It has been a week. I haven't done much writing. I have not done much of anything. I wander about this big house in a daze – or so I'm told. I feel rootless, as if I could float away. I feel like the time I drank some of papa's ale and everything went hazy, shifting, and weird.
I wait for them to burst through the door, telling me to go pack so we can all go home. That does not happen, of course, except on the edge of my dreams. I'm no fool. It won't happen.
Still I close my eyes and try to remember. And all I see is bodies. I have nightmares, and that isn't the way to remember your parents. I have not cried since last I wrote. I still feel numb – like a ghost, but a ghost separated from all other ghosts. From them.
--Frodo
