My dearest,

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    Writing this is an exercise I complete for myself. Nobody is going to read it, not even you. I left the other ones with you out back. I don’t think I am going to get to write too many more. The tunnel vision has been getting worse and I lost a few hours yesterday. It’s scary to suddenly be standing in a kitchen and not know why. You would have had a good quip. “I always lose a few hours when I head out into the garden,” or “I always lose track of time at the ocean.”

    Seven months on and it still feels like someone ripped the core out of me.

You would be proud, though. Took the end of the world for me to have enough willpower to finally diet. Makes the jowls hang low to lose so much. I’m out of food now. I saved up enough to have a pretty decent meal with you on our anniversary. We were out of candles, so I couldn’t set the mood.

One of the summer thunderstorms you love so much came through yesterday. Midnight black sky during mid-day, walls of water that come and go as fast as a blink, and the smell of ozone while lightning cracks the sky. Without lights on the horizon, it transformed into a religious moment. I heard you telling me to come inside, but then I realized what’s the point? A little rain on my clothing?

    Others left, heading off to find shelter, other cites, more people, or whatever they wanted. I promised to stay with you. I’m with you till the end. I guess there comes a time after which a man must understand he can’t start over anyway. Younger people out there can scratch and claw their way back from the brink.

    I can’t say I didn’t enjoy the waiting for the fell sergeant death. The most peace we have had in years. I reread some of our favorite books. The Sound and the Fury, and Gatsby I did out loud for you this week. It made you feel closer.

    Each night I say I’ll see you soon, and each night part of me doubts if I believe it. Is there still a heaven in our new world? You would have had an answer. You always had better answers than me to the big questions. I want to mean it. I want to see that smile again.

    I love you, Joyce.

Yours,

John

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-Keeper Archive Entry: 000193057. Found beside the body of a man in his home, where he had collapsed in his living room, the final note was unable to be correlated with other entries as no previous entries were located. Recorded in the archive as John and Joyce Dunhill of 311 Fish Hill Road, Tannersville, Pennsylvania.

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Added to the Archive in 3 AF.