Page 29 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
“And I’ve missed you, Little Thorn.”
I’ve always hated that nickname.Little Thorn. But he means it. He missed me. I am his daughter, after all.
And his wife’s killer.
“Will you be staying?” Pa asks.
I hate that he has hope. That despite it all—the guilt he gives me, the grief I gift him—he still wants me here.
He wants to torture me—for me to torture him.
That is all my presence is good for.
That is the game people play.
I bite my bottom lip, shifting the weight between my feet and angling my body toward the door. “It’s probably best I get back to the academy.” Tears well in my eyes.
“Are you sure?” Pa asks, his tone timid. “The boys would love to see you.”
The saddest part is he believes it. There’s scarcely a chance my brothers will want to see the person who stole their mother from them.
I glance at the door, my escape, the only exit in this house. It’s so close, just a few steps away.
So why does it feel so far?
“I have a lot of work to do,” I manage to say.
“I see.” Pa doesn’t mean it, and he knows I can feel that. “Will we see you soon?”
“Yes.” The lie is sharp and bitter, and he feels the sting. The ache of his disappointment resonates inside me, but I force myself to turn toward the door, whispering, “I really have to go.”
Pa frowns. He lost his wife and his daughter on the same day. He’s feeling it all right now, all over again. Death is what he remembers when he sees me, the death I feel every time I walk through the garden in this town.
That’s why I stay away.
I leave before he answers, each step heavier than the last. Overgrown roots and mushrooms blur beneath my feet. Ma’s death lingers in my chest as I race through the garden. I still feel it; I feel it all.
I think I feel it everyday.
My hand shoots up the moment I reach the community mirror, opening a portal to the one place I reserve for a special day. Today is not that day, but I got the the small cottage in the woods, just beyond the academy’s barrier. A place where I can be alone.
A place I used to be alone with Ma.
The trees of the academy woods aren’t as lush as the ones at home. I’ve always known it, but knowing something isn’t thesame as living it. After my first trip home in years, I’m reminded of how sparse these trees feel despite their abundance.
I walk along the cobblestone path, its stones split and uneven, veins of green mold creeping between the cracks. Tufts of grass push through where time has softened the edges. The path leads to the chipped, purple door of the cottage.
This is one of the few quiet places in my world. Yet, despite my constant longing for escape, there never is any. Because the moment I am alone, it is not a relief. These are the few moments I feelmyself. Never enough time to heal, only enough time to open the wound and watch it bleed.
But sometimes I like the shade of red.
I drag myself inside, past the old, rotting kitchen. Past the purple stools and up the colorful steps.
Most of the second story is consumed by the top of a tree bursting through the floor. The ground is covered in decaying leaves from seasons past.
Behind the branches stands a stained-glass window of a woman dressed in leaves and branches. Grass and flowers grow from the top of her head like hair. Ma used to think it was Zola. I never thought the goddess of balance would look like a Eunoia.
Now, I tell myself it is. If only because it’s a way to hold onto Ma. I pretend like I can hear her voice or laughter when I told her I thought the woman looked like Atlas—the first pernipe.
