31. The Warden
THE WARDEN
M y mother’s bed creaked softly as I sat on the edge of it, the faint scent of rose perfume wrapping around me, filling the room like she’d just left moments ago.
I hated being in here, hated the way her ghost clung to everything—the soft pinks and blues she used to wear, the lavender canopy of the bed I used to crawl into when I had nightmares, the dust settled over her silent tomb.
It made my skin crawl, made my chest tight with memories that had no business resurfacing.
I watched Ava as she crossed the room, every step deliberate, a strange seriousness shadowing her face.
My stomach twisted with the urge to stop her, to say I didn’t want to know whatever it was she was about to show me.
I wasn’t ready for this—I doubted I ever would be.
But the words caught in my throat, and I just sat there, waiting, feeling like a child awaiting punishment .
She paused by my mother’s jewelry box, her fingers tracing its edges, then clicked open a hidden drawer with a quiet, practiced motion.
I blinked, realizing I’d never known about that drawer.
A feeling like I barely knew my mother at all crept up my spine in a shiver.
Ava turned around, and in her hand, she held a small stack of letters, tied with a faded lavender ribbon. Her ribbon. I remember seeing it nestled in her dark hair like a bird caught in a net.
I felt something crack inside me just looking at it, like the faintest sign of her was enough to shake the walls I’d carefully constructed.
Ava walked back to me, her face soft with something I couldn’t read. She set the letters in my lap, then sank down beside me, wrapping her arms around my waist, her touch grounding me.
It felt as though she knew—maybe even better than I did—that whatever was inside those letters was about to tear me apart.
Her hands tightened, holding me close, keeping me from slipping off the edge.
I stared at the letters, my fingers numb as I undid the ribbon.
The knot slipped loose, and the ribbon fell away, trailing across my lap like a whisper of the past.
My hands trembled as I unfolded the first letter, and there it was—her handwriting, familiar and painfully delicate, like she’d written each word with a quiet desperation I hadn’t known to look for .
The words began to blur as my eyes traced each letter, each curve of ink pulling me deeper into the memories, each line scraping at wounds that had barely begun to heal.
And with every sentence, I felt myself unraveling, piece by piece.