It seems all the books I read begin with the protagonist, weakened and withered by age, sitting by the hearth. To the flames they stare, somehow finding their life story within the crackling warmth. And sitting here now, gaze set on the fireplace, haggled, tired, once lovely hair now gray and thin, I remember my youth. The mere thought brings a chill down my spine.
"Lindsay," I croak softly, turning my head, searching the room for something to quell the cold. Nothing is in sight. My skin tingles uncomfortably. "Lindsay, a blanket?" No one comes to my call. The room is lonely, still. I can barely hear the hearth.
Huffing, I search my pockets for a bell. Cool metal meets my fingers, and I draw the bell from my pocket to give it a shake. The soft peal fills my ears, and I call along with it. "Lindsay!"
The maid enters the bedroom within seconds, a kind expression upon her youthful face. Her bright blue eyes meet my gaze, twinkling kindly. With some difficulty I smile, the corners of my mouth trembling as they struggle to turn upwards.
"Ms. Willowby?" She curtsies before walking closer. I strain to hear the sound of her skirts brushing against the wooden floor.
"A blanket?" I repeat softly. "I'm cold, Lindsay..." She nods, scurrying away in search of a quilt upon my request. My gaze returns to the hearth, which is now dying. I watch the embers flicker weakly, trying to stay alive, battling...
Lindsay walks back in front of me, hiding the fire from view.
"Here you are, Ms. Willowby." She hands me a bundle of soft fabric before kneeling to tend to the fire. Her cautious hands reach out to grip the poker, prodding the logs into place.
"Thank you, Lindsay," I tell her kindly, reaching up with timid hands to drape the blanket about my body. Almost immediately the chill dissipates.
"Would you care for anything else?" Asks the young maid, standing and smoothing her skirts. My gaze settles on her for a few moments.
"No," I tell her at last. "No, no. I'm alright. Goodnight, Lindsay." The young woman clears her throat and curtsies, hurrying away. As she shuts the door I can hear her murmur a soft hymn of prayer for my health. I sigh and look down to my hands. The once smooth, soft skin has wrinkled. They are no longer agile and young... They are wise hands, hands that have seen many things. Beautiful things, ugly things. They are the hands of an old woman, hands that are tired, no longer innocent and unbeknownst to the world's wonders. Calloused, yet soft...
They remind me of music. Beautiful, beautiful music. A piano. My fingers have never been good for playing. They are too short, too awkward. And yet I always wanted to play so terribly. I let out a shaky sigh, standing from my chair and hobbling over to the vanity. My feet ache, but the pain soon fades as I sit in front of the mirror. An almost unrecognizable countenance stares back at me. This isn't me... is it? Of course, it must be. But I don't want to accept it, not now, not ever.
A rattling cough escapes my lips. I break my gaze from the mirror, looking down and pulling open the vanity's drawer. Beads that have fallen from their parenting necklace roll forwards, alongside small keepsakes such as rings and jewels. But I have no need for them now. I brush the useless things aside and grasp my brush, raising it to my no longer full head of hair. The remaining strands are thin and gray. I do not love them as I once did, when they were silky, thick, a beautiful almond shade. When finished, I lay the brush down. Giving my reflection no heed, I stand again, making my way over to the bed. With some struggle I clamber onto the mattress, pulling the sheets to my chin. At last I glimpse the ring encasing my finger. The one I never look at anymore. Ever.
My wedding ring.
Truly, it is lovely, with a golden body that houses a glittering gem. Often I ask myself why I hate it so, yet wear it all the same.
Perhaps it is because I love the man who bestowed it upon me, but the memories it holds pain me.
Perhaps it's merely the fact that I've seen it so many times, and I no longer need to see it anymore. Perhaps... There is no reason in particular. Truly, I do not know. But it is no matter. I shut my eyes and begin to dream.
