It had been a long time since I stayed up late writing. And the last time wasn't with a quill and ink. All I could hear were the crickets outside, and the partially opened window showed only a glimpse of darkness.
I raised the parchment up against the candlelight. My cursive had been cursed back when I was John. But as Martin, my handwriting was immaculate—honed by years of writing ledgers and letters as a businessman.
That night, I wasn't writing anything about the hacienda. The task had seemed impossible at first. But once I started, ideas and memories I thought were long forgotten returned, begging to be written down.
I let the ink dry for a few moments, then placed the sheet of paper on the small pile. I had just finished writing the final draft of the training regimen that would be undertaken by all recruits under my command. Tomorrow, it would be implemented.
I leaned on the table and mopped my face with my hands, massaging my weary old eyes with my fingers.
