Woven Shadows

Chapter 3

The air in the garden was suffocating, thick with the scent of earth and damp leaves, but it wasn't just the humidity that choked me. It was the weight of the discovery—the letters—that crushed my chest like a boulder I couldn't move. My hands trembled violently, crumpling the paper between my fingers. I could feel the pressure building in my chest, a hot, burning rage clawing its way up my throat. It demanded release, scratching at the edges of control I fought to maintain.

She left us. My mother—no, the woman who had abandoned us—left me and my father behind as if we were nothing. That thought, that truth, burned through me like wildfire. It seared itself into my brain, branding me with its fury. And for what? For a life in the Wind Kingdom? She stayed hidden away in some distant place, writing letters like they were enough, like they could heal the emptiness she'd left behind. She pretended to care. She acted like she wanted to be here, but she never came.

I could barely see through the haze of my anger. The years of wondering, of not knowing, of watching my father keep her memory alive—his hope alive—flooded back in a torrent. The years I spent believing I was alone, that we were forgotten. All the while, she was out there, living her life while we suffered. While my father waited for her return, she had stayed away, letting us rot here in this forgotten corner of the Earth Kingdom.

The letters crumpled beneath my fists as if crushing them could crush the feelings with them. I wanted to burn them. To watch them turn to ash, as dead to me as she was. But I didn't have time to indulge in destruction. I couldn't afford to fall apart, not now.

I stuffed the letters deep into my pocket, the fabric straining under the force of my hand. My movements were sharp, each one an outlet for the fury I couldn't release fully. I stormed into the cottage, slamming the door behind me. The walls closed in, oppressive and suffocating, filled with memories that once felt warm but now felt like shackles. My father's boots were still by the wardrobe, his jacket hanging as if he could walk in any moment, and the necklace that hummed was still hanging on the nail. I grabbed it in a swift motion, put it on, and continued my trek.

Everything here was a lie.

A low growl escaped my throat, almost feral, as I moved through the room. The world had been small here, manageable even in its bleakness, but now the very air seemed to mock me. My father had kept everything in its place, hoping, believing. But he was dead now. His hope had been wasted, just like my years wondering about her.

I had to leave. I couldn't stay here, not one moment longer in this graveyard of memories. I needed answers, and only she could give them to me. My mother. The one who abandoned us without a second thought, who stayed hidden in the Wind Kingdom like we were nothing. But I would find her. And I would demand to know why. Why she left. Why she never returned. Why the hell she thought these letters could fix anything. She would know what she had done. She would know that he was dead. That everything she left behind had crumbled without her.

I moved with violent purpose, yanking down bundles of herbs from the rafters. Lavender for protection. Chamomile for calming—ironic, considering the fury pulsing through my veins. Yarrow for healing. My father had taught me their uses, but now even that knowledge felt tainted by the fact that it had been passed down in the shadow of his waiting for her return. I shoved them into my bag without care if they were crushed. I wasn't going unprepared into the unknown, but I wasn't going to be gentle about it either.

Next came the notebook, the worn leather cover creaking as I grabbed it from the shelf. Inside were sketches, notes, everything my father had passed down to me—his wisdom, his stories. I threw it into the bag, the anger still simmering just beneath my skin, hot and bitter. I grabbed clothes, shoving extra shirts and trousers into the bag without a thought to neatness. They didn't matter. Not now. What mattered was getting out, leaving this place behind. Escaping the suffocating familiarity of this cottage.