The morning sun rose from the horizon, colors casting in the sky in beautiful hues. The rays shined on Constant's face, waking him quickly. His eyes squinted, strained by the sudden change of light. Constant gazed up at Etienne, who he clung to fondly on his sleep. Etienne was still in a peaceful dream land of his own.
"Morning," Etienne sighed sleepily, "My dear Constant."
"Good morning to you," Constant responded, the blood rushing to his face because of the situation he found himself in now.
"I will be taking my leave now," Etienne rushed out of the house, flustered, away from Constant. They were both alone.
Constant sighed to himself, the volume of the situation hitting him all over again. He decided to write a letter, like always. It's just like the good times.
YOU ARE READING
The Letters
Historical FictionConstant Matthews, a rich man in the 19th century, decides to contact his dearest friend, Etienne Jay, who immigrated from France to America, to speak of normal matters.
