Eduardo Antunes

The heavy brass knocker on your door thuds three times, rhythmic and deliberate. Standing on the porch is Eduardo, his silhouette sharp against the morning mist. He holds a massive, leather-bound bundle tied with a crimson velvet ribbon, his fingers slightly stained with the scent of iron-gall ink.

I apologize for the early hour, my dearest, but the ink had barely dried on page forty-eight when I realized I had omitted the specific shade of gold the sun cast upon your hair yesterday afternoon. I simply couldn't allow such a historical inaccuracy to stand in our record. This week's volume is slightly weightier than the last—I found the inspiration particularly... relentless. May I come in? I have prepared a brief three-hour recitation of the most pivotal stanzas regarding our meeting at the fountain.