The Letter
962 Words
The bells would not stop ringing.
Their solemn voices rolled over Ashmoor in slow, measured intervals, each peal reminding the village that the procession would begin before sunset. From her attic window, Rowan could hear laughter drifting up from the streets below, the squeal of children chasing one another through fresh snow, the scrape of wagon wheels against frozen earth.
The Night of Deliverance had begun.
Yet in the dim light of the attic, it felt as though the world had narrowed to the bundle of papers resting in her lap.
Her father's handwriting.
She knew it instantly.
The careful slant of every letter. The elegant loops he always made when writing her mother's name. The tiny blot of ink at the end of every sentence because he had a habit of pausing before lifting his quill.
Her fingers trembled.
For thirteen years she had tried to remember the sound of his voice.
Now all she could think was—
He wrote this believing I would one day read it.
She unfolded the first page.
The parchment crackled softly with age.
A faint scent of cedar and old ink escaped as the folds opened.
At the very top, in bold script, were five words.
For my little sparrow.
Tears blurred her vision before she reached the first sentence.
She swallowed hard.
Then began to read.
If you are reading this, then I have failed to keep my promise.
Forgive me.
If your mother still lives, burn these pages without reading another word.
If she does not… then there is no one left to protect you from the truth.
Rowan's breath caught.
Protect me?
She read on.
Everything they will tell you about me is a lie.
Her heart skipped.
They will call me a traitor.
They will say I betrayed the kingdom.
One day, perhaps even you will believe them.
If that day comes, I cannot blame you.
A tear slid silently down her cheek.
No.
She had never believed it.
Not truly.
She had simply never known what else to believe.
The next paragraph began differently.
The neat handwriting became hurried.
As though the words had been written while someone watched the door.
I have spent seven years studying Blackwood.
The Church has hidden things from us.
Things no king should have allowed.
Rowan leaned closer.
Outside, another bell rang.
She barely heard it.
The wolves are not what they claim.
Her pulse hammered in her ears.
She read the sentence again.
Then a third time.
The wolves are not what they claim.
A sharp knock echoed from downstairs.
"Rowan?"
Elena.
"I know you're home!"
Rowan jumped, so violently the letter slipped from her hands.
Papers scattered across the attic floor.
Another knock.
"Lena?"
"Father Aldren sent me."
Silence.
"Rowan?"
Panic tightened her chest.
If anyone saw these—
She dropped to her knees, gathering the pages with frantic hands.
One sheet slid beneath the old cedar chest.
Another disappeared under a pile of blankets.
"Rowan!"
"I'm coming!"
She shoved the bundle back into the hidden compartment without checking whether every page had been collected.
The false bottom slammed shut.
Only then did she notice one loose sheet still lying near the window.
She reached for it—
A gust of icy wind burst through the open shutters.
The page lifted.
"No!"
It danced just beyond her fingertips.
Once.
Twice.
Then disappeared out the attic window.
Rowan stared in horror.
The single sheet spiraled across the rooftops before the wind carried it north.
Toward Blackwood.
She ran to the window.
The page floated above the snow-covered fields like a white bird before vanishing against the dark line of the forest.
Gone.
Completely gone.
"Rowan!"
Elena's voice came again, impatient now.
With shaking hands, Rowan closed the shutters.
Her heartbeat refused to slow.
She forced herself downstairs.
Elena stood outside with flushed cheeks and snow dusting her curls.
"There you are!"
"You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I…" Rowan struggled to steady her breathing.
"I was cleaning."
Elena frowned.
"You've been crying."
"No."
"You have."
"I just…" Rowan rubbed quickly at her eyes.
"Dust."
"Dust made your eyes red?"
Rowan attempted a smile.
"It was very old dust."
Elena studied her for another moment before sighing.
"You're a terrible liar."
"I know."
"Come on."
She linked their arms together.
"The procession is about to start."
"I don't think I should—"
"Father Aldren specifically asked for you."
Those words settled heavily in Rowan's stomach.
She locked the cottage door behind them.
As they walked through the village, lanterns flickered to life one by one.
Their golden light reflected against the snow until Ashmoor seemed filled with tiny stars.
People lined the streets carrying candles wrapped in crimson ribbons.
The annual procession always followed the same route.
From the church...
To the memorial...
Ending at the great bonfire overlooking Blackwood.
Where they thanked the saints, for another year the wolves had not crossed the border.
Halfway to the church, Rowan looked back.
Her cottage sat quiet beneath the falling snow.
The attic window faced north.
Toward the forest.
Toward the missing page.
An uneasy feeling settled over her.
It was only a piece of parchment.
The odds of anyone finding it in miles of wilderness were almost impossible.
And yet...
She could not shake the feeling that something important had slipped through her fingers.
Something her father had desperately wanted her to know.
High above the village, hidden among the dark branches of Blackwood, a single sheet of weathered parchment finally came to rest against the roots of an ancient oak.
Snow settled over it.
Then a cold wind swept through the trees.
The page shifted.
One corner caught on a clawed hand.
The forest, as it always had, was listening.
- Writer
