Messages that will never reach their homes.

[morilthesinger]

Old paper makes a certain kind of noise when it burns. Dry to begin with, any remaining hint of moisture is sucked out of it all at once with a crack, and then there is a fragile, crispy sort of sound as the edge begin to curl in and finally the whole thing is consumed into little bits of ash

Comments

[inariver]

Curiosity had always been Ophelia's undoing.

From her doorstep she could see stretches of beach in both directions, watch were the sky kissed the waves and the trees rushed up to meet sand. Some days she likes to simply watch, waiting for something different to urge her to change. That is how she has come upon the bonfire. It had been burning in a way that it caught her attention, long before she had been near enough to sneeze at the smoke in the air.

Stopping on the far side of the fire, she stares at the flames for a moment before staring at the person on the other side.

"I always miss things after they've burned," she says almost absently as she watches paper curl and catch in the flames.

[morilthesinger]

Moril looks up at her, a little dazed, as if surprised by her sudden appearance that had not really been so sudden at all.

"You won't miss these," he points out. "I don't even know what most of them say."

[inariver]

"Do you not planning on reading them?"

Ophelia had burned her letters. Set fire to them and wished she had never read them to start with. This doesn't mean that she does not remember what they said.

"Were they not meant for you?"

[morilthesinger]

Moril shakes his head, reaching out to hand her a crinkled piece of wadded-up paper. It had said Come to the corn when he had read it.

"No. And I can't give them to the people they're for, now, it's much too late."