Eir entered the room with quiet steps,
her footsteps soft against the floor.
In the corner, the shadow of a noose hung down,
but it did not disturb her—
a reminder of what she had once intended to do.
She sat at the edge of the bed,
her skin a warm bronze,
her eyes bright,
her hair naturally arranged.
Her body was balanced and graceful,
her clothes simple yet elegant.
Everything about her reflected calm and composure.
The cold autumn breeze played with the curtains.
After a moment, she rose and moved toward the desk.
There lay the letter she had written to her mother in a moment of weakness.
She picked it up slowly and read the words:
> "Everyone drifts away from me.
I spent an entire winter month alone in the mountain house.
It seems you too have abandoned me. No…
more likely you've started to forget me gradually.
And so I write this letter—perhaps my last—
with feelings that feel useless.
I don't know if it's meant to reach you or anyone else…
or someone who still has a tomorrow.
If you're reading these words, know one thing:
I am already dead.
All I know is that I need to leave something of myself behind
before this emptiness swallows me whole.
I have done the unforgivable…
caught between a life I can't endure
and a departure whose consequences I don't know.
I am afraid that death may be only an extension
of something worse than what I am living.
If you find this letter, I don't want anything from you.
Let it simply stand as proof
that I was here, and that I tried to stay…"
Eir held the letter between her slender hands,
walked to the wastebasket,
and dropped the pieces inside.
The soft sound of paper scattering echoed faintly,
as though the anger and disappointment contained in the words
had vanished there.