Dear William,

I have received your letter from Jack Crawford last week.
For four days I have wondered what to do with it. I watched the white envelope in my hands, and it felt like it didn't belong there. The very sight of it made my heart ache, the thought of the words it might contain, made it crumble.
I imagined your tense hand writing it, your tired troubled face frowning, your sad gentle lips trembling. And at that image, mine trembled as well.
I must admit I have considered the idea of reading it, for a while. 
I didn't.
It would have been the most unholy of profanations, the unforgivable intrusion of a foreigner in a sacred temple.

This is the first time I write to you, and I hope it will also be the last. 
The reason I am writing this, is that I am concerned about your sanity: your letters have become more and more frequent.

I have received seven letters from you in 27 years and now, twelve only in the last six months.
I have kept them all.
No one has ever read them, and I have never opened one of them, as I promised you before you left.

"I'll try to contact him, I'll write to him", you said.
And I can still picture you in my head looking at your own shaking hands. I remember you refusing to sit down, then taking a deep breath, then finally lifting your eyes up to mine, and continuing serious: "Don't let them read my letters, don't let him have them".

I have kept my promise, as I have kept your secret: I still am the only one who knows where you are, the only one who has an address to send this letter to.

He's old, William. We all are.
Let him rest.
Let him live the rest of his days without reopening old wounds, without rekindling that painful, powerful, absolute sentiment that has remained in him silent and latent since your disappearence. Too much blood has been spilled over this tragic dreadful love of yours, which has reached far too many lives with its mortal touch, making them casualties of a tremendous story they were not supposed to be a part of.
Leave him in the quiet appearent peace he believes to have found, and find peace yourself. Allow yourself to find that same peace you were looking for when you first left.

Thirty years is a long time, Will. Let your tired heart get some rest.
No more letters.

Bedelia