moving on

The man holds the envelope in his fingers and approaches the conundrum with an initially strong but inevitably failing confidence. One might think that is odd. After all, he’s been working in the information business for years. Letters are, were, and will always remain a frequent part of what he is and what he does.

Stitches steps out his house for just a moment, watching one of the last cold rains of winter, frowning at the signs of spring sprouting at every turn. He reaches a hand past the small canvas awning of the house, letting the rain touch his fingers and palm. He smiles at how cool it feels, how it tingles and rolls around his skin. Looking up from his hand he sees things he often does as he ponders and wanders on his own. Ghosts.

Her mind was plagued with regrets, after Lieta’s death. ‘I wish I never left the Riddermark in the first place’; ‘I wish I never joined them’; ‘I wish I’d left them and took up the offer to join the eored at the Fords of Isen’; ‘I wish that none of this ever happened’.

“For many a year, I have mourned.

For many a year, I felt like I was scorned.

But I’ve now come out of my shell,

and broke Death’s menacing spell.

Its strange... Its been weeks since Calathildir left, opening my eyes to my folly before leaving. A true friend he is, even to the end. I wonder had he arrived at his destination yet, and whether he had found relief there.