A/N: Well, hello again. Written in response to Akiko's challenge. Be happy, y'all. This was written instead of finishing my summer reading.
Letter to Tomorrow
A dove alighted silently, in a blurry of white feathers, on the windowsill.
The wind chimes tinkled softly in the gentle breeze, carrying the scent of the ocean.
A blotch of ink marred the otherwise untarnished parchment, fallen from the quill poised above the paper.
With a sigh, the man laid down the quill and picked up the paper. This was now part of his daily ritual – sit at his desk for a few hours, write a few words, then give up trying for the day. He crumpled up the paper, and moved as to throw it into the waste basket.
It had been months since her burial, and he hadn't yet written to her son.
Pausing, he changed his mind and flattened the paper on the tabletop. Dipping his quill in the inkwell, he wrote four simple words on the wrinkled surface.
"Your mother is dead," read the blunt, harsh words. The man stared at them for a long time, undecided. His mind began to wander, and he thought of when Piers was a young boy, younger than he still was.
It had been foggy when he stumbled on Piers. His father's burial had been a week ago to the day, and Piers had often slipped away from his mother.
The little boy was hard at work tying together pieces of wood. "What is the wood for?" asked the man.
"I'm building a raft. For my adventure," replied the little boy, obviously steadfast in his refusal to be distracted from his task. Somehow he had found thick rope, and was lashing the logs and scraps of wood together.
"Well." The man kneeled next to the boy and raft. "It looks to me like you've already finished." Though flimsy, there was indeed enough surface area to carry one small boy and his treasures.
Piers worked diligently. "No, not done." He spared no attention for his uncle and kept his gaze on his makeshift creation. Struggling with a stubborn knot, he hunched his shoulders and tugged on the rope. "Mom wouldn't be able to fit."
He dipped his quill again, and scratched out three more words.
"Please forgive me."
Laying down the quill and recapping the inkwell, he waited for the ink to dry.
The dove on the windowsill was preening itself in its narcissistic way, ignorant and uncaring of the tumult going through the man's mind.
The wind chimes tinkled softly.
The man tore the paper and threw it into the waste basket, then dismissed the bird.
There was, after all, always a tomorrow.
End