Pieces That Won’t Fit Back Together
On the third day after the funeral, Emily dug out an old box. It had been tucked away in the cupboard behind a bag of Christmas baubles, dust-settled, as though life itself had gently hidden it there for later. For a time when the pain no longer cut through every cell but just ached softly beneath the ribs. Or perhaps for the opposite—when the silence became unbearable, when pretending nothing had happened was no longer an option. As if, on this very evening, in a kitchen scrubbed clean of sound, the past had knocked on the door itself and demanded to be let in.
William sat motionless at the table. A mug of cold tea stood before him, cradled in his hands as though it held something sacred. He didn’t look at his mother. But when she held out the box, he took it. Gently. Carefully. As if it didn’t contain paper, but glass.
Inside—dozens of letters. He recognised the handwriting at once. His own. Childish. The same that had scrawled across bedroom walls and schoolbooks in primary school. Letters to his future self. Once, he’d been six, then eight, twelve—every year, he’d written to himself. As if paper could hold what his heart couldn’t bear to keep. As if paper could be closer than a father who was never there. As if it could listen. Understand.
He unfolded the first letter. A drawing: him and his father by the riverside. Fishing rods. A sun in the corner, crooked, uneven, but sincerely childish. *”Dad promised he’d take me fishing this summer. Can’t wait. He said if I stopped crying at night, we’d definitely go.”* At the bottom—a lopsided heart. A plea stitched into ink.
William set the letter down slowly. His fingers trembled. His mother stood against the wall, pressed into it like an anchor. She didn’t step closer, didn’t speak. Just watched, as if afraid to shatter the moment.
*”He never came, did he?”* William murmured. *”Work. Again. And then we stopped asking. One day, we just knew—there was no point waiting.”*
His mother said nothing. Outside, rain misted the window, and the dim glow of a streetlamp washed the room in grey. Everything had dulled since his death—the walls, the air, even the scent of books on the shelves. Even the clock on the wall ticked softer, as though hesitant to disturb the grief.
The next letter was brief: *”I’m twelve. I don’t write to Dad anymore. Pointless.”* William read it slowly, tracing each letter as if hoping his younger hand might change its mind. But the words stood firm. Certain. Like a blade. This wasn’t just a letter. This was the moment hope had died. Without a sound. Just faded away.
*”I hated him,”* he said. *”Not for leaving, Mum. For being there—but never really being there. For all the empty promises. For all the times you said, ‘Dad’s running late,’ when I already knew—he wasn’t coming. No jingle of keys. No call. Never.”*
His mother sank into a chair. In her hands—a sheet of paper. No envelope. Heavy stock, a dog-eared corner. The handwriting—grown, unfamiliar, yet achingly known. William stared at her as though seeing her for the first time.
*”He wrote to you. Before the end,”* she said, voice fraying.
He took the letter. Inside—just one line:
*”You were my fear and my hope. Forgive me for not being there.”*
William read it. Then again. And once more. As if each repetition might make it clearer. But clarity didn’t come. Only pain. And silence. Not the silence of words unsaid, but of the hollow spaces between them.
This silence wasn’t empty. It pulsed. It vibrated not just with hurt, but with everything they’d never spoken aloud. It was full—stubborn, relentless. The past couldn’t be undone. But perhaps it could be carried differently.
He placed the letters back in the box. Slowly. Carefully. As though tucking away not paper—but himself. And the last letter, he left on top. Late. But perhaps not pointless.
*”Mum…”* He looked at her, straight into the past. *”Let’s go to that river. The one he promised. We’ll take the rods. Just sit. Not for him. For us.”*
She nodded. Slow. Careful. As if agreeing not just to a trip—but to a try. A fragile one. But a try, all the same. To be there, properly, just once.
No *”I promise.”* Just the road. Just the water. And maybe, in that silence, just enough air to breathe.
