He had always thought, when the time came, that he'd be the one to go before her. She'd always been so headstrong and brave, and he knew that no matter the circumstances, he could rest easy, knowing she would be able to go on without him.

But fate, it seemed, had other plans for them. At the end of January, at the golden age of seventy-seven, she passed away in her sleep, leaving him alone, though not quite alone as he was before, to grieve for their sixty years of life together. They buried her out in the castle grounds, near a cherry tree she used to love to read under in the spring, surrounded by her family, servants and loved ones. On her casket, he placed a bouquet of red roses; a symbol of his love for her, and all she had given him.

And then he retired to his old castle to grieve for the rest of winter.

It was nearly a month after the funeral before he could brave himself to enter the room she'd stayed in in her final days. His servants had offered many times to clear it themselves, but there were ancient relics in there, relics he couldn't trust their inexperienced hands to move without breaking. His wife would be rolling in her grave to know her favourite books had been haphazardly stuffed on the library shelves, uncategorized and unalphabetized. At the very least, he could promise her he'd put them away properly.

So on one sunny Monday morning, he pushed open her door with his cane, walking past the already-made bed to the stack of books under the windowsill. He picked them up one at a time: Jack and the Beanstalk, Cinderella, King Arthur. His eyes began to tear up when he found Romeo and Juliet stacked between Metamorphoses and The Odyssey. Just a month earlier, he'd tried reading the first act to her, only to look up and see her normally radiant face devoid of any emotion. She was in the terminal stages of her illness then, and the doctor had told him that it was likely she was no longer aware of her surroundings. After that, reading aloud to her became too painful, and the Prince put down her books, for good.

But as time passed, the pain of losing his wife became easier to bear. The more books he moved back to the library, the more he felt as though a heavy burden was being lifted from his shoulders. These stories had belonged to his mother before Belle, and they would belong to someone after her. This was what she would want. This would make her happy.

But nothing could prepare him for what he found on the last day of going through the book pile. There, among the lot, was a blue book with a rose engraved on the front cover. It had no title, and he was sure he'd never seen it in the library before.

Curiously, he opened it and nearly went into cardiac arrest. The book was full of writings, all in his wife's hand. It was as though her voice was speaking to him from the grave as he turned the pages; every thought, every detail of her life documented since the beginning of her illness…

And it was all too much for him to bear. As quickly as he was able, he lit a fire in the fireplace and held the book over the flames. He couldn't read this. Not when the memory of his wife was still so close to him. She'd been gone for a month now. How could she do this to him?

It was his love for her that stayed his hand. Belle wouldn't want this. She had left this book for him for a reason. As painful as it was, he could not dishonour her memory by throwing it away. So he took it away from the fireplace and carried it back to the library with her remaining tomes.

The seasons passed. A new queen was crowned in England. Spain and France joined together in war. A man in Paris invented a new way of making pictures that would have turned the Prince's old father-in-law green with envy. And all the while, the Prince thought only of his wife. He'd always considered Belle to be a woman ahead of her time, a better fit for this changing world than he was. Even in her old age, he was sure she would find more meaning in it than he ever would.

But at least he wasn't alone. With six children, twenty-five grandchildren and seven great-grandchildren with an eighth on the way, there was a never-ending line of family members always dropping by to visit him, spoiling him with care packages he didn't particularly need. He could see echoes of his own life in them, his grandson's nervous expression on his wedding day, the glow on his granddaughter's face as she announced her first pregnancy. He would spend his days among them, while at night he contemplated the deeper mysteries of death, knowing his time would soon be at hand.

The third summer after Belle's passing, the Prince's granddaughter, Margot, deciding her grandfather needed to stop being "a sad recluse wasting your life away in that old castle," sent her nine-year-old son Xavier and three-year-old daughter Philomène to stay with him for the month.

It was an interesting visit, to say the least. Xavier and Philomène lived in the city, and the idea of exploring the forest around their great-grandfather's castle was a completely foreign concept to them. In the end, the Prince was only half-successful in convincing them of the merits of fresh air, lamenting that Belle would have done a much better job winning their favour than he would.

By the second week however, a fierce thunderstorm had put all his great-grandchildren's outdoor adventures on hold. During this time, the Prince went into the library to find Xavier pulling several books off the shelves. Among them was Belle's journal.

"Xavier!" he exclaimed in a panic. "What are you doing?"

Xavier looked back at him, startled. "What? I'm just trying to find a book to read. It's raining outside."

"I understand that," his great-grandfather replied, calming down slightly. "But you can't be reading the books from that section! Especially not this one." He pointed to the blue journal.

"Sorry, arrière-grand-père," Xavier apologized. "What is that anyway?"

"It was a book your great-grandmother wrote."

"Ohhh." Xavier looked at it in interest. "Have you read it?"

"No, I haven't."

He frowned. "Poor great-grandmother. She must be really disappointed."

"Why would she be disappointed?"

"Well, she worked so hard to write a book and you're not even going to read it," he explained. "You might as well rip up the pages and use it to wipe your nose with!"

"I'm not going to wipe my nose with it!" the Prince retorted. But he supposed his great-grandson had a point. He was a perceptive kid, just like his grandfather. Which was a good reason as ever for him not to be touching Belle's old things. "Listen, Xavier," he said. "I'll read your great-grandmother's book. But in return, you can only take out books from those shelves," he gestured to the left where the adventure section was. "You can even take some home with you if you like."

"Really?" His great-grandson beamed. "Thanks!"

As he went to look through the books, the Prince picked up Belle's journal and shook his head incredulously.

Kids these days. When did they get so nosy?

The following evening, the Prince sat in his favourite armchair with his wife's book in hand. He was hesitant to open it at first, afraid her handwriting would trigger another panic attack, but surprisingly, it didn't. It had been three years now, so he supposed the pain of her death was easier to bear this time.

Soon, the Prince found himself immersed in the world of Belle's early childhood. He read about the city she'd been born in, about her mother who loved to read and her father who loved to invent. He read about how her mother had died during her second pregnancy, and how Belle had spent the next years of her life moving from town to town with her Papa, her mother's books being her only comfort in a world that was changing too quickly for her to keep up.

When it was finally time for Xavier and Philomène to return home, the Prince felt sad, but also excited to read more stories from his wife's book. Each night he would retire to his armchair and pore over another passage. He learned more about the poor provincial village Belle had stayed in before Maurice went missing, and her terrifying first encounter with the Beast. Her words grew increasingly more spiteful as she expressed her unhappiness at becoming a prisoner in exchange for her father's freedom. But then she talked about befriending the Beast after he saved her life, and the Prince knew, undoubtedly that what they'd shared that winter was real. He felt himself smiling as she expressed her joy at reuniting with him after nearly losing him to Gaston's blade, their first year together after the curse and finally, the six beautiful children they'd raised together.

And then, he came to the last page. This time, it wasn't a story, but a letter:

My dearest husband,

I expect that this message will find you in great pain, but do not weep for me, for I am with the Lord now and am at peace.

I know I have said this many times before, but I will say it once again: meeting you was the greatest gift I could ever receive in this life. It is easy to see the ways my love changed you, but you should not believe, not even for a second, that yours changed me any less. Without you, I would never feel comfortable with myself or come to love the world for what it is. Even when we had our disagreements, there was never a time when they ever stopped me from loving you. Through you, I learned to live, and for that, I am forever grateful.

Although I have stopped writing, that does not mean this story is over. As you know, it takes two to tell a love story. So my wish for you is that you fill this book with your own memories, so our tale can become two parts of a whole.

Until we meet again,
Belle

The tears fell from the Prince's face all at once. Suddenly, he felt closer to his wife than he had in years. Even when she was dying she still thought of him of him, still loved him enough to leave a small piece of herself behind for him. All she asked was that he finish the journal for her.

So he would.

Once a week, from summer to winter, the Prince would add another memory to Belle's blue book. He wrote about his mother's untimely death and his father's descent in alcoholism, which ended his life four years later. He wrote about the years he'd spent alone in his castle as an orphaned Prince, spoiled, selfish and unable to understand why he was so unhappy. He almost wanted to put down his pen when it came to writing about the Enchantress, but Belle's memory kept him strong. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he thought he could feel her hand on his shoulder as he detailed his experiences as a Beast, slipping further away from humanity until love was all but a lost illusion.

But then he came to the better moments of his past. Meeting Belle. The feeling of butterflies in his stomach as he watched her walk Philippe out in the snow. The worst day of his life, when Belle left him forever. He wrote about closing his eyes for what he believed would be the last time as he bled out in the balcony, only to wake and discover he was alive and human. He wrote about marrying Belle, enjoying the simple pleasures of life with her, learning he was going to be a father...

By January, the Prince had no more words to write. With tremendous relief and weariness, he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

In the darkness and pouring rain, she called out to him. He turned around, and there she was, standing on the balcony, just as young and beautiful as the day he'd first met her. She extended her hand to him, and like a dog eager to reunite with his master, he climbed up the roof to meet her. His body was old and feeble, and slipped many times over the wet shingles, but as he drew closer, the years slipped away and the ascent became quick and easy.

When he finally reached her, his hand was no longer wrinkled and covered with age spots, but as smooth and whole as when he'd first become human again.

"You came back," he said joyously, and the voice he spoke with was of a man at least sixty years younger than himself.

Belle smiled a smile he both loved and missed and led him into the ballroom, where the faces of the dead waited. After eighty-three years of life, he was finally home.

His youngest son Frédéric found him the next morning, lying motionless in the armchair by the fireplace. With his head leaning against his shoulder and a blue book in his lap, it looked like he was merely sleeping. The doctor later reported that he had died of natural causes.

They held the funeral for him two weeks later. As the pallbearers lowered his casket into the earth next to his wife, Frédéric felt sad, but also happy, knowing from his father's journal that he'd lived a full and meaningful life.

The tale of the Beast, which both his parents had written about in great detail, surprised neither Frédéric nor his siblings. They all knew the story growing up, and for the longest time, accepted it as part of their family's history. But as adults, some began to question its credibility. Maybe their parents had exaggerated some parts of the narrative. Maybe the Beast was a metaphor. Maybe the hunter named Gaston didn't really exist.

But as an idealistic child who had grown into an idealistic man, Frédéric was certain that all of it was true.

He kept his parents' journal close to him for many years. And when his own time came, he passed the book to his son, hoping that future generations would read their ancestors' words and know that love was always possible, even in the most hopeless of circumstances.