With the beginning of a new day, an other single red rose sits on the desk of Mrs. Emily Jones. The letter beneath it.


My Dearest Emily,
If loving you is a crime, then I am guilty of this crime, guilty of this sweet taboo. I would spend a hundred years, five hundred, a thousand locked away in the darkest dungeons if I could spend just one minute locked in your sweet embrace. If it were a sin to press my lips to yours just once, I would spend all of eternity in damnation for that sweet pleasure. My heart aches at your every passing, but there is no cure for my malady. My heart needs no cure but to gaze upon your radiant face, to hear your breathless whisper, to touch your soft hand in innocent exchange. Your glance sets my passion ablaze that an ocean of waves could not quench.
Come Emily, let us run away, and escape the chains that keep us apart. I long for the day that I can lay my hand upon your soft cheek, to press my lips to your graceful neck and feel the pulse of your heart beneath them. Come with me Emily, let us run.