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My wife, my beloved;
I promise.
I can explain.
I can explain where I went. And why.
I can explain why I didn’t explain, when I returned.
I didn’t explain…because I was afraid.
Our duties require us to be apart, sometimes—as you yourself are gone. Always we have kept in touch, even when apart.
But . . . this time I could *not *do so. Not because a power prevented me; but . . . because . . .
- . . . how can I explain . . . ?*
I wanted to tell you. You deserve to know, because you love me. But I couldn’t find the courage—and now you are gone.
And you refuse to keep in touch this time.
I deserve no better.
But, how to tell you . . . how to explain . . .
so much pain and horror and death . . .
and I am responsible . . .
I brought back books from that world. I tried to save something.
I needed to find a place to begin.
I met people there. This is their story—the story that I am responsible for destroying.
They never knew that, of course. I never told them.
There is one who suffered most. She also was responsible—for terrible things. She *also *wrote a confession.
I will begin with her story. And I see another I met; who is also part of her story. Good.
I will follow their history, then; using her book and those of others to guide my search. It won’t take long, by our standards—I can write it in a day; you can read it in an hour.
I am a coward. I rather would tell you a story of them—
than simply to tell you the truth.
But, I promise: you shall have the truth.
In this life, or in the next.