harder, since Time will eventually dilute and blur one's memories.

They were in her ward; she was reclining on a white plastic chair while he sat beside her.

"How does it look like? I can't remember how sunsets look anymore."

He however, distinctly remembered the shot of searing pain in his heart when she said that; her tone was so nonchalant, so calm and so dispassionate. And the look on her face (even that image was no longer clear in his mind); she was waiting, waiting for him to laugh that joyless laugh and to describe to her the sunset of that day. He knew that she was lying; knew that she just wanted to refresh the image over and over again in her mind for she was afraid. Afraid that she might forget the bloody sunset, forget how Roy died in her arms that very moment, forget what he said to her, forget the look on his dying face under the fading sunlight.

It was obvious to him then, that she was afraid that her loss of eyesight might cause her to forget everyone except herself. She wanted to hold onto the trauma, to the grief, to the once-yet-not love between Roy and her, to who she used to be and everything else.

Bitterness coiled backwards into his throat as Jean repeated what he said everyday to the blind lieutenant.

"Isn't it so beautiful?" And a soft smile would appear on her face after he'd finished.

He would nod his head, hold her fragile hand (for those fingers no longer hold guns but herself) and place a light kiss on her head. He would bade her goodbyes, leave behind some apples (for that was her favourite fruit) that he had personally peeled for her and opened the door.

And stood, firmly and silently, like a waiting sniper by the door as he closed it behind his back. He would stay back in her room (she wouldn't know, because her hearing had been affected too), to gun down any angry shadows or moaning ghosts that would encroach upon her if they came.

But of course, none of them did. Riza would reach out for the plate of peeled apples on her lap, slowly munch on them while she remained in her chair, staring fully and blankly into the bleeding sunset. She would not say a thing, other than the occasional stretch of her legs as she leaned back.

Sometimes, she slept as early as the sunset faded out. Sometimes, she slept while the nightingales sang their melancholy songs. And sometimes, she would not sleep until morning light washed the room a faint, thin blue. Jean would not move, like a loyal and patient soldier, until she crawled back onto her bed and closed her eyes. Then when he was sure that she was asleep, he would pull up the covers on her, placed another kiss on her forehead and went to work.

Such was the routine, mundane as it was, for a good five years before her soul and body wore out.

Nothing changed at all, in that dark period of time for her (and him) and Jean never complained. He was tired, spent, and drained in all aspects yet he continued to keep up with the routine. Rituals were good, good for battered and hurt souls and he knew that she liked it. She enjoyed his company, although she never said anything and he wanted to see her too.

Sometimes, he would cut her hair when it was too long and heavy for her weary head. But none would say anything important.

His eyes reverted back to the letter that Riza had asked someone to write to him. The handwriting was feminine and he guessed that she had asked her personal nurse (for the military did this much for her, at least) to help her with the letter. Jean folded the letter gently along the age-old lines (lest it tore) and slid it back to the yellowed, dog-eared military envelope.

The letter was short and concise (just like her; she would never change); filling up no more than ten lines with no important matter even though these were her last words (or did she not knew?). But he committed each and every of these words to his memory and Riza had signed it herself, in small and neat alphabets. Perhaps she wanted to leave a part of herself with him, so that she would always be in the present; not in the past (for that would mean that what she had were no longer there) and not in the future (for that would mean that she herself was gone).

Jean ran a hand through his now white hair, took off his heavy glasses and closed his eyes.

Another gunshot resounded. The crows cried.