"To my Loveliest and my little mermaid..."

It was magical when they danced.

He knew what he was doing, obviously. He knew how to dance. The way his hands held her waist and her head leaned on his chest, and both of them got lost in the music, floating away from the world. They swayed back and forth, in circles. He would hold her hand up and spin her around and everything else would fade away. He would hold her dainty frame gently in his bear hands and she would wrap her long, slender arms around him. Their heartbeats would match just like their steps and they would forget everything else in those moments when she was in his arms.

They danced to Vivaldi's 'Four season' on their wedding day. They danced to Strauss' Opas 410 in the kitchen of the first house they bought together. They danced to Chopin's Waltz in E minor when they found out Jeanne was pregnant.

Oh, stop it. Remembering him only makes it worse.

Arthur was... different. He was gentle when necessary and firm at the right moments. He was thoughtful and smart and creative and strong and-

Stop it, Jeanne. Stop it.

She was in the living room of the house on the cliff by the sea and everything screamed of Arthur. The room was, like him, interesting. It was fairly large with tall, wooden barn doors on one side and sliding glass doors on the other, out of which she could see the vast expanse of the water. The water itself was also like him: sometimes calm and quiet and ruminating; sometimes loud and fierce and passionate. There was a dark blue couch with white and yellow pillows and a throw blanket that Arthur had knitted himself. She remembered how his face focused when he was knitting, his eyebrows burrowed deep in concentration as his hands moved swiftly and efficiently. She could see, in her mind, his deep green eyes fixated on his work, completely engrossed in it. A single tear rolled down her cheek.

Stop it, stop thinking about him. Please.

He had been with her when they chose the solid grey rug on the floor. It's boring, he had said, let's get something more interesting.

She refused and told him there was already enough going on in the room. The wall behind the couch was a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. It occupied the entire wall and was the first thing you noticed when you walked into the room.

It was filled with books beyond any readers imagination: Charles Dickens, books of poetry, one of Aesop's fables, the entire Roald Dahl collection, all seven of The Chronicles of Narnia alongside the Lord of the Rings series, and other classics. There were encyclopedias and massive dictionaries and, Jeanne's absolute favorite, The little mermaid.

Please.

She drifted towards the shelf now and picked it up, running her hands along the sturdy, rich leather. It was beautiful, really, and a dark red in color. It had intricate gold patterns along the cover and the spine the she traced with her delicate fingers. She could hear the sea raging outside, the waves crashing against the rock, sending specks of water flying everywhere. The water was grey, dark, and frothy; somehow mystifying in the way it rolled back and forth, as if it was mourning the loss alongside her.

Forget, forget, forget.

The opposite wall, the one with the red brick fireplace, was covered in records. Arthur had done that himself as well. She remembered him climbing a ladder to reach the highest part of the wall and gluing each to the wall, case first then the record right next to it. He did the whole wall like that, alternating. The colors mesmerized the beholder, hues ranging from pink to blue, white to red, green to purple. They were all classical music, because that's what Arthur, and soon Jeanne, liked. In their ten years of marriage, there was seldom a time when there wasn't a record turning in the player, filling the house with the most spectacular melodies.

Stop it, Jeanne. He's gone.

There previously had been an exquisite, large painting of the sea outside their home above the fireplace gifted to them on their wedding day by Jeanne's sister, Aliyah. But that had been replaced with a portrait Arthur, painted to perfection and encapsulating his visage perfectly. His hair was rich and dark, curling messily around him. His face was bright and smiling, the loyalty shining in his deep, green eyes. His jaw was clear and defined and his nose was likewise. His lips were narrow and pale and his ears were small, which was ironic because he was an excellent listener. Jeanne remembered everything so vividly. Every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every month, every year, every-

"Mama?"

Jeanne almost screamed. She turned and saw Corsen. The girl was small, only four and a half. She was in a white dress that stopped just before her knees and her tiny feet were bare against the dark, woodgrain floorboards. Her hair was rich and dark red, falling in childish curls just after her narrow shoulders. It was because of this that she had gotten her name. Her small, innocent face looked up at her mothers and held out what she was holding.

Jeanne moved slowly and delicately towards the couch, gesturing for the little girl to join her. Corsen ran towards her mother in pure delight. Jeanne smiled and lifted the little girl into her lap.

"What's that you have there, dearest?"

Jeanne took the clean, white envelope in her hands and held it between her fingers. She felt the sting of tears behind her eyes when she saw what was written in small, neat writing.

To my Loveliest and my little mermaid

"What is it, mama?"

"It's a letter. Where did you find it?"

"In my toybox. Who is it from?"

"It's from Papa,"

"I thought Papa was dead," Corsen asked, clearly confused. She was mature for her age and handled the death of her father so well, Jeanne almost thought she didn't understand. But she did and she had caught the little girl crying silently in her bed at night, holding the teddy bear her father had bought for her close. On these nights, since Jeanne could hear, she could get up and go to Corsen's room and pick up her daughter, rocking her back and forth.

The girl would scream and sob loudly while in her mothers arms, holding tightly to her. Jeanne would look into her daughters eyes, identical to her fathers, and say nothing. For nothing could be said. There were no words of consolation fit enough to be uttered.

Jeanne slid her finger underneath the seal and pulled out a clean, white sheet of paper and read the single paragraph.

I'm sorry. No apology is good enough for what I put you through. I'm sorry you had to see me slowly deteriorate and, if you're reading this, die. To my loveliest, the years I spent with you were... spectacular. Our adventures meant the world to me. And to my little mermaid, keep dreaming. I love you both to the moon and back. Don't cry.

Jeanne didn't cry, but tears rolled down her cheeks. She wiped them away, smiling, his words echoing in her head. To the moon and back.

"Go get the book, my darling," she said to Corsen, who obediently jumped down from her mothers lap. She knew which book it was and retrieved it immediately, skipping back around the couch. Jeanne lifted her back into her lap, and the little girl squirmed to find a comfortable position.

With her long, slender hand in Corsen's tiny one, she flipped the cover back and opened page one. The words on the page jumped out to her, each one reminding her of her love. He was gone, yes. But he would also never be gone. He was still with them in every way imaginable. They saw him daily in the quilts and throws, the record wall, the books.

On the pages, there he was.

Jeanne wiped away the last of her tears and began reading. There was nowhere in the world she she rather have been than in between those pages.

"Once upon a time..."