Had the images been a dream? It seemed so. Walking towards the window, he lay the photo on the window sill, his folded arms carrying his head, which was only inches away from the picture.

The girl...did he even know her name anymore? Had it been so long and the hour so late that in these thoughts that had been locked away for so many centuries, could he even produce the few simple syllables which formed her precious name?

Yes. He remembered it. Yet he dare not speak it. If her photo, her picture had evoked so much pain and agony, so much of his longing to be alive, would her name strike even closer to his undead heart?

As he wept, he backed away from the photo on the sill, holding himself tight, as if he were cold, crying. Looking around him, he sees not the items strewn around the room.....the stuffed dolls, the letters...he sees the memories as they happen. The white stuffed tiger sitting on the table.... he remembered when she had given it to him. It meant more to him than most the other stuffed animals he had recieved, because it was the gift that meant the most. Maybe in that tiger he saw more of her than even the pictures around him. He remembered her voice...saying that, for once, she wanted to give HIM something, for all the things that he ever gave her, it was a small price to pay to bring this stuffed white tiger to him.

It was true, this tiger. For each gift she had given him, he had tripled. Hah...men are so hard to shop for. He had bought her stuff. Too much, actually. In fact, maybe it got to the point where she thought they started to become meaningless gifts, yet each one he gave her was filled with hope, with love. Had she not seen it? Had she not seen how much of his love was in the eyes of these animals when he had given them to her? He could only guess.

And the letters. The letters. Each one he wrote was written with only her in mind. Each letter, full of jokes and harmless playful teasing that lovers do so much. How he missed them. Missed them all.