Page 26 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
It’s rare to feel anything that’s entirely my own.
I step into the house, the dark green couch and wooden table luckily empty. I run through, making a beeline for the steps, and tip-toeing around the one that always creaks. Trying hard not to alert anyone of my presence. Praying no one can sense it.
Pa is here—I can feel him in his room—but no one else.
I stop. Despite all that happened, his dead wife and missing daughter, he feels nearly the same. He was always the rock in our home, and Ma was the muse. She was who we went to for a laugh, but he was who we wanted for a cry. Steady in the mind, solid in his form.
Ma was a free spirit, nearly like the air—try to grab her, and she slips right through your fingers.
I can feel her here, too, but I’m not sure if it’s magic or habit.
I continue up the stairs.
Down the hall, the door to Ma’s study is left wide open. I freeze, checking my perimeter to make sure no one is around, in case I was wrong in my prior assessment. In case the one time my power would be of use to me, it’s decided to turn off.
But the house is, as I knew, completely empty. I move forward, into her study.
The room is frozen in time, untouched, as if Ma has only just stepped out and not left us entirely.
Not been dead the last five years.
Papers lie scattered across her desk, collecting dust. The books on the shelf across the room are leaning, their spines curling, the covers fraying like forgotten things, slowly decaying without the careful hands Ma used to give them.
The room is a time capsule.
I understand why; it was where she spent all her time. The family can come to the door, close their eyes, and pretend she’s still sitting here. Zola knows I would’ve done it thousands of times if I ever visited my old home.
But this is no longer home. It feels like I’ve broken in—like a new family lives here, and I couldn’t let go, so I’ve forced my way in to get one last glimpse.
What am I doing? I’m unsure what I’m looking—hoping—for. One last piece of Ma, left in the ruckage, untattered by the new family that replaced the one I once had?
But I remember the name—Isa Althenia. I can almost put a face to it. A piece of Ma. One last shard to dig into my skin.
One last way to pull blood, to prove her memory.
Could anything of importance be left in Ma’s work, all the philosophy books she wrote that only the Eunoia agree with?
I step toward the bookshelf, then stop.
There’s a lump in my throat. If I looked in a mirror, I’m sure I’d see something lodged there. Like a snake swallowing its prey.I don’t know if I am the snake or the mouse. Nor do I know which is worse—theirpain, or my own.
Because this is all mine.
The worst part of the room is that it still smells like Ma: violets and freshly chopped wood. Is this the best part for my brothers? My father? That they still get to smell her?
I move away from the bookshelf, starting with the pile of papers on her desk. As I run my fingers along each page, I imagine Ma doing the same. I imagine my hand in hers. Her ghost sitting in the chair beside me.
It’s not very long before I notice a similarity between the pages: some are stamped with the seal of Folkara.
But there’s no reason Ma would have anything from Folkara. The worlds don’t often share with each other—least of all the monarchies. Not unless it’s with someone in their service.
I shuffle through the papers faster. Some are signed by King Easton and Queen Melody—the rulers of Folkara.
It must be a mistake. It has to be. Except, they’re all addressed to her.Willow Estridonwritten in shining ink, making the hope of doubt nearly impossible.
There’s no reason she would—
Yet the reality of what I’ve found hits me like an axe to wood.
