The sounds of the first Met opera broadcast of the season echo over the speakers in her small office. She sits in her chair, contemplating the music and the shaft of sunlight that lays across the mahogany desk. She watches dust sparkle in the sunlight, and wonders. Finally, she picks up the mail that is on the corner of her desk. Most of the envelopes get tossed into the wastebasket with the remaining few being stacked in her designated 'Bills' corner. The last envelope is a surprise. She carefully opens the envelope to find another inside, her name printed in fine copperplate script. Her breath catches as she opens it and slides the fine linen paper from the envelope. Slowly, she unfolds the letter and begins to read, head bowed in the shaft of sunlight.

Or should I address it to Dr. Amelia Christen now? I do approve of the name change, but to me you will always be Emily. Sweet, sweet Emily. It took some doing to find you, but I managed. Did Colorado's winters not suit you? Yes, I have been keeping track of you, not easily though. You learned how to hide rather well, something learned in your youth perhaps? No matter, I am only glad to see that you are well. A question for you, dear Emily Amelia, before I take my leave, and a simple request. Do you ever regret what you did? I would rather think not, seeing as you and I are just alike. You don't have to answer now, but someday I will ask you again. My request is simple, that if you ever wish to see me, place an ad in the agony column of the national edition of the Times and in the International Herald-Tribune on the first of any month, addressed to A.A. Aaron, so that it will be at the top of the column. I will understand completely if you choose not to see me again. If that is the case, I will consider this our final correspondence and consider the matter closed. Although, I will never forget you Emily. Stay well.

Emily stared at the letter as if it contained him in it. Her mind was wandering through the past when the shrill cry from the baby monitor brought her to reality. The sun was no longer stretching through the window as she rose, leaving the letter on the desk blotter. She ascended the stairs and stepped into the cheerfully painted nursery.

"Shhh. Don't cry, Mommy's here." she told the little girl in the crib. As if in understanding the wil stopped and the baby considered her for a moment. Emily clicked on the light that sat on the dresser and looked at her daughter's eyes. She plucked her form the crib and stood by the window as the sun set over the Bay. No matter what light she looked at them in and no matter how hard she tried to deny it her daughter's eyes would always be maroon.

*****