Magnus
I hate coming here.
I hate the smell of smoke and frozen bark that clings to the air like the ghost of a long-forgotten fire.
I hate the soft, mournful melody of the wind chimes, rippling through the stillness whenever the breeze brushes against the branches of the old oak tree.
I hate the memories that flicker through my mind the moment I step over the invisible threshold that separates this place from the rest of my world.
I hate that this place used to be my home.
"It's been a while," I murmur, my voice barely more than a breath, as I stand before my mother's grave. "Did you miss me?"
Something twists painfully inside my chest at the sound of my own words. I feel small again—like a child clutching at a fading photograph, desperate to bring it to life, desperate to relive a moment that's long gone.
Because memories of my mother are the only memories I can never let go of.
***
Magnus, 10 years old
"Shut your filthy mouth!"
