I met a young miqo'te woman in the Gridanian tavern--a fellow wanderer like unto myself--who suggested this venture of putting down my thoughts in a journal, to which at first seemed such an easy thing in my mind.
Yet as I sit here, staring at the blank pages of this freshly minted tome, listening to the patter of rain against the nearby window, I find I know not where I should even begin.
Lately, I find myself losing track of time as I journey hither and thither across this strange, new realm of Eorzea. That there is such a bigger world beyond Hingashi, I might never have realized, and now that I am within it, rare are the moments when I've not found some other reason to halt my travels. Were it not for the harvest moon, I should think it never to have crossed my mind that it has now been well over fifteen years since the anniversary of your death.
A part of me wonders if perhaps father's words have at long last begun to take root in the back of my mind, and some small, quiet part of wishes only to move on from the past. To hear him tell it, I've 'long passed' my prime, and it worries him that I do not settle down somewhere he can keep watch over me.
But in the end, it matters little whether my lack of keeping time is by fault or by design, for you are always there each night when I lie away from whatever worldly troubles that plague me. The image of your cold, pale, motionless hand against the murky stains of the blanket greets me in place of neither dream nor terror. A cruel moment, transfixed forever in my mind, forever and again beginning anew any time I close my eyes. Were it that I could remember anything else so clearly and so keenly as that wicked memory.
That here they call this wretched thing 'a gift' from the Mother Crystal, then, is perhaps the greatest of all cruelties. The 'Echo', or rather, some form of it. Mine, it would seem, is all the less potent, and though a brief glimpse into the hearts and memories of others has, at times, proven useful during these long years of wandering, the price it inflicts upon my wounded heart is little worth the boon.
And yet would that I could rid myself of what must sound now like a malady plaguing my every moment's respite, I yet wonder what would become of me if ever I were to part with it. Though the revisited memory is one that rends at my soul as like to pull it from me completely, it is yet the only glimpse of you that I now have left. For we were given such precious little time, and though it took only an instant for you to become everything I wanted to hold close, I fear it may take an eternity for me to let you go.