I’m not sure where this story starts, or if it really even has a beginning, so I suppose I’ll just start somewhere in the middle and hope it all comes together by the end. Though, there isn’t really an ending, either, if there isn’t a beginning.

You see, this isn’t really a story, so much as my life, and life isn’t really set up to have convenient expositions and resolutions. Life is just a series of conflicts that sometimes never see any kind of conclusion.

I can already promise you that no part of this makes for a decent ending. It will be unsatisfying, and you will be left either realizing that you wasted your time, or wanting more.

So, delaying no longer, I suppose I’ll begin.

I’ll begin in the middle.

At the edge of my 25th winter, with the cold winds and snow flurries just creeping down from the north, I decided to visit a place from my youth, hoping to bathe in the fond memories that had been born there.

It was my first home, which I shared with the only family I ever really had.

I arrived at dusk, with the sun just settling behind the mountains. The air had a bitter, cool sting to it, and I was in a hurry to get inside.

Sitting at the top of that hill was a large, stone building, though to call it that was to recall my own memories of it. Upon my return, it did not resemble such a thing, with only two walls still standing. The rest was a mound of collapsed stone bricks, covered in brown ivy and dead grass.

It had crumbled into less than a shadow of the home it once was.

Nonetheless, I ventured inside, crawling through an opening in the broken wall.

Inside, there was a young girl.

“What are you doing out here?” I spat. This place was supposed to be mine. I didn’t want to share it with anyone, let alone a stranger.

The girl was asleep, curled up and shivering. All she had on was a grimy dress and a pair of ruined slippers.

She must have been freezing.

Freezing, and probably starving. The girl was so thin that her dress hardly fit her.

I took a chunk of stale bread from my pack and tore a piece off.

“Wake up, girl.” I said, giving her a shake.

“Wake up, now. I’ve got some food for you.”

“Hm?” The girl moaned as she came to.

When she saw the piece of bread in my outstretched hand, her eyes opened wide, and she snatched it away from me.

Her eyes.

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Her bright, red eyes.

They were just like mine.

I had never met anyone with eyes like mine, before.

Though, hers were even brighter than mine.

Where mine were crimson, as dark as blood, hers were shining stones, like rubies.

“W-who are you?” I asked nervously.

She looked up at me, still chewing, and a smile slowly spread across her face. She scrambled in the pocket of her dress for something, and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She carefully unfolded it, looking between the paper and me, and jumped to her feet.

“Papa!”

She handed me the paper.

It was a hand-drawn picture of a young man that looked just like me, red eyes and all, though this was back when I had longer hair, and kept it swept back. I had kept my hair shorter for quite some time now, so this picture must have been at least eight years old.

The girl also looked to be around eight.

Suddenly, I realized what she meant.

“Uh, no, I’m not, uh…” I couldn’t bring myself to say.

I’m not your father.

I couldn’t say it because I wasn’t actually sure if that was true.

She did look like me.

“Who drew this?” I asked, trying to wrap my head around what was going on.

“Mama!” She answered.

Mama? Then, who was that?

There was no way I could be this girl’s father. That much was obvious, once I started thinking about it logically.

After all, I had only ever known one woman in such a way, and that was--

That was almost nine years ago.

Wait, that can’t be right either. That woman died a few months after we had spent the night together.

She died.

She died, right?

“What was her name?” Of course, that would be the fastest way to get my answer. It just wasn’t possible for the name of the mother to be--

“Mercedes!” She said with a pout. “How could you forget mama’s name?”

That… wasn’t possible.

“How old are you?”

“Seven and a half!” She said, holding up the accompanying fingers, the eighth one bent to show the ‘half’.

I sat in dumbfounded silence for awhile, and the girl grew impatient.

“Come on, Papa! Mama’s waiting!” She said excitedly.

I had a daughter?

“If we don’t hurry, you won’t even get to see her!”

I’ve had a daughter for almost eight years?

“Papa, what’s wrong? Are you sick, too?”

And what’s more, Mercedes was actually alive?

“Sick...too?” I asked, finally registering what she said. “Are you sick?”

The girl’s excited expression had faded, replaced by an a tight frown. She looked like she was about to cry, but was trying her hardest not to. When she finally had a grasp on her emotions, she spoke.

“It’s mama.” She said. “Mama’s sick.”

Oh.

“She made a wish to see you one last time before she died, Papa.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“Please Papa, I want to make Mama’s wish come true!”

I simply nodded, and followed the girl as she pulled by coat sleeve along with her. We left in the middle of the night, in the terrible cold, to find the woman I had thought was dead for eight years.

“What’s your name?” I asked her at some point during the night.

“Alys. What’s yours?” She said, her cheerful attitude returning.

Mercedes told her what I looked like, and where I was, but not my name? Actually, I had almost forgotten it myself. Nobody had called me by my name in years, and I had no reason to give it away either.

“...Mekaile.” I said, the memory finally coming back to me. “My name is Mekaile.”