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She isn’t simply writing a letter expressing her longing; she is finally putting into words what she has been holding back for so long. As she writes, she seems to be pulled in two directions at once—by memories and by a sense of foreboding. The rain outside the window, the gentle flickering of the candlelight, and her hesitation as she puts pen to paper—these are not an outburst, but an accumulation; they represent her sitting there, gently cradled by her longing.















