The ink was slightly smudged, like the writer's hand had moved across the page before it dried.
*If you are reading this, then Mr.
Hale found you, and I am already gone.
I am sorry for that.
I would have preferred to tell you myself, sitting in that chair by the window where we used to read together.
I would have preferred to watch your face.*
I had to stop.
I knew that chair.
The one beside the east window of her room.
The one where I had sat every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon for nearly two years.
The one where she had held my hand the week before she passed and said, *You have no idea how much these visits have meant to me.*
I pressed the letter flat against my knee and kept reading.
*I did not choose you because you were kind, though you were.
I did not choose you because you were patient, though you were that too.
