He held the aged parchment, a turmoil of emotions assaulting him driven by anguish and confusion. Its wispy texture felt too fragile between his fingertips, the link to her presence to tenuous as he came to terms with its reality.
It was blank.
The letter from his mother was blank.
That devastating swell of hope that had infected his thoughts all morning left him crushed beneath its falsity. As the evening deepened he had been afforded a measure of privacy to confront his past in peace, to deal with what was offered as he may. Yet without the gift of insight, he found himself beginning to truly mourn what he had never possessed, admonishing his own childish desire for some connection to the woman he had never known.
Lifting his unseeing gaze to the dimly lit room he wondered, not for the first time, what the young woman everyone had been so enchanted over would have been like. He struggled to envisage her glowing smile full of love, but could only find memories of his father's pain when he recognised their likeness.
He wanted to leave, it was that continual pull from beyond these boundaries, the feeling that this place only caused harm, yet he remained seated holding his mothers letter, watching the few candles sputter their last call. Footsteps below made him aware of the questions that would be waiting, but he ignored them. He had no energy for composure, barely holding his head above the heaving pressure of regrets threatening to overwhelm, wishing for that numbness to take over.
Closing his eyes, he couldn't bring himself to discard the parchment, he did not understand its significance, only that he would not let go.
the first thoughts of my wip put to written words in years,