I do not remember the last time I raised my voice or became aggressive through anger. I have not had to fight my temper, not for some time now and I cannot help but smile. I will confide in this little book that has been neglected for many years, and perhaps someday I'll let her read it, or at least some of it. I have nothing to hide from her, nor do I want to. This is how I always wanted things to be.
I have always been a man of practicality. Sleeping on an old tattered bedroll beneath a tree, waking beside the same bush I had seen the night before was cerimonous; be it every night, or days apart. And now I stir, my head on a pillow, a roof above my head and Abri beside me. I always wear gloves, to protect my hands. Never any jewellerry: It could break, get damaged, hinder me or get in the way, were I in the need to hit someone. And yet, now sits a ring on my finger, of my left hand - too.
This is by far not what I expected when I looked at my reflection. I saw nothing, an empty man but I was proud of him. And now, this place, this life. The fact that she is a part of it makes it more than I could ever deserve. The fire burning, her dress on the chair, her clothes beside the bed, her things upon the table and scattered about the rooms: is perfect. She sleeps soundly, so quietly and gracefully; I shall rejoin her.
The best part of it all? I know it's not just a dream.
