As is the case with strange things, a history is hard to provide. This letter is unsigned, unaddressed, and missing preceding pages. I know not the whole story, I only know this little leaf was kept, folded tightly, in a locket, heart shaped, a J emboldened on its outer face.
They buried her up the hill. Of course they couldn’t put a marker down, but I know. There’s a meadow below here, filled with yellow and purple flowers. The grass is tall and wild; it bends to the wind, and is like a green ocean swaying in the summer breeze, shining in the sun. I sat beside her awhile. We said nothing, of course, but we hadn’t talked for five years anyway.
I hope this letter finds you well; I hope this puts your mind at ease. It’s a very peaceful scene, a place eminently suited, and if she at times can know, hidden below the earth, the beauty around her, maybe her troubled soul will finally rest here, looking over this glade.
There’s a little shade under this bush. Its leaves are soft, and its aroma sweet.