Legacy // H.S

26.

'Shouting in the street, gonna take on the world someday'

*

The four of us sit around the table in the sitting room, staring at the pile of letters, along with those of my father's that we've already read through, as if simply touching them will somehow infect us with a curse. All of us, looking between each other, waiting for someone to make the first move, to read the first letter, but not moving to do so.

I suppose they expect me to do it considering they were written by my father, and I agree, but the anticipation of it all has been eating me up inside. Words I never got to hear from a story I never had the chance to read. A secret hidden for so long, only discovered by chance upon his passing, and yet it seems to dictate so much of our lives these days.

Yet, there is that subtle nagging feeling, like my brain is telling me to quit while I'm ahead. Little voices that whisper all sorts of words to spark my anxiety, to make me doubt myself and this plan, nibbling away at the last pieces of resolve I still have. Perhaps there is something I won't want to hear in these letters. More admissions that could easily be misconstrued, quite like the first letter Santine used to taunt me with.

Maybe Graham was wrong, maybe Dad did resent having a child when he wanted to be with Marla. Of course, the last rational parts of my brain tell me otherwise, because we have proof of that in Marla's words, but I can't help the fear that's been rising ever since we began watching the piles of paper without examining them.

Time allows wounds to reopen, to infect, to grow. Time can heal but it can also hurt. Every day since Dad's death has been another hurdle I've had to overcome, and not because of the general feelings of grief or loss that one may experience, but because of what has been revealed to us in its wake. I just hope I don't come out of this more wounded that before.

Zayn's eyes move between me and the paper, Harry's between me and Babz, Babz between Zayn and Harry. And I just keep my own on the letters, opening my mouth to talk every now and again but finding myself lost before I find the right words.

Babz sighs after some time, though, looking over to me with some urgency in her eyes. 'Well, are we going to read them?' she questions.

I nod my head, nervously playing with the skin around my fingers. 'Yes. Just give me a second,' I say, reaching forward before ultimately pulling back.

Zayn looks at me with concern. 'I can read them if you want?'

I take a second to consider his suggestion. 'Please,' but then I backtrack as his hand reaches the pile. 'Wait! No. I should read them. They were love letters that my dad wrote. I should do this.'

Harry's hand rests gently on my knee. 'Don't think of them as love letters, just think of them as secrets about Hugo. It'll make it easier.'

'You're right,' I admit, reaching forward once more. But my hand hovers over them, almost like there's an invisible force stopping me from touching them. 'What if this doesn't actually answer any questions we have?' I ask, some caution in my tone. I'm just prolonging it. I'm not sure why I'm so scared. They're just words. But words have the power to change us, don't they?

The group sighs around me, but they're not annoyed. 'Then we work to find something that does. There will always be something out there waiting to reveal what we're searching for, Atlas.' Zayn's voice is gentle. He's always so gentle with me. His heart is one of the purest I've found, and I count my lucky stars that I get to call him a friend.

'Right. Yes. Sorry, I'm stalling. I don't know why I'm so nervous,' I mumble with a scratch to my neck.

'We're all nervous. Everything rests on these letters. They're the difference between success and failure, and we really need a win right now,' Babz remarks.