Entering the study was one of the most difficult tasks. So many of his memories had been made in this room, good and bad times had happened there.

He loved the room especially for its fireplace, bringing more than warmth in the sense of temperature to the room. The warm colors added to that made the study even more comfortable. There was this dominating, heavy wooden desk she had been sitting at so often, deep into the night, although it hadn't been that often anymore since he had moved in. The room's walls were nearly not to be seen; the sides without the windows or the fireplace they were covered by bookshelves and cupboards, and the glass cabinet with the glasses they had always drunk their Bourbon from.

His legs were shaking when he took place in the leather arm chair, right next to the coffee table and the fireplace. With the moon on the other side of the house, the windows here were black, like someone had painted them with the color of mourning.

How often he had been here even before they had been together again; how many arguments had been fought out within these walls; how often they had made love in front of the fireplace.

How he'd found her last words for him, neatly written on a letter. He hadn't found it earlier because normally, he weren't going into her study when she wasn't at home, because this room was her personal realm he had respected.

Now he was torn between staying outside and his fear to let the study fall into oblivion if no one was going to be in it again. Moreover, the letter was still lying on her desk; he didn't have the heart to change anything. And maybe it was also his hope that leaving everything as it was would bring her back. It was all he had left for his hope, for the part of him that wouldn't accept that she would never return.

Breathing was hard; it felt like an invisible power was pressing the air from his lungs when he got up and chanced to the chair behind the desk. His hands placed on each side of the letter, he looked down and his eyes and mind immediately got caught by the words and Jen's ornate handwriting.

--

My dear Jethro,

I would never have guessed that finding the right words to start a letter could be so hard. I've thought a lot about all this, and it was no easy decision to make, but in some way, I'm sure it's better for both of us that I leave without telling you Goodbye. I want you to remember me as the woman you've loved, not as the Director whose security you were responsible for.

I know it will be very hard for you to understand and I won't try to explain because I know I'm not able to. Ducky might have already told you that I'm ill, and that this disease isn't curable. It's no comfort for you, of course, but trust me, we wouldn't have had much more time left anyway, and I prefer dying before there's only a mere ghost of myself left, a ghost in pain and without the ability to form any clear thought. I just hope you'll understand my decision; the weeks and months that were going to come if I was still alive were nothing I wanted to expect of you.

You can't imagine how much I wish that we could grow old together. I had wished for it for so long and when you had moved in here, I was sure that my wish, my dream, will come true. You had left your old life behind; you had closed the book of your past and finally found your inward peace. It had been good to see you unusual light hearted. Please don't lose this only because I'm gone. See it as my last wish; imagine me watching you and that I want to see you laugh.

In the lower drawer on the left side of my desk, you'll find a leather clad book. It is filled with pictures; some you'll know, others will be new for you. I have been collecting these for different reasons, but now I want it to the part of your memories, something you won't have to imagine, but you can look at. In addition, there's a DVD on the last page with the video of our cookout two months ago.

I want you to know that I've stopped regretting that I had left you nine years ago, because I'm sure we wouldn't have had the last few months if I had stayed. Maybe I do believe in coincidences, and maybe I believe in destiny, too. It was our destiny to meet again and to get the chance to start anew.

My Love, although I'm dead now, my love for you will never die. Look at the pictures and remember me and our times together; remember the laughter that had filled the house so often. And then, as a wise woman had once said a long time ago, 'look into your heart and hopefully, you'll find me there'.

I love you.

Jenny

--

He hadn't dared to take out the photo album till this moment, but now he thought he had the strength to look through it. He had no idea what was expecting him, but he wanted to try it; to try looking at the pictures of his Jenny, even if it hurt. And he had to gasp when he opened the book. Obviously she had spent much time crafting this; there were not only pictures pinned into it, but also comments written under or next to the photos; even little gimmicks like a dried bloom or a piece of cloth were put on the pages.

The pictures were unique in every possible way. Many of them he knew, but from experience, not from the photo itself. They were showing situations he didn't even knew she had taken pictures of.

Him and her, eating in the small sitting area in her office; it was one of their late night dinners they had often shared when she had been working late and he had brought her food so she would at least eat anything. Where did this photo come from? When had she actually had the chance to take it?

Her with Carson, the boy they had taken home with them for one night, to take care of him during a case. They were sitting on her office floor, laughing and playing cards. Well, throwing cards, to be exact.

Her in the beautiful ball gown at the Marine Birthday Ball; this picture must have been taken by Ducky. She was smiling; yet she looked somewhat lost and alone. He had learned to read her eyes over the years; or, in other words, he had improved this ability.

Another picture caught his eye; it was them both in front of the Eiffel Tower. So she had kept it. There had been many photos taken during their time in Paris, but somehow he had thought she had thrown them away. There had been only one copy of each photo and she had told him that it would be less conspicuous if she was carrying them in her bags; they had wanted to share and copy them at the end of their mission...

With a shake of his head, he got rid of the unpleasant thought, turning his concentration back to the pictures. There was one page left. One page with a photo that seemed to want to tear his heart apart.

It was a picture of him and Jenny kissing while standing on a cliff above Positano.

And behind them the sun was diving into the dark blue ocean.