An Unfinished Letter

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I think I might finally be dying.

The sickness people talk about, the one ravaging the valley – I think I got it, too. Living in my lonely hut, far away from civilisation, I still somehow got sick. The irony would make me laugh, but it hurts like hell when I do so. I vomit a lot. And my hands turned black and stiff, I almost can’t use the quill anymore.

Saint Tyna’s is just a few minutes of march away, maybe the nuns would be able to help. But I’m too weak to walk, at least today. Maybe tomorrow I’ll feel a bit stronger. Maybe.