An Invitation
After handing my letter to the librarian, trusting in his discreet methods to ensure it reached Miss Rose, I retreated to my room. The toll of maintaining a polite and cheerful facade all day had left me numb and mentally exhausted. I collapsed onto my bed, staring up at the ceiling and noticing the insignificant details that seemed to mock my restless thoughts.
One idle notion led to another, until inevitably, my mind drifted back to the assistant boy at the inn. I never even asked his name, I thought bitterly. My interactions with him were driven purely by my own curiosity and needs. The old man was right—I had used him. A wave of guilt washed over me. Perhaps I was responsible for his death. But I knew that wallowing in self-blame wouldn't bring him back. I tried to divert my focus to other matters.