To my child,

the logs are finally dry enough to make a fire so I finally get to enjoy sleeping on my cuddly warm brick bed again. The old maid has caught a cold, too, so the nice guard brought my supplies.

He asked why I'm writing these letters.

To be honest - I don't know.

I have never seen your face and I might never get to know you, but you are my child. I feel like not doing anything at all to allow us to know each other would be too sad. Even though I know you probably won't get any of these letters, maybe, just maybe, when you think your mother didn't want you, someone might tell you that they existed at some point.

Maybe it'll be just the servants who burn them every time I write, or maybe the nice guard will talk about it with other guards. Maybe someone will remember.

Sometimes I hope she stores them. After all, she did want me to write that one letter.

I don't really understand myself. I only know that I could never live with myself if I just did nothing.

I can't give a better explanation.

When the nice guard asked I could only shrug. The question has been haunting me all day, so much so I couldn't even think about the clouds in the sky like I'm supposed to. Maybe writing down my feelings will help. Writing helps me put things I feel into words and make them more comprehensible at least.

If you ever read this I hope you won't blame me for being too focused on myself and not caring enough towards you.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

In love,

your mother