October 24 1884

To the one who discovers this note,

I will have left this earth by the time you read these words. My life was like a canvas that was left unfinished, devoid of color and life. Sadly, my attempts to imitate my contemporaries were unsuccessful because my fate had already been decided. Early on, I was plunged into a hole of darkness so deep that it consumed me completely, leaving only a shadow of myself behind. I beg forgiveness for my offenses against the divine, and I pray that your kind heart would pardon me.

A maelstrom of emotions that swallowed me in its violent waves was first exposed to me at the youthful age of 10. It was an unsettling sensation, a hollow pit without any obvious origin or rationale. It was like an unwanted visitor who would stay longer than expected, leaving me feeling alone and powerless.

I looked for a cause, a justification for it, but alas, all I found was ambiguity. It was like to an unsolvable puzzle with missing components. This visitor persisted despite having a happy and healthy family, a mystery that resisted explanation.

My days' previous gloomy shroud of sadness would vanish as quickly as it had appeared. It persisted for a full year, a persistent guest that left no traces. As a meek farmhand, I tended the fields with my father and visited the nearby abbey in search of wisdom. My life was like a rose in full bloom—happy and tranquil, with a bright future in front of me. The priest's remarks continued to reverberate in my head, tempting me with the idea of a life above my lowly beginnings. My father made plans for me to attend an academy in the busy city of London after I persuaded him.

I spent a considerable amount of my life in a bubble of tranquil contentment. The bubble burst, though, when I reached fifteen, and reality slammed me like a ton of bricks. My mother and my beloved grandfather had died, leaving a gaping hole that could never be replaced. My grandparents had been my north stars, showing me the way with their support and affection. It was as if a comet had destroyed my cosmos and left a trail of shattered pieces with their destruction.

I realized the anguish that had overtaken me five years before for the first time in my life. It was as though a dormant volcano suddenly erupted, spouting molten feelings that swallowed me whole. Grief was a violent, senseless ache with an alluring beauty, like a two-edged blade. My heart had been swallowed up like a black hole that would never let go. My previously ascending trip appeared to be falling into a pit of pitch-blackness.

I had no idea that Death would turn into my fixation. It wasn't simply a simple haunting; it seemed as though Death and I were in love. She drew me in like a moth to a flame because of how mysterious and intriguing she was. I couldn't let go of her, despite the sorrow and agony that followed her. She was a strict mistress, but that only made her more alluring.

I couldn't help but admire the women's attractiveness as my academy classmates gushed about the women they had met; to me, they were like priceless pearls. But I didn't feel any desire toward them, causing me to wonder whether there was something wrong with me. How could I enjoy their beauty and not be drawn to them? Years passed before I figured out the solution to the mystery.

I started working at the printing press when I was old enough to be considered a "real man" by society. I disguised my genuine wants despite my parents' insistence that I find a wife. It was more a fascination with Death itself than a lack of romantic or same-sex desire. For me, life was a perpetual source of suffering and uncertainty, despite all of its fleeting beauty. It appeared to change through time in both wonderful and awful ways.

I couldn't help but be drawn to this power, which was enigmatic and beyond my comprehension. With every year that went by, my love for Death grew deeper, like a flower that grew in the sun's shade. I was unsure of how I felt about life itself because of this all-consuming enthusiasm. Even though I may never fully comprehend it, the yearning still exists and burns within me unabated.

It felt as though a spell had been cast on me by the allure of death. It wasn't simply a fascination; it was an obsession; a never-ending quest that engulfed my entire being. It seemed as though I had unearthed a priceless jewel or a treasure that had been kept a secret from the public. I found myself fascinated to death the more I explored its gloom. It resembled a labyrinth, a mystery that only a select few could solve. My escort was Death herself, enticing me with her seductive allure. She presented herself to me as a queen, dressed in an ebony velvet cloak that sparkled like diamonds in the night.

I had the impression that I was standing before a goddess because of how strong and seductive her presence was. Her words were poetry, and her voice was like a symphony. You couldn't help but be enthralled by her. I wanted to figure out her enigma and solve the puzzle that was her. Her hair was an infinite river of ink that flowed, and her skin was like alabaster. Her eyes contained unending wisdom, but they also held the hope of something greater. She was a siren who beckoned to me with her singing; she was a temptress. We kissed in my fantasies, and it was like a passionate symphony that left me gasping for air. I realized then and there that I could never love another person. Her kiss had left a permanent imprint on me that could never be removed.

The inevitable would take place when five more seasons had passed. My father, whose disease had overwhelmed him, would pass away. Although I wish I could say I was overcome with emotion, it was more like a piece of me had been missing for a while. An ancient wound that had long since healed but left a scar gave off an unsettling impression. I've tried over the years to develop relationships with people of the other gender, but I've never been successful. Death had rendered it difficult with her hold on my heart. My soul had been permanently marked by her strange kiss, like a brand that would never vanish. Even while I occasionally saw her in my dreams, they were becoming less frequent.

The idea of missing up on her beauty was intolerable. Each of us complemented the other in a way that went beyond any genuine relationship, as if fate had purposefully chosen us for one another. My peers would frequently moan about their wives at the pub, but it always looked like they were just blowing smoke. I grew weary of their facades and wished I could tell them how I really felt. They tried, but I rejected every woman they recommended. I just didn't have the energy for it. All I wanted was to feel my mistress Death's tender caresses wrap around me, to taste her lips on mine, and to look into her seductively black eyes once more.

And so I wrote this letter. Even if she rejects me, my heart aches to see her once more. To maybe find eternal peace in her embrace—or not—I want to see her one more time. Who is able to solve the mystery of death? Its secrets are enigmatic and incomprehensible to mortals. Please pardon me for the words I've written here, my dear companions. You can either despise my memory or celebrate my passing from this planet. I always had the utmost respect for you, and I trust you to give me a decent funeral. I will miss you, but until then, goodbye.

Yours sincerely,

William