To My Dearest Lucia From Your Friend, Mark - By Ava Rane Supeña

Written By: Ava Rane Supeña

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Ava Rane Supeña's short story, "To My Dearest Lucia From Your Friend, Mark," is a compelling exploration of the intertwined themes of love and loss, presented in the prestigious Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. This narrative, rich with emotional depth, invites readers into a world where the past lingers like a haunting melody. Supeña's work, marked by a poignant storytelling style, engages readers with its exploration of relationships and the enduring impact of unexpressed emotions.

About the Work

The short story delves into the poignant aftermath of a reunion marked by absence and longing. Supeña weaves a narrative filled with vivid imagery and an underlying sense of melancholy. The haunting mood sets the stage for introspection, as readers are invited to unravel the complex emotions experienced by the protagonist. Through evocative language and a compelling plot, the piece explores themes of regret, memory, and the unresolved echoes of the past.

To My Dearest Lucia From Your Friend, Mark

Original Submission by Ava Rane Supeña

To My Dearest Lucia

From Your Friend, Mark

A short story by Ivy Lacinglade

The idea of seeing a person you once saw breathing, their chest once creaking; speaking, their lips once grinning; and moving—there. Lying there, dead, I thought to myself breathlessly, my chest squeezed by a strong grip.

There lay Mark Howard Morrison, in a bed of fragrant white roses, his skin pale and rubberlike, wearing a measly suit, eyelids closed shut for as long as time lasts. His face was unfamiliar yet, just looking at his face, I felt my heart ache. This is Mark. There’s no doubt in it.

The last time I ever saw him was when we were in our youth—he was 17 and I, 16—playing in Grandmama’s garden, with the insects and the flowers, that 500-something year old Evertree towering above us. A far, far away scene from now.

I remember thinking, 19 years ago, after my family moved to Siteina years ago due to Grandmama’s health, that we’d meet each other again, all grown up. We’d reunite and be happy to see each other... But to think that we'd only reunite when he's gone, laying in a casket, never to wake again. His death was as sudden as a gust of wind. I blame myself for forgetting. No, I blame myself for not searching when I… Why had I not bothered to? I wish I made a choice—no, but I did. I made my choice.

“Lady Eleanor,” Alberta addresses me, handing me a white rose to offer. I took the white rose, its thorns cleanly clipped off from the stem. I placed the rose on the bed of roses.

That reminds me, Mark hated roses. He hated them with thorns, he hated them without them. We once argued about it. For his birthday, I picked roses from Grandmama’s garden and had the family gardener clip the thorns away. When I gave it to Mark, he complained about how the lack of thorns made the roses unnatural and less pleasing to the eye. So when I gave him ones with thorns, he complained that he got pricked. I never gave him roses—or any flower, for that matter—ever again. Until now, at least. How tragic.

“Oh— Goodness! Lucia is here?”

I turned my head to my left, at the entrance of the Morrison’s home. There stood a shorter, older woman, wearing a black dress, her face wrinkled yet the relief in her eyes were evident. Oh, that smile was too familiar, it was clear to me who that was, despite 19 years of time having passed by. Mark had that same toothy smile too. However, even if I didn’t see her face, there were only a few people who called me Lucia.

“Is it really Lucia?” Mappie began to walk closer, struggling to walk even if she tried walking faster. A youthful girl in black and a maid helped her to me.

I glided across the wooden floor, taking Mappie’s small frame into my arms, “Mappie…! It’s been too long…” It was hard not to cry in her arms. I couldn't cry, no, not in front of Mark’s mother. Not when life must be torn for her. She was a fragile woman, even if she kept a front. I’ve never seen her cry, nor has Mark, if I remember correctly. But we both knew that deep beneath her face that was always smiling, beneath the woman that was always strong, Mappie was fragile.

“Darling girl, oh how you’ve grown—look at you! You’ve grown so tall! Remember how you told me we were “height siblings”? Dear Lord, you were once such a small, pure, delightful child—I hope you still are—yet here you are, a strong, beautiful woman!” Mappie smiled, tears blotching her eyes. She cupped my cheeks as I crouched lower to reach her height. At our proximity, I could see the darkened circles beneath her weary eyes, her face stiff yet, I knew that smile was still genuine regardless. Poor Mappie. She must be so tired, so heart-stricken. Before, her husband. And now Mark? There was nothing that could be the same as the endless hole of grief that she must’ve felt.

“I’ve missed you dearly, Mappie. I’m ashamed that we only reunite now when—” I choked back a sob, covering my mouth.

I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t take it anymore. Mark is gone? Mark is gone. How could this be? Oh God, how could this have happened…?

“Lucia, darling, do not cry.” Mappie frowned, firmly taking hold of my shoulders, rubbing them in comfort. “Don’t cry, darling, don’t cry. Come, let’s sit. Let’s not weep on the floor.” She led me to a nearby wooden bench. It only occurred to me that I was crying—unattractively, if I must guess. Thankfully there was no other visitor than I. If a rumor were to spread that a noble lady, such as I, was found in a commoner’s funeral reception, Father won’t be happy.

“I was afraid you weren’t coming,” Mappie told me. “We had sent the letter ages ago, once we were sure we could afford the funeral.”

Just as I was about to speak, Alberta handed me a handkerchief, which I used to wipe my tears. “I received news of his death only yesterday evening. The mail has been lacking pace.”

“Ah, yes. It is that time of year, after all. Gerta hit us terribly hard, compared to last year. What terrible, terrible rain—Rosie, could you fetch us some tea?” The youthful girl beside her nodded, leaving to go to another room.

“That was Rose Ann?” I asked, unable to hide my surprise. “She was so young when we left!”

“Of course! Who else could it be? Rosie’s grown so much. She studies in Tailbridge—on scholarship! Smart girl, she is,” Mappie said.

“And that is wonderful. I merely mistook her to be your daughter-in-law,” I confessed. It wasn’t an unlikely prospect. Plenty of the maids in the Elington Estate had a crush on Mark. Even on the street, when we’d walk together, common girls and noble ladies alike found him attractive. Besides that, Mark was born a romantic. He wrote love stories, letters to the moon, and most importantly, poems about everything. Hundreds of them. Too many of them. I complained about it, once.

“A daughter-in-law! Ha! Oh my, I used to nag Mark about it. He never had a lady, not once!” Mappie laughed, but her amusement shifted into sadness, realizing the reality of the present. “That… selfish boy…”

Mappie sniffled, wiping her tears with the ends of her sleeve, “When he was younger, freshly at the age of 18, he promised me he’d work hard to be able to take us to Siteina. He used to talk about how he’d want to visit you, too. Oh, how he kept talking about it.”

“That’s Mark,” I smile. Before I left, I remember how, instead of feeling devastated—which was contrary to how I felt—he’d always talk about how he’d come to visit me in Siteina. He’d save enough money to leave Evenbel and go to Siteina. Then he’d ask me to tour him around the gardens and fields, pretending we owned everything. Just the two of us, no one else. Not even including Alberta. Not even Mappie, when we were so used to her watching over us since she was my childhood maid. Me and Mark enjoyed each other’s company. We didn’t need anyone else, in all honesty. Just each other.

“I wish fate waited longer. He had so much to live for,” I whispered.

Mappie smiled wistfully, “God has let him rest.”

I nodded slowly, sniffling. Isn’t it too early for him to rest..? Why couldn’t he have stayed longer?

“I…” I hesitated. I shouldn’t say this. I will gain nothing. I’m clinging to nothing. Mark is gone, he’s passed. He’s left this world and went on to the next yet—! I can’t help but… wonder. If I stayed, if I grew older with him…

Mentally, I shook my head. No. I must not dwell into this. I made my choice. I said my answer. It’s too late. Mark is… gone.

I continued, “I’m surprised Mark was never betrothed to anyone. He was a romantic at heart, was he not? You remember the stack of papers and journals he had. All the foolish letters he made. The poems he sang.”

“Oh darling.” Mappie placed her wrinkled hands upon my gloved ones. Silently, she rubbed my knuckles, gazing into my eyes. “You know he loved you and you only.”

‘And I loved him,’ is what goes unsaid. I would’ve said it. I do love Mark. But I began crying again and couldn’t stop.

・・・・・

Grief is a terribly strange thing. It’s strange how easily the aching pain of Mark’s death left me the moment I stepped home. Then again, it must be because I realized that a top hat idly laid on the hat rack and on the wall beside the rack was Father’s custom-made walking stick. I glanced at Alberta, mouthing her to be quiet. But the floor gently creaked.

“Is that you, Eleanor?” A murky voice called from the parlour lounge.

“Yes, Father,” I simply replied. “I’ll be in my room.”

I took a step on the stairs, but Father’s voice stopped me.

“Hold on. A letter arrived for you.”

A letter?

I stepped off of the stairs, walking to the parlour, where Mother and Father were. Mother, as usual, was embroidering, sitting on the couch as Father stood by the unlit fireplace, smoking a cigar that reeked. Father always had this bad habit but it’s only bothered me recently. I used to write my stories in the parlour, as I enjoyed the warm lighting of the room throughout the day, but ever since he found comfort in smoking in the parlour, I was always met by the musky and irritating smell that made my nose itch. I had no choice but to just write in my room instead.

“From whom is it?” I asked. It was rare for me to receive letters. I mostly kept to myself. The only mail I ever receive is my subscription to a newsletter for authors.

“Doesn’t say. It was stuck on the front door,” Father said, handing me the letter, only giving me a judgemental glance before sticking his cigar in his mouth again. “Where are you coming from? You’re wearing all black.”

“A funeral.”

“Of whom?”

“An old friend.”

Father didn’t ask any further questions. I was glad of it. After all, he never really appreciated Mark. Even if Mark tried to be patient and kind to Father, more than he ever deserved, Father would always insult him about his status and how Mark lacked enough masculinity to be able to be called a man. I always found it strange how Father always believed that poetry was a “feminine” hobby when the majority of known poets across the world are men.

“How is that chap you’ve been seeing? Joseph, if I remember correctly?” Father asked.

Oh, yes. That one business man Father was so keen to talk to. Joseph, who has hundreds of connections in the Siteinan Empire, especially in the kingdoms of Evenbel and Siteina, and has 4 businesses to his name. But also has 4 mistresses and across Siteina and Evenbel, believes my writing career is nonsense, and thinks that women should stay at home and spawn babies as much as she possibly can. Yes, that Joseph.

“I was never seeing Joseph, Father. You and Mother merely introduced me to him. We never got along the moment I spoke a word to him,” I told Father, fiddling with the letter in my hand. I’d prefer to see the contents of this letter than have this neverending conversation about men and marriage. We’ve had this conversation multiple times, do they never tire of hearing me answer the same thing? Asking me over and over again won’t change my answer.

Mother suddenly spoke up, “You’re 35 years old, Eleanor. Don’t you want to have a family of your own?”

But, alas, we are in this conversation again.

“I am perfectly fine on my own,” I firmly replied. I can’t count how many times I’ve said this.

Father coughed and started laughing, pulling his cigar away from his lips, “If you insist you’re perfectly fine on your own, why have you still depended on us for monthly allowances?”

I frowned for a moment. That was true. But that was also false. I kept my composure. “Because it’s not the same as wanting to live my life on my own. I am merely, and unfortunately, not capable of being on my own financially at the moment. I will find a way somehow—must I repeat this?”

“Then get a husband! You’re running away from your options and choosing to make life harder for yourself.” Father put his cigar against his lips, exhaling the smoke. He couldn’t be any more frustrating. “A woman like you shouldn’t be using that mind of yours over finance, anyway. It causes hysteria.”

“Fredrick—” Mother scolded.

“Don’t defend her, Ethel. She’s in the wrong here—”

I put my foot down, my eyebrows scrunched together, “I will not partake in this conversation any longer. You both know where I stand in this matter. I do not want to get married and I never will be as long as I live. I expect you both to respect that. Kick me out, if you must. You have no say in how I will live my life.”

I left the parlour immediately.

・・・・・

That was childish of me. I shouldn’t have lashed out on them, it’ll be awkward for me during dinner. What if they lessen my allowance this month again? Oh, God, free me from these chains.

Once I arrived in my room, I locked the door, sighing deeply as I placed the mysterious letter on my dark, walnut wood desk. I was alone now. Thoughts of Mark came back to mind. It’s hard to believe that he’s truly gone. I can’t help but blame myself.

While I was in Siteina, neither of us communicated with each other. I was preoccupied with academics in Siteina’s prestigious academy, Wesscott Academy. I never had time to socialize with the other girls—if there were any, Wesscott rarely took in female students. Male students were prickly. I hated all of them. I was only lucky because I passed the entrance tests and ranked 36th and got the scholarship. My time was spent revising lessons and reading lessons. If it wasn’t that, it would be my pianoforte lessons. If it wasn’t that, it was my strict sleep schedule. I could never stay up late, Mother forbade me from it.

I sat down on my bed, sighing deeply.

The mysterious letter. It was in a simple, white envelope. On the back, ‘To Lucia’ was written, in simple yet pleasing handwriting. It was… familiar. I know that ‘L’. I opened the letter, revealing a folded piece of paper. I began to read the contents after unfolding it.

To my dearest Lucia,

I heard you came back from Siteina yesterday. 16 years have passed us by so quickly. In my mind, I’m still 17, and you, 16, anticipating your departure from Evenbel late in the evening, promising promises to each other. But it’s different now. We’ve changed, as much as I hate to admit it. To know that you’re back leaves a heavy weight in my heart. Won’t you ease it by seeing me again? You never once talked to me in these 16 years—it makes me wonder, do you even remember me? Do you still care? Or have you let go of the world we once had and I’m left here, waiting? I’m waiting for you, always. I wish you’d see me, Lucia. I wish you’d answer me.

From your friend, Mark

“Dear God!” I gasped out loud, letting go of the letter. The piece of paper fell to the floor as I covered my mouth. Is this some sort of– cruel prank?! Who in the world sent this?!

I stood up, feeling my heart beat out of my chest. My throat felt like it was closing up as I took the envelope and the letter. I took a good look at the paper and envelope, seeing nothing about the person who sent it or where it came from. This did not come from the post. It was directly sent here by the sender. This person knows where I live, for God’s sake!

What am I to do? I mustn’t tell Mother and Father, they’ll be terrified—absolutely terrified!. We couldn’t possibly move either. We already lost Elington Estate because of Father’s trading business becoming slow. To move to another home would mean too many expenses.

No. No, think properly, Eleanor. Think! There’s something off about the letter—the timeline. Oh, someone’s impersonating Mark. Impersonating a dead man, out of all things! Does this person have no shame?!

No, wait, it’s been 19 years since then, not 16. I came back to Evenbel three years ago. This letter, if it is written by Mark, was written when he was still alive. But why was it sent to me? Who sent it?

And the handwriting is unmistakable. That ‘Y’, that ‘I’, that ‘L’! This is, without a doubt, Mark Howard Morrison’s handwriting. Moreover, a dead man’s handwriting. How can this be….? Who sent it? Who would dare to make this wicked prank?

The paper was slightly oldened. Maybe it is an old letter, only being sent to me now—but why? And who would send this?

Is Mark… alive? No. No. I saw him on his deathbed. There is no doubt in the fact that Mark is dead. I saw his pale face, his eyes shut, his chest no longer moving. He would never speak songs of poetry and prose anymore and that is a fact. Mark is dead.

Someone is sending old letters of his to me. Perhaps it’s a scheme to scam me. It’s discourteous! It’s shameful! It’s impolite! Why would someone do this to Mark and why must I be a victim of it too? Oh, I hope Mappie and Rose Ann aren’t victims of this either.

If it’s a scheme or a gag, it’s best to ignore it. I won’t budge.

・・・・・

To my dearest Lucia,

A poem in your honor, titled ‘Amidst Evenbel Evening’:

Speak my name into the night and I will answer. I speak yours, I will hear nothing but laughter.

Laughter from the gods. Laughter from porcelain faces. Laughter from the hopeless boy that lives in me.

“You shall never love me,” he echoes. Is that true? I laugh. I laugh. I laugh! I laugh—“Lucia.” I cry, “Lucia.” I laugh again.

Lucia. Lucia. Lucia. I call your name in the darkness. I begin drowning in Evenbel evening. How longingly I call your name.

Like ink bleeding into my eyes, bleeding into my skin. Do you hear it? My aching, foreboding heart? Take my very being. Take me into your darkness.

Your eyes bleed into mine, a dark glossy madness that has captivated me and erased me. Bind me into the deepest darkness.

But I am a pen and you are my paper, yet, so many times have you proven to be the latter. Envelope me in your dark.

I write my everlasting love in your name, my neverending devotion to your divine, pure being. Yet cruel to my heart.

Lucia, my light, my dark treachery. Lucia. Lucia. Lucia. My dearest, take my body and blind me.

From your friend, Mark

・・・・・

The cemetery was completely empty when I arrived. The clouds were scattered across the sky. If Mark was here, he’d say, “the sky is like seafoam,” or something similar. My mind is too much of a mess to think of something beautifully thought of.

It’s been two months since Mark’s funeral and I decided to visit his grave before I head on to tea with my publishers. I’ve felt rather stiff recently as well. I felt that, for the past few days, something was… chasing me. I need a moment of peace. And the first thing I thought of was visiting Mark. His presence used to calm me down, after all.

When I was younger, talking to Mark about my problems easily calmed me down. Mark was a romantic, yes. At surface level it seemed like Mark was nothing but a loverboy who had rose colored glasses to see the world but when it came to it, Mark was the one who was more rational than I was. He taught me to think the way I think today. If I was ever alone back then, I’d ask myself, “What would Mark tell me?” and I’d act from there. While Mark was a dear friend of mine, there is no doubt that he was some sort of mentor to me. After all, he was older and wiser in ways I wasn’t. He taught me a worldview that was vastly different from mine.

I lifted the hem of my skirt, afraid it would get muddy, but it seems as though I have no choice but to leave it be. It gets muddy anyway. Where exactly is Mark’s grave…? I can’t remember well. I was alone this time so I couldn’t ask Alberta if she remembered. I told her to stay in the carriage as I would prefer to be alone. She didn’t argue with me this time. Usually, she would.

Winston… Dophet…. Mark Howard Morrison. There he is.

“Hello Mark,” I greeted, walking across the grass to stand in front of his grave. There was a bouquet of white lilies laying against the gravestone. “How have you been?”

“It’s been quite a while. I’m sorry for not visiting you in the past few weeks. Did Mappie and Rose Ann visit you?” I asked, as if expecting a reply. Deep in my heart, I wish he would. But I keep reminding myself that he wouldn’t.

“Oh Mark,” I sighed. “You shouldn’t be buried beneath land. You deserve to live this life the fullest. That’s what you would’ve wanted.”

That’s what I would’ve wanted.

I suddenly remembered the letters I’ve received. There’s been two so far. The first one that I received was two months ago. It was a letter to me when I arrived back in Evenbel. The other was a poem. I received it a month ago and this one has been bothering me even more. And the fact that I received the letters on the 20th of the month scares me too. It’s the 20th today and if the sender of these letters is consistent, then I’ll receive one today. But why on the 20th? I see no significance in it.

The letter I received last month was odd. Mark wrote a poem in the past, the complete opposite of that letter, “Amidst Siteina Daylight”. It was a poem he made for his future betrothed. I have no memory of it any longer but Mark read it to me often. He said it was his proudest work, after all.

I’ve no clue if this letter affair is some sort of cruel joke but I don’t appreciate it. I haven’t had the heart to tell Mother and Father either. I’d rather solve this issue myself. Besides, they both think of me as a helpless woman. Ha, Father might even think I’m hysterical. Regardless, this is a perfect time to prove that I am independent.

I glanced around the cemetery and slowly leaned down, placing my gloved hand on the gravestone, rubbing the embed of Mark’s name. I am full of regret and of disdain for myself. Had I known that he’d die so soon… Oh, Eleanor. Be serious. There’s no going back at all. Nothing could fix this. Nothing could change the choice I’ve made, the words I have spoken. Nothing could ever ease this. Still…

“Mark, if… if you can hear me,” I whispered.

Of course, I didn’t wait for a reply. I knew I wouldn’t get one. “Mark, I am sorry.”

Silence. The wind blew against my hair. Perhaps that is Mark. Perhaps I’m only comforting myself with that thought.

“Mark, I am sorry,” I whispered again. “I didn’t—”

Crunch.

I flinched and looked behind myself. No one was behind me. Where did that sound come from? My eyes traced the cemetery and saw a shadow behind a tree.

I felt my heart drop and my throat tighten. Am I being watched?

“Hello…?” I called out. The shadow didn’t reply. I decided to approach the shadow, regardless how much my hands began shaking. “Excuse me?”

I was getting closer to the tree, “Hello there?” In the blink of an eye, the shadow disappeared.

“What in God’s name…?” I mutter to myself. I looked behind the tree and noticed a letter on the grass. It was similar to the letters I’ve received before—did that shadow follow me here? Is that shadow… that dark figure… that mysterious person… were they the one sending Mark’s letters to me?

I crouched down to take the letter. The contents of this letter did not feel like paper. I rubbed it with my thumb and— “Ow!” I exclaimed. I had pricked myself, a bit of blood coming from my thumb.

I removed my glove and placed it on my other arm, beginning to unseal the letter.

Inside of the letter were rose thorns and rose petals.

・・・・・

“‘Signs of hauntings are usually the following: recurring dreams of the person haunting you, hearing voices in the dark, closing your eyes and being able to picture that person clearly—’ Lady Eleanor, you shouldn’t be reading these things. What will your parents think?”

Alberta was lightly scolding me again while we were in the carriage. Oh, how I missed going out. Usually, I’d take walks with Alberta, to the nearby park on our street. But, ever since I found out that I was being followed, I’d like to stay in the carriage when I’m out instead of being in the open. It’s good that Alberta didn’t question it yet.

As for the book, it isn’t worth my time, anyway. These “signs” only apply to men. If you were a woman experiencing these signs, the book would tell you you have hysteria or some other mental illness. “Don’t fret, Alberta. I have no interest in continuing it any longer.”

I only began reading it since I was starting to think I was being haunted. I saw a shadow following me when I was out last night. I thought I heard someone call my name from outside three times in the past week, only for it to be nothing. It’s rather foolish of me to read the book, in hindsight. I know this situation is a legitimate matter.

“My lady,” Alberta begins, closing the book in her hands, “tell me what’s going on, please?”

“Nothing is going on. What makes you say that?” I asked. I spoke too soon. She’s questioning me now. I haven’t been obvious, have I? I’ve kept everything to myself about this “Mark’s” letters matter and never spoke a word about it to anyone. All of that will change, however. I’ve decided to bring this up to Mark’s sister, Rose Ann. I didn’t want to burden Mappie with this issue, but I couldn’t solve this mystery on my own either. I must know about Mark’s last traces in this world. Perhaps then, I’d have answers. Mark wouldn’t stand having someone imitate him and cause chaos to the ones that loved him. We’re still grieving. I’m still grieving.

“Forgive me for eavesdropping, Lady Eleanor, but I overheard you muttering to yourself in your room. The letters you’ve been receiving for the past 4 months—from a stalker?! We must bring this up to law enforcement–” Alberta gasps, but I interrupt her.

“Alberta, I’m not worried enough to bring this up to the authorities. And you know how it is with the police. And imagine how my parents would react. They’ll suspect and then they’ll worry…” And they’ll blame me.

I sighed softly, taking Alberta’s hands into mine. “All will be dealt with. I’m capable enough to solve this.”

“But stalking, Eleanor!” Alberta whisper-exclaimed. “This is no trivial matter. What if something happens to you? Evenbel has never fallen short of terrifying murder stories. What if the next story is you?!”

I sighed, shaking my head firmly, “Alberta, it’ll be fine. If it ever seems dangerous, I’ll go to law enforcement. Alright?”

Alberta’s frown deepens as she looks down at our clasped hands. I knew that my words wouldn’t comfort her unless I truly stopped dealing with the matter at hand. But I simply couldn’t. It was for my sake, for Mappie, for Rose Ann, and for Mark. I couldn’t just let myself step back. After all, the problem came to me. I have the responsibility to deal with it.

“Just be careful,” Alberta muttered.

Before we left to go to Siteina, Mappie resigned from her position as my personal maid. So Alberta became my personal maid. To me, Alberta seemed to be someone who was calm and collected, like an older sister. She was 4 years older than me anyway.

Alberta would do whatever was asked without a question and if a situation was stressful, she’d have a straight face and solve it with a blink of an eye. But that was before we got closer. Two years after she became my maid, we became like sisters. I was an only child and my only closest friend I had in my childhood was a boy, so Alberta was truly someone new in my life. I appreciated her friendship and I still do so now.

Father would tell me that Alberta replaced Mark in that regard. Oh, he never really kept it a secret that he hated Mark. When we moved to Siteina, it was even more blatant. At least Mother didn’t say a word. But Father? He’d take every chance to insult Mark whenever I’d mention him. I’d get mad whenever that happened. Even if, at the time, me and Mark weren’t talking anymore.

The carriage stopped.

Alberta spoke up, “We must be here, my lady. Should I–”

“Stay here? Yes.” I opened the carriage door but Alberta stopped me.

“My lady, I am worried about you, let me join you,” Alberta says firmly. She tightened her grip on my arm. “It is my duty as your maid to accompany you at all times and my duty as your friend to help you.”

My lips thinned into a line, nodding my head slowly. I couldn’t stop a firm Alberta even if I tried my hardest. She was a stubborn one. More stubborn than I am.

We went inside the Morrison’s home, greeted by their maid. Alberta and I sat at the small parlour, drinking tea as we silently waited for Rose Ann.

A few moments later, a youthful girl entered the room.

The Morrisons had one thing in common: their wide, blue eyes. Like Mark, Rose Ann had dark brown hair, complementing the color of their eyes, and, often, their smiles. They were a family fit to be a painting, I always thought to myself. They were such a beautiful family.

Rose Ann took a good look at me and Alberta before muttering, “Lady Eleanor, Mappie isn’t here–”

“Don’t worry. I’m here to discuss something with you,” I said as I stood up. “It’s about Mark.”

Rose Ann’s expression saddened. “Ah. Alright. Please sit, Lady Eleanor.”

I sat back down as Rose Ann sat in front of me and Alberta. I smiled sheepishly, shaking my head, “You can call me Lucia, Rosie. May I call you Rosie?”

Rose Ann nodded, “Of course, of course. I… um… We hadn’t had a chance to talk at Mark’s wake and it’s been such a long time—I can’t even remember much—so… I felt that calling you Lady Eleanor was more appropriate.”

“I understand.” I took my teacup and swirled the tea gently. “Rosie, after I visited Mark’s wake, I received a letter.”

“A letter?” Rose Ann muttered. “What is it about? Mark?”

“Yes, it was,” I replied, waiting for Rose Ann’s response. I had to ease her into the situation.

“And then..? What did it say about him?” Rose Ann asked. “Is it about a debt or?”

“Rosie, the letter was from Mark.”

Rose Ann’s expression visibly darkened, her eyebrows scrunching together, “What…? But- but- Mark is-”

“Gone, yes. Which is why I suspect this “Mark” might be someone trying to trick me or scare me. Have you or Mappie received anything similar?”

“N-no,” Rose Ann stuttered, fiddling with her dress.

“What remorseless man would do this? Mark…” She paused, biting her lip as she tilted her head down. “How many letters have you received?”

“So far, three. I’m expecting another one soon. I receive a letter every 20th.” I looked into my purse, taking out the second letter. “I brought it with me. Maybe you can also confirm that this is Mark’s handwriting?”

I handed the letter to Rose Ann, who took it and immediately read the contents of the letter. I watched her expression turn greyer each moment. That confirms it. The handwriting is Mark’s.

“I-I… I don’t understand, I– how? Could someone have forged his handwriting? But why? Did he get into some sort of business when he–” Rose Ann covered her mouth.

Business?

“Rosie, what is it?” I moved closer to her. “What about Mark and business?”

Rose Ann shook her head, “Mappie told me not to tell you. She–”

She stopped herself from talking, closing her eyes as she breathed in deeply. Once she composed herself, she closed the letter I handed to her and gave it to me.

“Lady Elea-...” Rose Ann paused again. “Lucia, Mark was a bit… confused in his last few years– no, he was just… different. Yes, different.”

I didn’t say anything, carefully listening to her words. But my mind was a storm already. What happened to Mark in the past 19 years? I never… I never considered the possibility that something might’ve happened.

Rose Ann took a deep breath and exhaled. “7 years ago, Mark began to have the habit of coming home late. At first, it was just coming home late in the evening. Then he began to leave early in the morning. Then, he never came home on some days.”

“Mappie was ill at the time but she was well aware of what was happening. We were worried for him but he’d always come back. When we’d ask what was happening, he’d just tell us he was working hard. He was “chasing his dreams” and that went on for four years… He’d look even more worn and exhausted each time he came back. He seemed so different. He wasn’t himself. I feared that he lost himself.

“Then, three years ago, in spring, he left the house one day and never came back. He was missing before he was… dead.” Rose Ann sat up straight and looked at me, tears in her eyes. “When we discussed inviting you to the wake, Mappie told me to not tell you about what Mark was like in his last few years. She told me that you wouldn’t be able to forgive yourself.”

“Mappie…” I mumbled. Forgiveness…

I shook my head. “I… never knew why Mark died,” I told her.

“Suicide, law enforcement says. He hung himself,” Rose Ann stated. “But I didn’t understand why—was he depressed for the past 7 years? Is that why he was… Was he unhappy that his shoe business didn’t work out?– was he–...”

Rose Ann sighed again, “Mappie was devastated when she found out that Mark committed suicide. She almost got ill again so I avoided talking about it. We told– no, agreed, that God decided to let Mark rest.”

It was silent after that. All I heard was the sound of a clock ticking for the next few moments. I never thought of the idea that Mark was suffering. So much really has happened in the past 19 years. The memory of our childhood is a distant land and knowing this just made it easier to realize. To think he was missing, too. For three years… which is a coincidence, I realize. My family and I came back to Evenbel three years ago, in spring.

Rose Ann suddenly suggested, “What if it isn’t suicide? What if someone set this up? The letters—it could explain it. Maybe–”

“Maybe Mark got into trouble. And now that Mark’s gone…” I continued Rose Ann’s line of thought, “...they’re targeting us to pay the debt.”

“I don’t want to say that Mark was into trouble. He never was. He’d never but– back then, I felt that he was ever so desperate to get money for us. Mappie was sick and I wasn’t of age to even work yet. We couldn’t even afford our maid at the time–” Rose Ann sobbed, covering her face with both her hands.

I frowned, standing up to sit beside Rose Ann. I glanced at Alberta, signalling her to leave for now. She nodded and left us in the parlour.

“Lucia, I can’t do this alone any longer. It’s so hard to keep being strong for Mappie and I. After Mark disappeared, I took it upon myself to force myself to get opportunities to keep us stable. But now he’s dead, it’s even harder. To think my brother is gone. To think my mother pretends that she’s alright, praying and going to church everyday. To have to keep going when I truly cannot continue to move anymore. I’m terribly exhausted,” Rose Ann cries. She wiped her nose on her sleeve. “I’m sorry.”

“Rosie, don’t apologize. I know it’s not easy.” I put my arms around Rose Ann, giving her a comforting embrace. I remember that she never cried once during the funeral or the wake. She just stood there, quiet, staring at the air.

“What will we do now…?” Rose Ann sniffled, “What if the Impersonator is looking for money?”

“I can assure you that I will take care of this matter.” I placed my hands on her shoulders. “Do not tell Mappie anything. I will make sure to finish this once and for all. For all our sakes. For Mark’s sake.”

・・・・・

To my dearest Lucia,

I saw your favorite flowers today. Can you guess what they are? Of course you can. Windflowers. I collected them, around 15 of them. I collected pink and red ones. Did you know flowers have different meanings? They say that pink and red windflowers mean forsaken love that is felt deeply. In the East, windflowers are poor omens. It’s a shame, isn’t it? In Old Evenbel, windflowers are commonly carried by the poor in order to ward off diseases and ghosts. You should bring some when you visit me.

Do you ever miss me, I wonder? I do. I miss your presence. I miss the way we’d always see each other everyday. I miss the times when I would come back from school and go to your house because Mappie was still working and then we’d play in your grandmother’s garden. Have you forsaken me, Lucia? Is that it? Lucia? Have you no conscience?

I remember how you pushed me in the bushes once. I got scolded, you didn’t. In all honesty, at the time, I felt angry at you for it. But then, if I wasn’t blamed, you would be scolded. I’d rather be punished in your stead. But I wonder—I always wonder—did you ever care that I was punished for your actions? Did it matter to you? Did you feel shame and worry when I was punished for your wrongdoings? How about this:

WOULD IT MATTER TO YOU IF I WERE DEAD?

Visit me. Visit my grave. You killed me, after all. See your piece of art. No. I’m not your art. You ran away from me. You shunned me.

But please, visit me. It is the least you could do.

From your friend, Mark

I ripped the letter apart as I felt my chest tighten. I couldn’t breathe. This madness had to stop. I had to stop this madness. I’ve had enough. After finding this letter on my windowsill, I read it. And I’ve had enough. I vowed to Rose Ann that I’d solve this matter. And I will. Once and for all.

I went to my desk and began writing.

To the sender

In normal circumstances, I would write to you in a calm, respectful manner. But I’ve had enough of you. I’m sick of you. Whatever Mark owes, he can’t pay. Leave the poor man alone, for God’s sake, he’s dead! I cannot repay you nor can his family. If you send one more of these letters to me or continue bothering me or bother Mark’s family, I swear, I will have officers scattered around my street to find you, I will have officers around my home so you won’t come here again, and have them sent to yours to imprison you. I warn you of my impatience and unkindness. I can and will hurt you if I must.

Beware.

・・・・・

It is the 20th again. There was no letter. Not on my windowsill, not at the front door, nowhere. There was no sign of any letter. Thank the heavens.

Me and Alberta walked to the Morrisons’ home to inform Rose Ann of the good news. Mother and Father took the carriage due to their several engagements out today, but it was no issue to me. I missed the outdoors. I felt relief just being outside knowing that there was no shadow behind me, that I need not worry about being followed.

At our arrival at the Morrisons, Rose Ann was waiting in the parlour for Mappie to come back from morning church. As I sat down in front of Rose Ann, she explained that they would be visiting Mark after mass and I decided to join them too.

“You didn’t join her?” I asked, drinking the tea offered by Rose Ann.

“No. In all honesty, I am not a religious one,” Rose Ann explained, smiling. “Besides, for Mappie, God and the church is someone and somewhere where she can be free of keeping a strong image. I know if I were there with her, she’d only pretend to be fine.”

“I see.”

Rose Ann sighed in relief, “Thank goodness the letters stopped. I was beginning to be tired of checking if the doors were locked in the middle of the night. But if I didn’t, I couldn’t fall asleep… What happened for the letters to stop?”

“I wrote a letter to the sender last month and told him that I’d call law enforcement if he didn’t stop,” I replied. “Left it on my windowsill. It was gone the next day. It’s the 20th today and I received no letter on my windowsill or at the door.”

“That’s good,” Rose Ann grinned. “That’s wonderful news—Mark would be glad.”

I smiled back at her. “Indeed–”

The front door opened. And then a gasp.

“Lucia! My darling, how have you been? What brings you here?” Mappie walked closer to me. I stood up and hugged her, chuckling softly as I rubbed her back.

“I was just visiting you and Rosie. I heard that you two were going to visit Mark so I wanted to join the two of you,” I explained, moving away from our hug. Mappie’s eyes brightened as she smiled even harder.

“Oh, that’s sweet of you… Mark would appreciate it dearly. Thank you, Lucia,” Mappie placed her hand on my cheek, rubbing it gently.

“Don’t thank me, Mappie. It’s the least I could do…”

Me, Mappie, Rose Ann, and Alberta arrived at the cemetery in the afternoon. There was barely any person around. What a peaceful day.

Alberta waited outside the gate while the three of us visited Mark. I was on Mappie’s left side while Rose Ann was on the right, helping Mappie walk across the cemetery. We were rather slow but we took that time to chat.

Mappie tightened her grip on my arm, “Rosie told me that you’ve been writing for a living? How has it been? Well, I hope.”

“Well, I had a meeting with a few publishers months ago and it went well. Just not what I had hoped, but it is published and I am paid,” I said, keeping a smile on my face. I failed to tell her that I had to go through several revisions of my story and that my book is barely anything I meant to write. It frustrates me that this is how my voice is heard but regardless, I am heard. That’s what matters most to me.

“Very good,” Mappie said, patting my arm, “Mark would be proud of you writing.”

“You think so?” I laughed.

It is still a surprise to me that I ended up having writing as a career. Between the two of us, Mark was always the writer. I was nothing similar. I was a wealthy girl with no dream, silence filled my wishes and I rarely enjoyed whatever Mother forced me to learn and study. Mark seemed to have much more life than I did. He had a passion for writing, for yearning, for love, and for living. I did not. I only existed, if I had to be honest. My life was dull enough that I can’t even remember my childhood well. But I remember how Mark brought life into my life.

I wish he lived his life to the fullest. He deserves it more than I do.

That line from the second letter I received, ‘But I am a pen and you are my paper.’ That’s something Mark would say and he would be right for saying it. That Impersonator knew Mark well, then.

“I know Mark would be proud. He was a writer. In a way, you are following his footsteps!” Mappie giggled.

“I disagree, Mappie. I am my own writer just as he was his own. Still, it’s sweet you think that way. I think Mark would be proud too,” I smiled back at her.

I stopped walking.

Mappie and Rose Ann stopped as well as we gazed upon Mark’s grave. The grass had grown, but I could see what lay on his grave.

Pink and red windflowers.

・・・・・

I quietly laid on my bed. I woke up in the middle of the night all of the sudden. I felt sick to my stomach. I felt like I was going to vomit.

That time in the cemetery still scared me. I can’t help but remember it. I didn’t explain anything to Rose Ann and Mappie as they wondered why there were flowers on the grave. They concluded that some passerby just felt like putting them on the grave.

But I knew what they meant. Does that mean the Impersonator isn’t giving up? What must I do now? But he didn’t send a letter. Maybe it’s just a coincidence, right?

A lump in my throat began to form. I want this to be over.

I felt sleepy again.

I tightened my grip on my quilt, gazing upon my room as I felt my eyes turn heavy once more. It was dark, of course. I looked at my desk, which was still a mess. I should clean that tomorrow. I shifted my gaze to my wardrobe.

Why did it seem like it was open? Did I leave it open? I must have. Is that a shadow?

I woke up again. This time, it was morning.

I sat up from my bed, rubbing my face as I stood up to check on my closet. It was closed. So I did leave it closed. I fear I need to get my eyes checked. Well. It was dark, I shall not be blamed. That settles it.

I moved away from my closet, but then stopped mid-step.

I placed my hand on the wardrobe’s knob. Just to stop myself from being so paranoid…

I turned the knob, opening the wardrobe to find nothing inside. There wasn’t a person, either.

“Oh, Eleanor,” I scoffed, closing the wardrobe.

I’m being foolish again.

I stopped midway once more.

I opened the wardrobe and saw several scattered letters on the floor of the wardrobe. All addressed to me. To Lucia. To Lucia. To Lucia.

I hastily took one of the letters from the ground and opened one of them.

To my dearest Lucia,

Visit me.

From your friend, Mark

I threw the paper on the floor, breathing erratically as I opened the next one.

To my dearest Lucia,

Visit me.

From your friend, Mark

I threw the paper on the floor again and went to my desk. Why was it tidy? Why was it clean?!

I opened the drawer and found it full of letters. All of the letters were addressed to me. To Lucia. To Lucia. To Lucia.

There must be hundreds of them in this drawer. I feel sick!

I took one of the letters and unsealed it.

To my dearest Lucia,

Visit me.

From your friend, Mark

It was the same thing again. I opened another.

To my dearest Lucia,

Visit me.

From your friend, Mark

I opened another.

To my dearest Lucia,

Visit me.

From your friend, Mark

I opened another. And another, and another. All of them were the same. All of them were the same, sickening, phrase. ‘Visit me’.

Just who in the Lord’s name are you, even?!

I wanted to cry and scream as I started pulling the ends of my hair, staring at the stack of opened letters on my floor. Wait.

I crouched down to the floor, taking one of the letters. Behind the letter, I realized, was a scribble. It was unintelligible. What was it? Did all the letters have it?

I took two other letters and found that there were scribbles as well. No, wait. These were drawings. Terrible ones, I must say. But I couldn’t understand why—

Wait.

I flipped all letters to the back, observing each scribble.

Together, the scribbles made a picture. It was a building. The building across the street. One of the windows was encircled. The room on the second floor, on the right.

I stared at the drawing for a while longer. With the picture, there was a text written on it too.

VISIT ME

・・・・・

Dust filled my nose as Martha, the old landlady of the building, opened the door of a small flat. This was the room the picture told me to go to. At first glance, it was clear to me that the flat was unmoved. No one has lived here for months.

I covered my nose and my mouth with my handkerchief, coughing as I walked into the flat. “How long has this flat been vacant, Miss Martha?”

Martha hacked out a cough. “Around 5 months. Something like that.”

I looked around the room, taking everything into detail. Other than dusty, the room was quite small and nothing seemed to be out of place. It was a regular flat. Nothing of note whatsoever. There were no picture frames, no books, no personal belongings that could tell me anything.

Why did the Impersonator ask me to visit him here?

Martha patted the couch, checking to see how much dust had settled. “Well, I could hire a worker to clean for you if you decide to take this flat. Are you interested?”

I didn’t answer her question. I wasn’t here to take the flat anyway. “The tenant before—what happened to him?”

Martha frowned, “He… er… passed away, 5 months ago.”

“Sickness?”

“Suicide.”

I felt my heart drop. Suicide? Five months ago? Mark…

I gently gripped my skirt, trying to compose myself, but my breath shook every moment I tried to open my mouth. It couldn’t be, right?

“C-could you tell me the tenant’s name?” I asked.

“The tenant’s name…?” Martha hummed.

The world felt like it stopped for a moment. It would be impossible, right? Mark…

“Something…”

“Something?”

“Something… Howard.”

That was almost enough to verify it. No. There are plenty of Howards in the world. It couldn’t—

“Morrison. Yes, that’s his name. Mark Howard Morrison.”

My heart sank.

“I… see,” I mumbled, biting my lip. I looked around the room, imagining Mark walking around the room, living a humble life before his final days. To think Mark lived so close to where I was—did he know? Did he mean to live so near to me? Has he seen me before? Why didn't he talk to me? Why didn't I ever notice?

“I’d like to take a moment alone. To take a good look at the flat. Would that be alright?” I asked.

Martha nodded, “Yes, of course. I’ll be right at the building next door. Find me there, yes?”

I nodded, forcing a small smile as I watched Martha leave.

Once the door shut, I sank down to the couch.

I took a look around the room again, trying to look for things that Mark could’ve owned. A photograph or a journal. It could verify it for sure. I need more proof. I must…

I stood up once more, checking the bookshelves. There weren’t any books. No poems. No prose. Did Mark give up writing? No. He couldn’t. Is this even really Mark’s room? What if it’s just someone similar in name or–

Knock. Knock.

“Yes?” I answered. There was a knock on the door. “Is that you, Miss Martha?”

“No.”

I froze in place.

I was mistaken. That knock didn’t come from the front door.

It came from the bedroom.

The Impersonator.

I didn’t turn around, beginning to run towards the front door. I frantically tried to open it. It didn’t move. It was locked. It was locked!

“Miss Martha!” I shouted, “Miss—”

“Don’t leave just yet.”

I felt shivers down my spine as I dared not to look behind me, continuing to force the door open. I used my fist to bang on the door. But no one heard me.

“Help me!” I shouted.

“Lucia.”

I gasped.

“Who are you? You have no right to call me by that name,” I said firmly. I was like a poor dog in Gerta’s thunderous storm—shivering, shaking in fear.

“Lucia, it’s me. Can’t you recognize me?”

I breathed in shakily, turning around to face this person. It was a man. His face was tired. Unclean. Unrecognizable. Unfamiliar. I had no idea who this was. It wasn’t Mark. It didn’t look anything like him.

“I-I… I don’t know who you are—”

“What? Surely you must— you must recognize me. Surely you wouldn’t forget the person you spent your childhood with! I certainly didn’t!”

I frowned, taking a slow step back, “You couldn’t be Mark. Surely you couldn’t be—”

“Lucia, it’s me! Mark! Your Mark!” The man took a step forward, trying to reach for me, but I ran backwards, almost stumbling against the couch.

“I don’t know who you are! Mark is dead!” I exclaimed, running from the man. “Leave me alone—”

The man took hold of my arm and I yelped, “Let go of me! Let go!”

“Lucia, believe me! It’s me, Mark!”

I kept trying to pull away, starting to feel his grip on me tighten. He used his two hands to hold my shoulders, firmly pushing me against the wall.

“No! Let go of me—!”

“Lucia, look at me.”

I didn’t look at him. I continued to try and get away from him. Mark is dead. Mark is dead. It was impossible for him to be alive once more. Even God’s miracles couldn’t do such a thing!

“‘To my dearest Lucia,’” the man recited. He continued, “‘I made this letter on the evening before your departure to Siteina—’”

I stopped moving. No. He couldn’t possibly— That’s— “You—!”

Mark’s letter before I left for Siteina.

“‘—because I wanted to tell you something but I couldn’t bring myself to tell you in person. I must admit that I am afraid and my heart aches every moment I try casting words out of my lips—Lucia I lo—”

I pushed the man away.

“Mark is dead, you insolent bastard! He no longer breathes and here you are, disrespecting the dead by imitating him! You don’t scare me, you fool, you disgust me!” I looked behind me and saw a candlestick. I immediately took it. “Don’t come near me!”

“Disgust you? How can you not believe I am Mark—I recited to you the letter that only you and I know! I am Mark, Lucia. I didn’t die.”

I shook my head, “Then what was that funeral for?! Mark would never do such a thing. He wouldn’t put his family and friends in grief—”

“I did it for you, Lucia. Please, let me explain everything.”

I looked at the man, narrowing my eyes as I took a good look at his eyes. The same blue eyes of the Morrison family. No. Maybe it’s just a coincidence. But this man knew the letter. No one knew of those letters but the two of us. It was an exchange between the two of us. Alone.

“...Why did you fake your death? Have you no remorse…?” I whispered, letting go of the candlestick. “I thought you were gone. Mappie was devastated, did you not know that? Rose Ann struggles everyday because you died! You left them. And I was—”

“And you, what?”

Mark stared at me. Those eyes were once beautiful. But looking at them now, I felt even more afraid. He wasn’t the same Mark I knew, if it really is Mark. He was an entirely different person. He lost himself.

“Stop acting like a victim, Eleanor. You’ve lived your best life in Siteina for the past 19 years. Never once have you talked to me—I’m more surprised you cared when I pretended I died.” Mark smiled and continued, “But I can forgive you. I did it all for you, you know? I love you. Mark Howard Morrison died so that I would ask you this question—”

Mark kneeled down on both his knees, putting his hands on mine, “Will you marry me, Lucia?”

I pulled his hands off of mine, “No! Get your filthy hands away from me! You’re mad!”

Mark’s eyes darkened as if I broke his heart. I must’ve. I have, once. And I will again.

“Why won’t you marry me, Lucia? Why won’t you love me? I’d give everything to you—”

“Mark, it’s not about that.”

“THEN WHY?! WHY WON’T YOU LOVE ME?! I WAITED 19 YEARS FOR YOU!!! I WORKED LIKE A DOG EVERYDAY, for you. FOR YOU!!!”

“Mark—!”

The candlestick was in his hands.

・・・・・

June 20th, xxxx

To my dearest Lucia,

I made this letter on the evening before your departure to Siteina because I wanted to tell you something but I couldn’t bring myself to tell you in person. I must admit that I am afraid and my heart aches every moment I try casting words out of my lips—

Lucia, I love you.

From the first time we met, when Mappie took me to the Elington Estate for the first time, I knew that you would be an important person in my life. Mostly because of your status and my mother being your maid accentuated that fact. But then, you became my dear friend. And now, I yearn for more.

You were nicknamed ‘Lucia’. You shined upon my life and granted me light throughout my life. I knew I liked you from the moment we met, but I learned that I loved you when you judged my poems harshly. To me, it meant that you were honest. That you were true.

But, Lucia, each romantic poem I dedicated to the thought of you. Every word where I spoke of gentle flowers, divine angels, and the golden sunsets at the pier, they were all at the thought of you. They were all for you.

I love you regardless of our differences. I love you regardless of your wrongs towards me. I love you even if your parents hate me. I love you.

My mind drifts to you the moment I wake up, until the very last of my consciousness before I drift to sleep. I think of your eyes when I look at the ink of my pen, I think of your hair when I gaze upon the golden light of the candlelight. Every beautiful thing in this vast, unkind world reminds me of you.

My heart is in your gloved hands, Lucia. And I will devoutly wait for your return to Evenbel, where my heart drowns for your affection.

From your friend, Mark

June 21st, xxxx

To my loyal friend, Mark

Mark, I am thankful for your courage but I do not feel the same way for you. I cannot reciprocate. I apologize that I’m breaking your heart this way. I am not the one for you, Mark. Our paths in happiness lie in different places. I do not wish to sadden you further. Goodbye, Mark.

From your friend, Lucia

・・・・・

Divine and pure Lucia, sitting on a gorgeous white chair in the middle of a field, her hair neatly done as she wore a white wedding dress. My life seemed to gain color once more. No, that’s incorrect. It was light. Light brightened my life once again. I finally reunited with my dearest Lucia. Oh Lucia, I love her to death. I couldn’t stop myself from smiling at her. She was ready to be wed.

“Mark, my dearest,” Eleanor calls out, raising her arms, reaching out for me. Only me. She waved at me, “Dearest, hurry! I have waited for this moment for so long.”

My smile grew into a grin as I began walking towards her.

At long last, we were getting married.

I walked down the path that looked like the wooden floors of my flat. Old thing. I hardly missed it. I hardly cared. I could finally marry Lucia.

“Hurry, my love,” Eleanor calls out again.

I run as dust suddenly fills my nose again. That old, familiar dust. It was just like my flat—I’m in a field of flowers, however. What a strange phenomenon.

I reached the side of Eleanor as she sat down. “Won’t you stand with me and say our vows?” I asked her. She laughed softly.

“I am afraid I cannot stand with you, but I shall recite our vows with you, my dearest.”

I looked at her porcelain-like face. She was beautiful. My Lucia was beautiful. Like a darling red rose in the middle of plain ones. There were rose petals on the side of her head, on her chest, on her arms. My dearest Lucia, drenched in rose petals. I stared at her face for a while longer, noticing a cockroach crawl up her neck.

“Oh, dearest,” I laughed, taking the cockroach with my hand, throwing it on the floor.

“How silly!” Eleanor giggles.

I took her hand and placed a ring upon her gloved hand, kissing her forehead as I heard her sigh in relief. I embraced her as I began reciting the vows, “My dearest Lucia.”

“You have freed me from the depths of my sorrow. With your hand, you rewrote who I am and turned me yours. You are the pen to my paper—”

Eleanor began reciting as well, “And you are the puzzle piece that completes me. I promise that, in each waking hour, in love, and in death, we will be together. From the high mountains and the deepest seas, from the evenings in Evenbel to the sunrises in Siteina, against the storms of Gerta, I will love thee and our love will grow as old as Evertrees.”

“‘Dearest Lucia and her husband, Mark,’” I whispered.

I moved away from Eleanor and found myself in my flat. In front of me, on the old wooden floor of my flat, laid Eleanor—there, as if lying dead on a pool of crimson rose petals.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a distinguished platform celebrating exceptional literary talent from around the world. This competition serves as an opportunity for writers to showcase their unique voices and creative prowess. Participants from various backgrounds contribute works that resonate with universal themes, fostering a vibrant community of wordsmiths and storytellers dedicated to the craft of writing.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Ava Rane Supeña for sharing "To My Dearest Lucia From Your Friend, Mark" with us in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Your captivating narrative offers readers a profound exploration of love and memory, leaving a lasting impression. We appreciate your contribution and look forward to seeing more of your creative endeavors.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.