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my London address and told her to write, but she never did. I thought Amy had forgotten about me, at least until now.
            Her letter was brief, only stating that she hoped we would be friends through letters. The water had smeared some of the handwriting, but I could still make out the words. I couldn’t help but feel a surge of nostalgia. Amy reminded me of a time when I was truly happy—when my mother and father were still alive.
            “Coincidence or fate?” I asked Eda after I’d finished a last bite of bread and butter and explained how timely it seemed that Amy would write to me when I was about to return to Scotland.
    Eda answered with her same misty eyes, and warm, motherly smile she’d had since I was a child.
    “Fate of course,” she replied. “Fate brings people together at just the right time.”
    For a split second, I thought of Claire, but Eda brought me back to the subject of Amy.
    “What was Amy like?”
    “She was…the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen,” I replied. And she truly was—with her silky blonde curls and emerald green eyes. I wondered what she looked like now, all these years later. “She was younger than I by four years. I don’t know how I remember that. We were only friends for a short time, but Amy was my closest friend until I met Richard.”
    “Well, are you going to answer her letter?” Eda asked softly.
    “Of course,” I answered with a smile.
    “There it is,” Eda said lovingly as that familiar motherly smile spread across her face. “I almost thought I’d never see it again.”
    “What?”
    “That smile, Paul. I remember that smile from when you were a young boy.” She paused. “I haven’t seen you smile in that way for many years.”
    Eda was right. Thinking of Amy gave me a rekindled hope that anything was possible for me, even happiness. And I hadn’t felt that for many years.
    I headed upstairs to the large desk in my sitting room then, cleared off the stacks of papers, and sat down to write.
     
    Letter from Paul Watson to Amy Rose
    “My dear friend Amy,                                    “27 April,10’oclock”
    How wonderful it is to hear from you. I truly believed you’d forgotten me. Of course, I remember you. Our time together was brief, yet one of the happiest times of my lif e .
     
    A lot has happened to me since we last met—somber situations have left me a hardened man. Gone is that young, innocent boy you once knew. I am not proud of my past and some of the things that I have done, Amy, but I am a good man.
     
    So, if you still wish to be friends, I am very happy. In a few days, I shall travel to Whitemoor, for I am the new resident physician at Kolney Hatch Lunatic Asylum. While I am there, perhaps you will visit me, and we can spend some time with one another.
     
    Thank you for writing to me. I do believe in fate, and between your letter and this new job, something calls me back to Whitemoor.
     
    “Your dear friend,
    “Paul Watson”
     
    Paul Watson’s Journal
    April 28, London, afternoo n .— I am prepared to leave for Scotland. Doctor Reid sent me the details of my journey. I’m to take the train from King’s Cross to Edinburgh station where Doctor Reid informed me a car will be waiting to take me the rest of the way. The driver’s name is Nigel. The train ride will be about eight hours, and the distance from the station to the asylum may be close to a day because we will stop at an inn along the way.
    More than ever, I long for that simple country life, far away from the chaos of London. The village of Whitemoor is located in a secluded area, perhaps more remote than I remember. I knew nothing about the geography of the land when I was younger—I had no idea of the differences between lowlands and highlands. My memories of the land are vague at best, but pleasant. I remember green hills, and sheep, and lots of purple flowers.
    Doctor Reid wrote in his initial