The Blood that Flows is Still the Same
[I fail to accept even after we had the burial that he truly passed. That was no burial, there was no body to be buried. It was only a ceremony, for we know that his grave truly lies far north. The Farthest North to be ever reached by the great Edmund Walton.]
Harker had to squint to read the words, since the handwriting was visibly shaky. There was also a stain that didn't look the same as all the other ink blots. It looked like a splatter, as the ink was mixed…..
By a drop of water.
Harker guessed that it must have come from Henry Clerval's eyes. He could imagine it vividly in his mind's eye. A man barely able to write the words to express his grief, and in the end wasn't really able to as the words got even more muddled in the end and he had run out of pages.