His image was everywhere in town; I needed to leave. For days and days, I lied in bed dreaming he was still here. But he was not. Zane was dead, and there was nothing that could bring him back. For a change, I moved to a small town in Maine. Everything here is quiet and peaceful; there are no reminders of Zane. One foggy and cold night, I was forced to start a fire to keep warm in my small house. I came across Zane’s old letters to me and I broke. It felt like I was stabbed once again by Grief and was left to die bleeding. My hands were not my own when I threw the letters into the fire. Change; I was looking for change and I achieved it. But maybe I didn’t want to change. Maybe I didn’t want to burn his letters. And maybe I didn’t want to stop grieving.