The first letter arrived the day my husband was buried. It was postmarked from the state penitentiary, and contained a single sentence: Ill wait forever if I have to. It was signed by Dante, a man I didnt know. Out of simple curiosity, I wrote back to ask him what exactly he was waiting for. His reply? You. I told the mystery man he had the wrong girl. He said he didnt. I said wed never met, but he said I was wrong. We went back and forth, exchanging letters every week that grew increasingly more intimate. Then one day, the letters stopped. When I found out why, it was already too late. Dante was at my doorstep.