Empty Echo

What if the very last word you had, the last letter from a loved one, would always be the last? You would persist forever, but nothing new would ever come from them. Perhaps you have the power to return, the power to preserve, any power you can imagine. Still, though your memories preserve perfectly, every new word that is truly theirs has been heard and seen; the rest, you know, would be artificed, a desperate attempt to turn ventriloquist's echo into the voice of love lost. 

Is death sufficient to encompass such despair? Is annihilation sufficient to stem its tide?

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