I remember the first day I saw. I had never seen you weep before. It's strange, I suppose. I don't remember your name, your face, or your smile. But I remember your tears.
I remember you wept the day they came for me. I didn't understand: it was a great honour to be chosen, so I couldn't grasp the meaning of your crying, although I had foreseen it a thousand times.
I was embarrassed, and hoped they wouldn't perceive me as scared. The man with the scarred face spoke to me. He asked me my name, and I bravely replied. He laughed at my boldness, as I knew he would.
They took me to the school, to see how strong I was. They taught me how to see the world as it was, to look into the spiderweb of fate, and see the inevitable. So I did: I looked and I looked, further and further, and I told them what I saw. 'Prophet,' they called me, 'Divine one.' And so I looked further, to please them more.
I looked. I saw their fates, their pains, their future vices, their deaths. And I saw mine. I saw yours, too. That was probably the most painful.
I saw a thousand different futures, and told them the ones they would like the most.
They studied my genes for abnormalities: deviances to explain my 'divinity.' They found nothing. They explained to me space-time, an undulating curve with gaps and recesses, and corners. They explained to me that, maybe, under the right conditions, with the right eyes, one could see around these corners.
As I looked further, I found an ending. I found a chasm, of perfect darkness, not enough energy for light, let alone life. You are the first person for me to tell, and I am sorry. I am sorry, because you will feel sad for the truth I just tell you, although you won't weep. But when you read the final sentence, I saw you weep. I saw a solitary tear run down your cheek, as I asked you for forgiveness. I saw you close your eyes, and think of me.
I remember you wept, when they came for me; I couldn't understand it at the time. I was embarrassed, but when you hugged me, some of your tears formed on my face. I wiped them off, as I was scared the man with the scarred face would think that I had been crying as well.
'What is your name?' he had asked.
'I am William,' I answered. He laughed, and took me away.
I only saw you weep three times. The first time I saw, that was the first time you weeped, and then when they took me away. And then when you will read this letter.
Forgive me. This is not how I was meant to live.