On the day Lisbeth was convicted, Nicolas made his way to my grave.

My family had kept the location of my resting place a secret, unwilling to let him disturb me.

Undeterred, Nicolas knelt daily at our doorstep, attracting the curiosity of the neighbors and their whispers.

Eventually, my father, moved by Nicolas's persistence and the effort he put into uncovering the truth, relented and gave him the address.

It was pouring rain that day, much like the night we had confirmed our relationship.

Nicolas knelt in the downpour before my tombstone, seemingly impervious to the cold, his body hunched, his face contorted in agony.

"Ella, did you hate me...