(no subject)
Ptolemy opened his eyes slowly as the morning sun coursed through his heavy lids. His sudden consciousness startled him into an alert state and he sat up, feeling as though the presence of someone else had just recently dissolved. But the room was settled and silent, and the continuous progression of light drained any thoughts of sleep from his mind. His hand groped blindly as he searched for his book, and he sat up as he felt the delicate cover beneath his fingertips.
Ptolemy flipped through the pages carefully until coming upon what he had been searching for: a letter, scrawled untidily and smudged with age. He pulled it from its place--his eyes adjusting and narrowing to the light- and he studied it for a moment. At the same time he watched the corners of each doorway as though someone were expected to approach. He smiled at his own paranoia and slipped the letter between the pages of the book.
The quiescence of his solitude was unsettling and seemed to awkwardly hang in the atmosphere. Ptolemy watched his fading shadow and leaned back, closing his eyes. But sleep would not come to him and the air was surprisingly still and, finally accepting that he would have to give up his thoughts of repose, he opened his book again and pulled out the letter. His name was written at the top with such familiarity that he felt almost protective of its intimacy. He read the letter again and again, until he felt that he could repeat the wording without it in front of him.
He had never known if what was written in the letter was true. It concluded, in its effortless eloquence, that his relationship with Alexander was held with closer ties than he had imagined. The thought that Philip could have possibly been his father filled him with unease and he tucked the letter away again, for what he told himself was the final time.
Ptolemy’s eyes wandered out the window and the weight that had been hanging over him seemed to lighten as he stood up and began to head outside.