E: The Letter Unsent

The flickering candlelight cast long shadows over the cramped, worn-down home. The scent of damp wood filled the air, a reminder of the previous night's rain seeping through the gaps in the roof. Elena sat at a rough wooden table, her small hands clutching a nearly worn-out quill as she carefully wrote in her diary. The ink smudged slightly under her fingers, but she didn't mind. Writing was one of the few things that brought her comfort.

She stole a glance at her mother, who sat by the fire, her thin frame trembling. The woman's eyes were red-rimmed, and though she tried to keep quiet, the occasional soft sob betrayed her. Elena pretended not to notice.

She had grown used to this—her mother crying.

At first, when she was younger, she had tried to comfort her, to ask what was wrong, but she had learned that there was no answer that would make it better. It was always the same: the weight of their struggles, the absence of Lance, the crushing loneliness of a home that once held more than just the two of them.

Tonight, however, something felt different.

"Elena," her mother's voice finally broke the silence, barely above a whisper.

She didn't look up. "Mm?"

A long pause. Then, "Do you ever think of your brother?"

Elena set her quill down and turned. Her mother's expression was unreadable, her eyes distant as if staring at something far beyond the dimly lit room.

"Of course I do," Elena said. "Every day."

Her mother let out a shaky breath. "I wonder if he ever thinks of us."

Elena hesitated. She had long since accepted that Lance was gone, but she had never doubted that he thought of them. He had promised to return when she turned twelve, and he never broke his promises.

"He does," she said with certainty.

Her mother's eyes darkened. "He doesn't even know his father is dead."

Elena didn't respond.

Her mother leaned forward, staring at the fire. "I should have sent word, somehow. I should have—" She cut herself off, biting her lip. "But I didn't."

Elena frowned. "Why?"

A bitter smile crossed her mother's face. "Guilt, I suppose."

She reached for the small pouch on her lap, pulling out a folded piece of parchment. It was old and crumpled, but unopened.

"I wrote to him, once," she admitted. "I paid a traveler to take this to the city where I thought he might be, but I never knew if it got there." She ran a thumb over the paper as if it were fragile. "But even if it did… I don't know if he would have come back."

Elena stiffened. "Why not?"

Her mother looked away. "Because he left us for a reason, Elena."

Silence stretched between them.

Her mother had never truly explained why Lance had left. Elena had pieced together parts of it from the arguments, from the way her brother's voice had grown colder every time he spoke to their father, from the final night when he had stood in that very room, fists clenched, jaw tight, and declared that he was done.

"He hated Father," Elena murmured, watching her mother's reaction carefully.

Her mother's shoulders tensed, but she nodded. "He did."

And yet, Lance had never raised a hand against him. Despite all the shouting, all the anger, he had never once struck their father.

"He wanted to take us with him," her mother continued, her voice barely audible. "But I couldn't go."

Elena swallowed hard. "Because you loved him."

Her mother flinched.

"No," she said at last. "Not in the way you think."

Elena waited.

Her mother sighed, her fingers tightening around the parchment. "Your father was not a good man, but he wasn't always a bad one, either. When I had nowhere else to go, when the world had turned its back on me, he was the one who took me in." Her voice wavered. "He saved me, Elena. I could never forget that."

Even if, later, he had hurt her.

Even if, later, he had wasted their money on drinking.

Even if, later, he had become someone that even his own son could no longer bear to look at.

"He wasn't always a monster," her mother whispered. "That's why I stayed."

Elena's chest ached.

Lance had seen only the worst of their father, but their mother had seen him at his best. She had seen the man who had once been kind, once been strong, before time and failure had chipped away at him.

And now he was gone. And Lance would never know.

A sharp gust of wind rattled the window. Elena shivered.

Her mother let out a long, weary sigh, her fingers still clenched around the crumpled letter. The candlelight flickered, casting shadows that stretched and shrank along the worn wooden walls.

Elena watched her carefully. She had seen her mother tired before, seen her sad, seen her cry—but this was different. This was something deeper. A sorrow that had settled so heavily in her chest that it seemed to weigh her entire body down.

Elena hesitated, then finally spoke.

"Do you… regret staying?"

Her mother's eyes flickered up to meet hers.

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Silence stretched between them before she finally exhaled, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I regret… many things, Elena."

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard. "But not staying."

Elena frowned. "Why?"

Her mother gave a small, broken smile.

"Because if I had left, you wouldn't have had a father."

Elena blinked. "But he—"

"Yes." Her mother's voice was quiet, but firm. "He was cruel. He was weak. He was everything Lance hated."

Her grip on the letter tightened.

"But he was still your father."

Elena looked away.

She didn't understand. She had tried to, over the years, but she didn't. All she knew was that Lance had left and never looked back.

But he said he would come back.

That was what she told herself, over and over again.

He said he would come back.

But it had been two years.

And sometimes, in the quiet of the night, when the world outside was still and her mother's breathing was slow and steady beside her, she wondered—

Would he really?

Her mother reached out suddenly, brushing a strand of hair from Elena's face.

"You look so much like him," she murmured.

Elena stiffened.

Her mother's lips trembled. "Not your father. Lance."

Something in her chest twisted.

Her mother's fingers curled slightly, hesitating before they pulled away. "He would be proud of you."

Elena lowered her head.

Would he?

She wasn't sure.

Her mother let out another sigh and rubbed at her tired eyes.

"It's late," she said at last. "We should sleep."

Elena hesitated, then nodded. She put away her diary and climbed onto the small mattress beside her mother, pulling the thin blanket over them.

Her mother reached over and gently smoothed Elena's hair back, her touch soft but absentminded.

"Sleep well, my love," she whispered.

Elena didn't respond.

She listened to her mother's breathing, slow and steady, and stared at the wooden ceiling above them.

She closed her eyes.

...

A noise.

Muffled. Distant.

Elena stirred, shifting under the covers. Her brows furrowed slightly, her mind sluggish with sleep.

Another noise.

A crackling sound—like wood snapping in a fire. And then—

Laughter.

Low. Amused. Cruel.

Her eyes snapped open.

The room was dimly lit, the candle nearly burned out. Her mother was still asleep beside her, her breathing deep and even.

Elena sat up slowly, rubbing at her eyes.

The noise had come from outside.

Curious, she slid off the bed and padded toward the window.

She wiped away the condensation on the glass with the sleeve of her worn dress and peered outside.

And froze.

A man was burning.

His body engulfed in raging flames, his screams piercing the night. His hands clawed at his throat as though trying to rip the fire off him, but it clung to his skin, devouring him hungrily.

Elena's breath hitched.

Beyond him, a figure stood in the darkness, cloaked in black. The firelight flickered against his pale face, revealing a smirk—amused, entertained.

He was laughing.

Elena's stomach twisted violently.

She stumbled back from the window, her heart hammering against her ribs.

And then—

The man turned.

Their eyes met.

Elena's blood ran cold.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then his smirk widened.

Elena's heart stopped.

A hand suddenly grabbed her wrist, yanking her away from the window.

"Elena?"

Her mother's voice was urgent, filled with sleep and fear all at once.

She had woken up.

The screams outside were louder now. The village was waking, people shouting, crying.

"Elena, what's wrong?"

Elena could barely breathe. She gripped her mother's arm, shaking. "They're here."

Her mother stiffened. "Who—"

A sound outside their door.

Footsteps.

Slow. Deliberate. Approaching.

Her mother's breath hitched.

Then, in an instant, she scooped Elena into her arms, her pulse pounding against Elena's cheek as she held her close.

The footsteps stopped.

Right outside their door.

—End of Chapter.