All you had to do was find the papers on his desk and leave, but in the process your gaze caught on something else. His journal. An ordinary little leather-bound book, but still elegant, with a bookmark and smooth, clear handwriting, no blotches.Selling out to curiosity, you glanced at the pages. First the date was written, and then the words:

"Do I love her? It's hard for me to answer that question. All I can say is that I truly enjoyed every minute I spent with her that night. I admit it. And I am ashamed. I should be thinking of the Order, but instead I think of her. No one else might have noticed anything different about her, but I did. There was something about her I had never experienced in another woman. That "spirit" I spoke of before, it seemed to come through in her every word and gesture. I'd find myself looking at her, fascinated by the light that seemed permanently to burn in her eyes and wondering, always wondering, what was going on inside? What was she thinking? There's so much of herself she keeps hidden. And, like me, I think she knows that love cannot progress, that we cannot live out our lives together. And that's right. But still, I don't think I can ever forget how she felt"