The Tell-Tale Heart.

Sometimes talented men die young, whether it be because they've expended too much energy in kind or because there is only so much room for the brightest stars to shine all at once and when your time is up, it's simply up.

She didn't plan on notoriety. It was one of the few wrinkles in her memories, the fact that in recent years it grew more and more difficult to slip in and out undetected. Unsteadily so, as she would drink half the bottle before she even put on her coat, lamenting the loss of a life so incredibly wicked and writ. Then she would choose his roses from the vase on the table and tuck the bottle, now tightly capped, under her coat and head off to remember. In the dark, like he must be now.

Upon arrival she waited behind the wall, listening. Hearing nothing she walked forward. Tiptoes. Minimizing her clicking heels, the sound overtaken by her thumping heart. She knelt down and placed the roses at the base of the memorial and then gently balanced the bourbon beside the flowers. She touched her fingers to her lips and then to the cold stone and she smiled, warm with a tinge of bitterness because he has been gone now for such a long time. She has not known him in her own lifetime. She wished she did.

She stood, taking one more swift glance around the courtyard and broke into a run, leaving her treasures behind with her heart, her blood entombed under this massive stone reliquary.

Happy birthday. Someday we'll be together again.

She died this year. At home, alone in her bed, and this year will be the first year that they will be together, and he can meet his flesh and blood.

There is no mystery here, only resonance.