AllFreeNovel
Share Us
just a girl.
Another leaf blown across my path
Destined to pass on
And shrivel into yourself
Like all the others.
Yet despite my venom
You refuse to wither
Or fade.
You remain golden throughout,
And in your gaze I am left to wonder if it is me alone
Who feels the fall.
Isobel’s hand sank, as though the photo had become too heavy for her to hold.
Like tiny knives, his words lacerated her heart.
Isobel pushed the photo back inside the box, prepared to shut the lid and leave, but through her bleary, stinging vision, she caught sight of another photo in the stack.
At first she could glimpse only the edge, and it was the wisps of soft, honey-colored hair that made her draw it free.
The woman in the picture watched the photographer with a steady pair of large eyes, her chin tilted slightly upward. Her beauty, natural and free of cosmetics, was undeniable.
Her lips, shapely and petal pink, seemed as though they wanted to smile, even though they didn’t. Her wavy blond hair lay in a gentle swoop across her smooth forehead, the soft flyaway ends disappearing behind her in what Isobel thought must be either a low ponytail or a loose braid.
The woman, slender and pale, wore a plum-colored peacoat buttoned to her chin, while a black knitted scarf laced her throat.
Even though the physical resemblance was subtle, Isobel knew that this was a photograph of Varen’s mother.
It was the woman’s eyes, the same hue of polished jade, that gave her away.
Taking a closer look, Isobel began to notice faint lines showing through from the other side. Curls and slanted loops appeared in raised bumps around the edges, like Braille, as if Varen had pushed too hard with his pen while writing.
Isobel hesitated before flipping the photo over, afraid of what she might find. She turned it slowly, allowing the candlelight to reveal another poem.
Previously, Varen had only mentioned his mother in passing, saying that she’d left when he was eight. He hadn’t elaborated, and Isobel had refrained from asking questions, knowing all too well how quickly his walls could snap into place.
Now, ten years later, he was still thinking of her, still holding on to the last remnants of her existence in his life.
Isobel found herself reluctant to read even a single line.
It was true that she had never hesitated to pry into Varen’s writing before. That was part of how this had all started, that day when she’d gone snooping in his journal. But there was something about this poem that made her dread its message. Perhaps it was the title, presented like a simple salutation in a letter. “To Madeline,” it said at the top, the letters scriptlike and looping, written in his best hand.
Isobel could not recall a single instance in which she had ever called her own mother anything other than “Mom.” Of course, she couldn’t recall a single instance in which her mother hadn’t been there, either.
Swallowing, she began to read.
To Madeline,
This subtle second self
