Halmer's Disappointing Things

I used to run a shop. I used to run a shop well. It made a decent amount of money; I was successful. When did that change? When did I become the woman that has to scrape together all her savings for the deposit on a stall? When did I become the woman who stands at the side of the road in a storm, trying to ignore the cold and wet that bites through her cloak and puts on a smile, attempting to convince passers-by that they even want to look, never mind buy?

I don't know, but I have. It's so much less than I deserve but it's got to work; it's got to. I don't have the savings for a second chance.

Of course, it might not matter. Halmer's Prettiest Things could become the most successful thing Seahaven has ever seen or burn to the ground tomorrow and I'd still be dying. The plague's grip on me seems to be getting ever tighter; I drink anything anyone gives me to relieve the symptoms for a little while, but they're back again sooner every time. I have never felt this ill before; I am just praying to the Six for the strength to do better than my father, to keep fighting it.

All the talk of a cure being here soon doesn't help. For everything everyone has been saying, I've not seen anything come of it. Not myself. But I suppose I just have to hope that their searches are on the right path, that it really is to come as soon as they suggests, because I really, really don't want to die. Not like this, at least.

It's not the death that's meant for me, I'm sure of it.