April 14, 1862
My Dearest Theodora,
I know not where to begin, for this letter alone carries a weight upon my heart and a danger upon my name. Should it fall into the wrong hands, heaven knows the ruin it would bring. Yet, I could not deny myself the comfort of your memory any longer. To live on without a word from you feels a more certain death than any I've faced since these dreadful days of war began. So I write, reckless as I may seem, to ask if you yet think of me, as I think of you.
I confess I have seen places and met faces I scarcely imagined before. There are moments when I am called upon to act in ways that estrange me from myself, and in such moments, I think of you, dear Theodora. Yours was always the voice of reason when my own heart grew clouded, the kindness to still my every fear. I feel now as if I were cast into darkness, with but your memory a beacon to keep me on my path.
I cannot share with you the particulars of my work. Suffice it to say, I serve my cause as best as I am able. It is a cause I hold dear, and yet... how shall I say it? Even the bravest of souls must admit the cruelty of war, though they claim it righteous. Often, as I travel through these towns and encampments, I think of the gentle touch you must bring to those under your care. I imagine your hands easing away the pain of soldiers and soothing their wearied spirits. They are blessed, those men who find themselves in your charge.
Tell me, Theodora, do you think of me still? Or have these dark times erased me from your heart? I would understand, though it pains me to say so. Should you find it too great a danger to reply, let this letter be my only proof of our once-shared dreams. But if your heart allows it, write to me, my love. I beg of you, send me word of your well-being. Let me hold some part of you, if only in thought, to keep me steady when my soul feels worn.
Until I see your hand upon the page, I remain yours, ever faithfully.
Ophelia
