Wild Hearts

The Quiet

A flicker of wings; the world held still by its beauty. Sunlight filters in, a green backdrop swaying with the wind. The cool air strokes my cheeks and I draw in a deep breath. Twisting the lid, I watch as the butterfly springs into life, breaking free of its container.

Up and up it goes, twirling, flitting in the air, before gliding out the window, letting the breeze carry it to new horizons. Nature and its boundless wonders.

Leaning against the window, I cross my arms and rest my chin atop them. Taking a long and deep breath, I close my eyes and welcome the gentle song of birds and the dance of wind through trees.

Sometimes all you need is to take a deep breath, let what's holding you back go, and just enjoy that feeling of utter freedom. Of quiet. Hell, it might even be better on your own.

***

Misery came in the form of a silence which shouldn't have been.

Dad knocked twice more before glancing at me surreptitiously. I moved to his study window, cupping my eyes against the tinted glass, squinting past old bookshelves and a desk too cluttered with memories, but I couldn't see grandpa.

"What about your key?" I note timidly.

"You think I haven't thought of that?" he snaps. Blinking, he realises the bitterness is like a sting, and he sighs, breathing heavily. "Sorry. I lost it."

"Dad y—"

"I know, alright," he says, squeezing his face, eyes wondering lazily for any answer. "I'm hopeless. I lose everything. Now stop pestering me and check around the back, eh?"

Studying him anxiously, I nod twice and run to the side of the house; grandpa doesn't keep it locked.

I half expect to find him emerging from the shed, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief, pleasantly surprised to see me. Instead, I am met by a further silence.

I try the back door, but it refuses to budge. Meeting dad back around the front, I gasp as he aims a foot at the door. With a great cracking sound the door shoots back, colliding into the wall.

"Dad!"

Ignoring me, dad presses in and I pause in the doorway, glancing around. Not like there's a soul for miles, but this still feels wrong.

The house sleeps, eerily quiet, shadows in every corner, shadows where none should be. It feels dead.

I try the kitchen while dad makes for grandpa's room. I'm running a hand along a cold kettle, half-eaten vegetable stew flung along the bench when I hear a blood-curdling cry.

My stomach seizes up, like I've been shot with a volt of electricity, and then I will my legs to move, sprinting all the way to the sound of dad's anguished scream.

The first touch of sun creeps in through the window, enveloping the room, and its story in a golden glow.

Grandpa lies still atop his bed, photo frames covering his chest and most of the duvet. I grab the nearest one—it's the picture of the fete, dad and his elusive friend, and grandpa with his strength, his beautiful wife. Sitting on the far end of the bed is the box I helped him carry to the shed the other day.

Dad is kneeling by grandpa's side, gripping his hand furiously. I watch grandpa's chest for the familiar rise and fall, but I don't see it.

"No," I croak, overwhelmed, a great flush of emotions coursing through me, leaving me numb.

I am locked in place, control of my body no longer my own. Tears, my ever faithful companion spring to my eyes, and I feel my lips trembling.

Did grandpa die with a broken heart? Could he no longer hold that burden, the weight of the world—his grandson's smile?