**Shards Left Unglued**
Three days after the funeral, Eleanor pulled out an old box from the cupboard. It had been tucked behind a bag of Christmas decorations, coated in dust, as though life itself had carefully hidden it there for later. For when the pain no longer cut through every fibre of her being, but simply ached somewhere beneath her ribs. Or perhaps for when the silence became too heavy—when pretending nothing had changed was no longer possible. As though that evening, in the kitchen scrubbed clean of anything louder than stillness, the past had chosen to knock on its own and demand to be seen.
William sat motionless at the table. A mug of cold coffee stood in front of him, cradled between his hands as if it held something irreplaceable. He didn’t look at his mother. But when she slid the box toward him, he took it. Gently. Carefully. As though it didn’t hold paper inside—but glass.
Dozens of letters. He recognised the handwriting at once. His own. Childish. The same scrawl that had once covered wallpaper margins and schoolbooks in year one. Letters to his future self. Six years old, then eight, twelve—each year, he’d written to himself. As if paper could preserve what his heart couldn’t bear to keep. As if paper could be closer than the father who was never there. As if it listened. Understood.
He unfolded the first letter. A drawing: him and his father by the riverbank. Fishing rods. A lopsided sun in the corner. Clumsy, uneven, but painfully earnest. *”Dad promised to take me fishing this summer. Can’t wait. He said if I stop crying at night, we’ll definitely go.”* At the bottom—a crooked heart. A plea stitched into ink.
William set the letter down slowly. His fingers trembled. His mother stood by the wall, pressing into it like an anchor. She didn’t step closer, didn’t speak. Just watched, as if afraid to break the fragility of the moment.
*”He never came,”* William murmured. *”Work trip. Again. And then we stopped asking. One day, we just knew—there was no point waiting.”*
His mother said nothing. Outside, rain drizzled, the weak glow of a streetlamp casting the room in a dull grey. Everything had faded since his death—the walls, the air, even the scent of books on the shelf. Even the clock on the wall ticked softer, as though reluctant to interrupt the grief.
The next letter was short. *”I’m twelve. I don’t write to Dad anymore. It’s pointless.”* William read it slowly, tracing each letter like he hoped the child’s hand might change its mind. But the words stood firm. Certain. Like a blade. This wasn’t just a letter. It was the moment hope had died. Not with a shout—just silence.
*”I hated him,”* he admitted. *”Not for leaving. For being there—but never really being there. For every empty promise. For all those times you said, ‘Dad’s running late,’ when we both knew he wouldn’t turn up. Not a jingle of keys, not a call. Never.”*
His mother sank into a chair. In her hands was a single sheet—no envelope. Thick paper, a dog-eared corner. The handwriting—grown, unfamiliar, yet achingly known. William stared at her as if seeing her for the first time.
*”He wrote to you. Before the end,”* she whispered. Her voice cracked.
He took the letter. One line inside:
*”You were my fear and my hope. Forgive me for never staying.”*
William read it. Then again. And again. As though repetition might make it clearer. But clarity didn’t come. Only pain. And silence. Not the words rang in it—but the hollows between them.
This silence wasn’t empty. It pulsed. Vibrated not just with hurt, but with everything they’d never voiced. It was full—relentless, unyielding. The past couldn’t be undone. But perhaps it could be carried differently.
He placed the letters back in the box. Carefully. Slowly. As if he wasn’t just arranging paper—but himself. The last letter, he laid on top. Too late. But maybe not meaningless.
*”Mum…”* He met her eyes, the past between them. *”Let’s go to that river. The one he promised. Bring the rods. Just sit. Not for him. For us.”*
She nodded. Slowly. Carefully. As though agreeing not just to the trip—but to an attempt. A faint one, but an attempt to be there. For once—really there.
This time—no *”I promise.”* Just the road. Just the water. And maybe, just maybe, a silence they could finally breathe in.
