Baldwin held the letter in his hand, his index finger tracing the edges of the paper. The soft rustling of the paper and the swaying of trees outside his window stirred his senses. Only after the first few words registered in his mind did his eyes widen. His mind rebelled, and his hands went numb. Baldwin was not one to fall for the sinister illusions of his senses, but each word seemed to betray him. The light strokes at the end of each sentence, the thickness of the letters, the depth of each word, and the clarity of the punctuation—it was undeniably written by Nicholas. But Nicholas would never write these words. He was a shallow man, his words empty and sparse. It was as though Baldwin's mind could not grasp the legitimacy of the words, yet it rushed to form evil conclusions.
My beloved Emberline,