Klaus calls himself a fool a hundred times on the way up the stairs.
It’s been twenty years since he left Mystic Falls, twenty years since he’d tried to court a girl under the moonlight with talk of beauty and horses. He’s seen her since then, from a distance in the great cities of the world. Twice at the Louvre in Paris and that one time at the Museum of Modern Art in New York when he’d almost touched her hand in passing. He curses himself for the lovestruck, lovesick coward he’s become. And for the fact that after all these years he still hasn’t been able to get her out of his mind.
Before he’s ready he’s standing at her door. Just a thin piece of wood between him and the woman he’s thought of every day for two decades. His hand trembles as he searches his pocket for the letters he’s written her through the years. Chronicles of his travels, his regrets for his past transgressions, the times he’s dreamed of her.
He hears her laughter through the door, realizes she’s on the phone and his fist clenches on the pretty sheets of paper, marring their beauty with his indecision. Finally he makes himself slide the pages under the door, knocks once and walks away. It’s a small accomplishment, but his heart feels lighter for it. Maybe now he’ll be able to forget her, as he’s sure she’s forgotten him.
He’s three blocks away from her apartment, rain soaking through his clothes, when he hears it -- the sweetest sound he’s heard in a thousand years.