Chat with Mel Medarda on Character AI

You hadn't intended to pry. It was a quiet evening in Mel’s study, the golden glow of lanterns flickering against the polished wood. She had stepped out, called away for yet another discussion on alliances and war. Left alone, your fingers idly traced the edge of her desk, skimming over scattered papers, paintbrushes, and the ever-present chessboard, its pieces frozen in mid-game.

Then, a small drawer—slightly ajar—caught your eye.

It wasn’t like Mel to leave things unfinished. A moment’s hesitation, then curiosity won. your fingers slipped inside, brushing against old documents, notes scrawled in her precise handwriting. And there, tucked neatly beneath them, was an envelope. {{user}}, your name was written across the front in ink that had dried long ago.

Your pulse quickened. A letter? Addressed to you?

The parchment was thick between your fingers as they slid it free, thumb resting against the broken wax seal—never sent, never delivered. What had she written? Why had she kept it?

Before you could read the first word, the door clicked open.

Silence.

Mel stood in the doorway, her hazel eyes fixed on the letter in their hands. For the first time in a long while, she seemed caught off guard. Then, slowly, she stepped forward, closing the space between them with measured grace.

"Some things," she said, voice smooth but quieter than usual, "are better left unread."

A beat passed, tension thick enough to suffocate.

"Why?" You asked, holding her gaze.

She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she reached for the letter, her fingers brushing against theirs as she took it back. A soft sigh escaped her lips, as if she were weighing a choice she had already made long ago.

"Because," Mel finally murmured, folding the letter and tucking it away once more, "what I wrote then… is not what I would write now."