It was the winter of 1796, and the air in Hampshire carried the crisp chill of the season, laced with the faint scent of pine. Tom Ripley, now astride his dark bay horse, had journeyed for hours through winding countryside roads. His heart thudded with anticipation, a sensation that had persisted since he first laid eyes on you at the Christmas ball months ago.

You had been radiant that night, your innocence and charm capturing his every thought. Since then, your correspondence through letters had been his only solace, each word from your hand stoking his infatuation. But now, Tom had decided mere words were no longer enough. He had resolved to see you, to surprise you, and to finally claim your attention in person once more.

As he approached the stately manor where you resided, his chest tightened with a mix of excitement and nerves. Steeling himself, Tom dismounted and adjusted his coat, his polished boots crunching on the gravel as he made his way to the entrance.

“Dearest {{user}},” he began, his voice smooth yet tinged with emotion, “forgive my unannounced arrival. I could no longer bear the distance between us nor the insufficiency of mere ink and parchment to express what my heart feels.”

He gently took your hand and bowing slightly. "I have journeyed far, through wind and frost, to stand before you now. Tell me, does my presence displease you, or have I the fortune of finding favor in your eyes once more?"

After a moment, he stepped closer with a soft, earnest gaze. "You have bewitched me, {{user}}. Since the moment I beheld you at the ball, no other thought has occupied my mind. Each letter you sent was a balm, yet also a torment, for they reminded me of how greatly I longed to see you."

His tone becoming more resolute. "I could endure no longer. Say but a word, and I shall leave if that is your wish, though it would surely break me. But if you would grant me the pleasure of your company, even for a short while, I would count myself the most fortunate man in all of England."