Winter in Montana was brutal.
I'd been relocated to a small town called Cedar Ridge—population 2,000, surrounded by mountains, buried in snow six months a year.
My new name was Sarah Mitchell. I worked at the local library, lived in a cabin on the edge of town, and spoke to exactly no one unless necessary.
The FBI had given me a new life.
But I hadn't figured out how to live it.
Every day was the same. Wake up, go to work, catalog books, go home, stare at the ceiling until sleep finally came.
I didn't make friends. Didn't date. Didn't do anything except exist.
Because living without Dante didn't feel like living at all.
---
Agent Morrison checked in monthly.
"You need to integrate more," she told me during one call. "Make friends. Build a life. You can't keep isolating yourself."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're depressed. Have you thought about seeing a therapist?"
"What would I tell them? That I killed two people, fell in love with their son, and now I'm in witness protection?"
"There are therapists with security clearance—"
"I said I'm fine."
I wasn't fine. But talking about it wouldn't change anything.
---
The only thing that kept me going were the letters.
Dante and I had arranged—through Morrison, who grudgingly agreed to be our intermediary—to exchange letters.
Once a month, he wrote to me from prison. And once a month, I wrote back.
The letters were screened, obviously. Nothing about his case, nothing that could compromise my location. Just... us.
He told me about prison life. The philosophy classes he was taking. The book he was writing about criminal justice reform. His plans for when he got out.
And I told him about Montana. The library. The mountains. The way snow looked like diamonds in the moonlight.
We never mentioned the past. Never talked about his parents or my revenge or the night everything fell apart.
We just... existed together, on paper, across impossible distances.
It was all we had.
And it was enough.
---
**Letter from Dante (Month 6):**
*Elena (I can't call you Sarah, even in letters),*
*It's been six months. Sometimes it feels like six years. Sometimes like six minutes.*
*I've been thinking a lot about forgiveness. About what it means to absolve someone of sins they can't undo. I've talked to the prison chaplain—I know, surprising—and he said forgiveness isn't about forgetting. It's about choosing not to let the past poison the future.*
*I forgive you, Elena. Fully. Completely. Not because what you did was right, but because holding onto anger is a prison worse than this one.*
*Your parents didn't deserve what happened to them. Neither did Lucia. And mine—God, mine deserved exactly what they got.*
*We're both products of their violence. Both survivors of their cruelty. And somehow, impossibly, we found each other in the wreckage.*
*That has to mean something.*
*I got my sentencing today. Eight years with possibility of parole in five. It's better than I expected.*
*Five years, Elena. Five years and I'm coming to find you.*
*Wait for me.*
*Love always,
D*
---
**My response:**
*Dante,*
*Five years. I can do five years. I'd do fifty if it meant seeing you again.*
*Montana is beautiful in a lonely way. All these mountains and trees and space, but it feels empty without you.*
*I'm trying to live like you asked. I joined a book club (I know, shocking). I learned to cross-country ski. I'm even thinking about getting a cat.*
*Small steps. But steps.*
*I think about you every day. Wonder if you're okay, if you're safe, if you're thinking about me too.*
*The library where I work has a philosophy section. I've been reading the same books you mentioned studying. It makes me feel closer to you, like we're having a conversation even when we're not.*
*Five years. We can survive five years.*
*I forgive you too, by the way. For pushing me away that night. For being angry. You had every right.*
*We're even now. Two broken people who hurt each other and somehow still love each other anyway.*
*Wait for me too. I'm not going anywhere.*
*Forever yours,
Elena*