To my dear Ross,

My sincere apologies for not having written you for so many months. I am afraid I did not have the heart to, despite the many comforting words you sent me so faithfully. To hear you are in good health brightens my days here.
Paris is beautiful, but it saddens me that I will not see it for much longer. I despise that my words will bring you such terrible news, and these may very well be my last words to you.

I wish I could speak to you about the many things we used to speak about. I remember so fondly all those hours we filled discussing nothing, and now I'd give my everything for one more second. Will you forgive me for leaving so soon?
I did not expect to see another spring when I did leave, but I have been graced with the sight of flowers and insects on the hills. It gives me solace to know that even something as barren as winter can find life again so quickly. I hope that while the dark days of my winter set, you will still have many days of spring ahead of you.

It is a selfish request, I know that, but please do not mourn me for too long: there are many more flowers in the world, and there is so much more to live for. It pains me to think of you hurting over such a short lived thing as me. I was not meant for eternity, like I was not meant for you.

I fear I am not well enough to bear my heartache for you for many more pages, I was never as strong as you.
I only wish to end with the words I should have said to you a long time ago, when I still had the chance.

I love you.

The sweet, flowery smell of perfume still vaguely clung to the paper. It reminded him of joy, of an evening gown made of yellow silk – of a gentle farewell kiss his lips still longed for. But it was all so far away now, so far out of his reach.
The young blacksmith caressed the last words with his calloused fingers, his touch surprisingly tender yet trembling. Afraid to accidentally besmirch the elegant handwriting with the tears that rolled down the freckled bridge of his nose, he laid the letter away.
In a fruitless attempt to burn his woes away, he downed several swigs of hard liquor. As the warmth spread through his chest, he leant forward on his working desk and ran both hands through his copper coloured hair.

As hard as he tried, his heart wouldn't stop aching. It hadn't for months now, while he waited increasingly hopelessly for another letter. Every day he'd been left as empty as the one before, drowning himself in work to make time pass by quicker.
He'd have to face it some day; perhaps he should have done so that very day. Although he knew, he hadn’t been able to tell his heart. Even now he felt it bash against his ribs in protest, refusing to believe the obvious.
“You died…” his voice quivered as he whispered the words. “You're dead!”
In a fit of grief-fuelled rage, he grabbed the nearest item and threw it at the wall with all his strength. The bottle exploded against the wall in shards of glass and cheap alcohol. He frightened himself with his rage. While the bang still rang through the empty rooms of the house, he sank back into the chair, defeated and lost amongst his own emotions.

Soft creaks from above disturbed his grieving. He looked up, his gaze tracing the footsteps as they slowly moved through the attic. He saw the dust fall with every step, illuminated by the flickering light of his oil lantern. A chill ran down his spine, as he knew well enough he was supposed to be alone.
Is someone playing me for a fool?
 
Although his heart beat in his throat, and his hands trembled as they picked up the oil lantern from his desk, his anger managed to give him some resolve.
“Thomas, if I find yer up there yer gonna be in so much trouble!” He yelled at his ceiling, his Scottish accent boiling up in tandem with his anger. There was no response, and no more footsteps.
Although he still firmly believed his leg was being pulled, he shivered at the thought of what else it could be. Bit even then he had no doubt he could take on a burglar or two, as he usually towered above the average man – certainly above the average thief. To double reassure himself, he took up one of the many guns he had been set to work on, and quickly found the right ammo to load the revolver with.
Even on the far side of tipsy, he wasn't so stupid as to come face to face with a robber with an unloaded gun. While he slid the bullets in, he listened intently for any footsteps or noises. It was dead quiet, and that worried him more. Whomever had found their way into his attic, would still be there.

Gun first, but with his finger not on the trigger yet he stepped out into the narrow hallway. He quickly checked the stairs down to the front door for any signs of life. Although it was hard to see with only the light from his lantern and the faint glow that came through the paned glass, he didn’t find any motion, nor any signs of a break-in.
The sound of scratching startled him, and he raised his lantern to look at the ceiling again. In the swelling and glowing light he saw the handle to the attic hatch. When it remained quiet and still he let himself take another breath. Perhaps it's an animal? But it sounded… so heavy?
 
In the back of his mind, his fear whispered all the dark fairy tales of ghosts and monsters his mother had told him as a child, but he knew those to be just tales. He couldn’t imagine that a troupe of elves had made their home in his attic, ready to switch him with an uglier version – he doubted his mother would fall for that either.

With a deep sigh he tucked the revolver away in his waistband and went to pull the hatch open. Careful not to startle whatever hid away in his attic he slowly set the sliding ladder down onto the floor. He looked up into the deep darkness, and felt a slight draft that caused his lantern to flicker rapidly. It was strangely cool, since it had been a sweltering summer’s day – the breeze chilled him, his skin still ever so slightly sweaty at night.
But it was only a breeze, and he heard no other movement. Yer pissing yerself from the wind now too, Rossy? He beat himself up in his father’s voice, and it was effective in making him realise how nonsensical that was. It’s probably just a bit of a sea breeze. Quickly he climbed up the ladder.
He set the lantern down on the attic floor, peeking over the edge to make sure nothing would come at him. All he could see were the boxes of materials his father had stored there for later, a few old clocks and mechanical parts he had not yet been able to take apart, and some decorative knick-knacks he could not be bothered with to put up no matter his mother and sisters’ protests. It blocked his view on anything further in the attic, but he knew that there were similar items in the dark. What he was worried about was the one thing living thing he did not know about.

With both hands, he hoisted himself up easily enough, until he sat on his knees. He wasn’t able to stand yet, the hatch slightly off-center from the middle and highest part of the roof where he could stand – if but barely while hunched over. Just in case he took his gun out again.
“Last warning to anyone in here, I am armed.” He held his gun up to shoulder height while he bellowed the words, as if to show it to anyone hidden who could be watching him. No response.
Carefully he picked up the lantern, and went around checking between the large boxes for rats, cats or other unwanted vermin. He was aided slightly by the pale glow of the moon that fell through a single, round window on the far end of the attic. Each time he lifted the light up to check, he was prepared to see rats scatter, or perhaps even find his younger brother stowed away to scare him.

Halfway through the room, he felt the same cold draft as before. This time however it carried with it the heavy, sickening stench of rot and mold.
Gods, did something die in here? Maybe that attracted the rats? It could have been some stray cat, or a bird that had managed to get in under the roof. He used the arm that held his lantern to try and block out the stench as he continued to search for the source.

The closer he got to the back of the attic, the stronger the stench, and the colder he felt. It got to the point where he could feel the warmth from the lantern flame besides his cheek. His heart pounded in his throat, and he couldn't reason away the eerie sense of danger that gripped his stomach. Even the weight of the gun in his hand didn't comfort him, nor did he feel confident in his physique while he was confined by the roof.
Cautious he stepped forward through the centre aisle, his eyes darting between the boxes left and right as the fear started to get to him. He expected to see rats dart toward him, or the corpse of a dead animal, and neither of those he was keen on – but in the back of his head worse things hid amongst the shadows. Things he wasn't sure weren't there when he couldn't see them.
A loud creak made him painfully aware of his own heavy steps, and he tried to quieten them. But he was a large, and the floorboards did not agree.
Get this over with, yer a man for focksake.
 
Pushing through his fright, he closed his eyes and gathered all his courage to take the last few steps forward with haste. Despite his commitment to the belief that it was only some dead animal, he still held his gun up while he checked.

There was nothing on the left, so he turned and looked at the right, already assuming to see a festering corpse. Instead his orange flame reflected on the floor, the dust disturbed by water? It hasn't rained? 

Confused he held his breath so he wouldn't have to deal with the stench and knelt down. He lifted his lantern up above to see better what it was. He suspected it to be blood or something akin that came from a rotting thing.
A strange noise startled him, and he looked up to see the flame flicker wildly, as if disturbed by a draft. It stopped for a moment, and the light got stable. The flicker returned, together with a strangely cold, sourceless breeze. Once more it stopped, and then resumed.
Like breaths.

Wide eyed Ross stumbled back and away as fast as he could. Whatever it was, he wasn't going to deal with something invisible breathing in his attic.
He ran for the hatch with such haste he nearly scrambled down on all fours like a beast. Feet first he jumped down, skipping the ladder entirely. His ankles and knees protested, but he ignored it and threw the ladder back up to close the hatch. As the loud slam echoed through the hallway, he was able to inhale clean air and clear his mind.
I shouldnae drank… I really shouldnae... 

Despite chastising himself, he still watched the hatch as he backed away into his bedroom, not turning away until the door fell shut.

While the adrenaline waned away, his hands began to tremble. Ascribing the whole ordeal to fear and tiredness alike, he sat down on the edge of his bed and laid the loaded gun down onto his nightstand.
For a long while he listened for any signs of life; anything scratching or walking on his ceiling, but whatever he had found seemed to have stopped. Until he believed it really had been nothing to begin with.