In the past, she was like a bright light leading me through tough times, a symbol of hope that kept me going. Despite the passage of years without communication, when the time came to reconnect with her, I found myself instinctively gazing up at the...
we'll have a cardboard box of photos of the life we've made, and you'll say, "oh my, we really were timeless". – Taylor Swift, Timeless (Taylor's Version)
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S E P T E M B E R 1 4 T H 2 0 1 1
As I stared at the lines of the poem, they seemed to blur before my eyes, evading my attempts at recognition. Despite the letters she wrote specifically for me, I couldn't recall encountering Maile's words elsewhere.
Maile had a rare talent for crafting words into rich tapestries of emotion and meaning, a gift that had always captivated me. It was why, from a young age, I took it upon myself to teach her about language's intricacies, fostering her love for the written word and its ability to transcend barriers.
She was the reason I pursued linguistics, driven by the desire to bridge the gap between our worlds and unlock the secrets within our shared language. Each word held profound significance, a testament to the bond that connected us across time and space.
Hotch's voice snapped me back to reality, reminding me of our urgent situation. "You won't make any decisions alone, understood Blake?" His tone was firm, leaving no room for misunderstanding.
I nodded, determined to contribute to our investigation in any way possible. "I'm here to help," I affirmed, my voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions inside me.
Hotch eased into the chair across from me, flanked by Rossi, their attentive gazes fixed on me. "Tell us more about the girl," Hotch prompted, his voice gentle but firm, urging me to share what I knew.
Taking a deep breath, I steeled myself for the conversation ahead, hiding my emotions behind a mask of composure. "Her name is Maile Crane," I began, the sound of her name bringing forth a rush of bittersweet memories. "Her mother passed away when she was almost five, leaving her in the care of her father, Everett Crane."
The words caught in my throat, a lump forming as I struggled to speak of the pain hidden beneath the surface. "He was..." I hesitated, the memories of Maile's troubled past weighing heavily on my heart. "He was a terribly abusive man."
The admission hung heavy in the air, casting a somber mood over the room as I grappled with the guilt and remorse that gnawed at me. How could I have allowed him to take her away, subjecting her to such cruelty? What had she endured in the years since, and how could I ever make amends for failing to protect her?
With deliberate strokes, Rossi inscribed the names of Maile and her father onto the blank sheet before him, the scratch of the pen a stark reminder of the seriousness of our task.
Hotch's voice broke the solemn silence like a sharp blade, his inquiry cutting through the heavy atmosphere that enveloped the room. "You mentioned she used to send you letters," he interjected, his tone laced with empathy. "Do you still have them?"
