Dear Fred,
Its been 67 years. 67 years since you died, and 66 since I stopped writing. I still was never able to produce a patronus, but I got closer.
Angelina died yesterday. She was shopping in Diagon Alley when someone killed her. I would have killed whoever killed her if it wasn't for the fact that I was unable to leave my bed due to my sickness. I'm going to die soon anyways. Then I'll be able to see both you and Angelina again.
It hurts. I can't handle this. With both you and Angelina gone, I feel like I have no reason to live anymore. My kids have their own kids, they can go on. I know I'm being selfish, but I need to leave. I'm going to be leaving soon anyways. Everyone knows that.
My kids, my grandkids, and even my great-grandkids are doing fine. I love them all, and I hope they love me as well. They are my whole world right now. I hope they know how much I love them.
I'm going to see you again soon, Fred. My life is ending, and I'm going to be leaving this world. I've lived my life and now its over.
I've missed you. But I'm going to see you again soon.
Love,
George
And just after George placed his last letter to Fred on his bedside table, his last breath was taken, and he saw his brother, and his wife, once again.
