Staring at your account, I can't help but look at all these incomplete stories. So well written, words that ignite warmth in the reader's heart. I was, am a big fan of yours. Despite me getting fed up with historical fiction, I continued reading Elements of Fire. This was the power of your pen.
I remember, pestering you for updates. I remember, how you used to take out time from your packed schedules to weave a story for us. It felt like children waiting for their favourite person to read things out for them.
Now, when I think about it, I can help but cry. They are not tears of sorrow, your memories would never be sorrowful for me. These tears are of longing and wish that the past few days were a lie; you are safe and secure. I am even ready to accept that I am an adorable poppet, am ready to do anything that you would ask for but just come back. There are many words left unsaid, many promises to be acknowledged and you leaving like this is making me feel shattered.
Just like your letter, these stories are unfinished and so are the stories of our memories that you knitted along with us. Though I hope for them to be completed, the writer refuses to wake up, wipe our tears and finish what she started.
