Witnessing the first meeting of two old friends is supposedly heartwarming, but it made Kanrel only think of the people he had seemingly forgotten about or just tried to move past. The people he had met at the academy weren’t just people who were useful to him; they were his friends, and he missed them. The same way that he missed his mother and the childhood that was long past now.

Maybe one day Dar will find the courage to share his feelings with Amer, even with the risk of those feelings being left unanswered. But it was clear which Dar would regret more; the way he spoke of her said enough about his own feelings toward her.

Such things… were alien to Kanrel before, but as he slowly healed and began accepting the things that had happened, even with all the regret and doubt he had, such things and such feelings became more understandable.

He might not love his friends and family the same way Dar loved Amer, but it was similar enough for him to see, for him to understand, how difficult it could be to be separated from her and hold things in; words, which you so adamantly want to say out loud but feel like you can’t.

What does it take for a man to learn to truly open up and share what goes within? Could a man share his emotions without having to explain or justify them? Surely all, if not most, felt the same; they were unsure about what to say and when to say it, especially when it came to emotions.

What are you allowed to say?

Such thoughts plagued his mind as autumn crawled by, the darkest and most depressing months of the year; there was just rain and darkness. It was said that such months were the most deadly, not because nature interfered with the lives of humans but rather because the weather and darkness affected the minds of men.

During these months, Kanrel first did nothing; he instead let those days crawl by, in his mind just the thoughts of what has been, what once was, instead of what there will be and what is there to come.

One night, he got up from his bed, even though it might’ve been a better idea to drift into sleep, but he had an urge to write a letter.

To write about all the things that have happened to him and to the people in this village. To tell of the thoughts that he had and to share these emotions, which seemed to not subdue.

He not only wrote one but several, each of them dedicated to the people he thought of as friends or just important to himself. A letter to her mother, a letter to Uanna, a letter to Yviev, a letter to Wen, a letter to Oidus, and lastly, a letter to Yirn.

The last letter held the most truth in it. A naked exploration, shedding light into thoughts he would much rather not think of:

It has been almost a year since you died. A year of bitter memories and feelings. A year during which I’ve felt lost; I’ve felt uncomfortable with how I am, with what I feel, and with how I exist.

A year of shifting blame first onto you, but soon after finding that all this blame belongs to me. All this regret comes from within. All these emotions and lost months. For everything that has ever happened, I find that I can only blame myself.

Not only am I a fool, but I've also found that I am nothing more than a child lost in a world for which he was not prepared.

I wish I could start from the beginning. I wish I could better cherish the life I had before all of this. I wish I could accept the regret brought by the choices I’ve made. I wish I could escape, leave all of this behind, forget everything that has ever happened, and begin anew.

But I cannot. Those memories, I’ve found, are so precious. New ones can’t and will not fix or replace them; they will never be better than the ones I already had.

I cannot forgive you. And I cannot forgive myself. With this, I shall live until the end of my days, perhaps trying to forgive not only you but myself. In the end, I shall regret all that I have ever done, what I ever will do, what I will become, what I have become, what I once was, and everything that there is that I am.

But I will not regret the feelings I had. The friendship we shared. I hope to one day forgive you, for it is so painful to live with my heart tense with bitterness.

Kanrel stared at the letter—all the letters that were written; the others were already in envelopes with names attached to them, with a wax seal, and ready to be sent out. But the last one would be left without a name, without a seal, without a destination.

He gritted his teeth, folded it, and placed it somewhere he could not look at it, where he could forget it. In between an old book on the shelf, one that might be opened one day, perhaps decades from now, by another soul, most likely a priest like him. But Kanrel would not unfold it; he would not read it. He would forget its existence. But he would try to forgive, even when he believed that he could not.

Memories are, in fact, powerful; they are proof of a life lived. To be without them would make the journey a pointless, empty passage with no meaning. All this—the pain, the good, the bad, the ugly—every memory brings a man into existence. The outcome might be painful, devoid of reason, and a depressed individual with no future in sight. Yet, would it not all still be worth it?

Life, after all, is just that. Events, painful and wonderful, formed a story of sorts. This story might end in tragedy—death—but there will be things left behind—more memories. A remembrance of a simple fact of existence, a small fire in ever-beckoning darkness...

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

This winter was much more pleasant than the previous one. There was no life-threatening journey through a harsh winter landscape; there was no constant hunger or cold. Here, in this village, which he could now call home, he found peace and safety.

He found people he could depend on; he found friends that he could extend his love to. Here he found time to reflect on himself, his actions, and what had happened. Who he had become, and perhaps who he might one day be.

Tomorrow isn’t just a dark corridor with no light at the end of it; hope might not exist, but at least there was a glimmer of it, a purpose for his actions and responsibilities that he needed to fulfill.

Conversations with people who came to visit him at the temple and those with whom he had at the tavern gave him much insight into how complicated people truly were. How difficult life was for most. What it meant to love and then to lose that love.

It was clear that he had had it much easier than most people who lived here, perhaps much easier than most who live in this world. It would be foolish to argue otherwise. Not many had the privilege of an education, and even fewer people had the privilege of a rich and powerful parent.

Surely he had his own difficulties, and surely they were valid as well, but it was difficult not to purposefully compare his own experiences and his own life to those of others.

It made him realize that he ought to be more thankful for the things he had as a child and the privileges he still held. But it did not make him feel any better; it did not make the things that had happened hurt any less. But supposedly, life goes on and things might get better.

It was a winter evening at the temple, one of the days when someone had come to him and just wanted to talk, pray, and share the ailments that they might have. Usually, Kanrel would speak to a visitor in his own living quarters, but this person insisted that they speak in the temple itself.

So they sat down on a long bench across from the altar and the painting of the Angel, which looked down on them. Perhaps observing and listening to the conversation that would unfold.

A man who every day sat at the bar counter, drinking ale; a man in his forties who always looked so jovial, until he didn’t; until his expression became solemn and ale lost its taste.

His name was Joor, and he looked up at the Angel, with curious wonder in his eyes as he spoke, “I’ve not visited here for over ten years now; ever since Boran disappeared." His voice was much softer than Kanrel had anticipated, and his eyes were bright blue just looking at an Angel.

“I remember he once told me that he found it difficult to be here; in this temple, across that Angel.”

“He told me that he felt their judgment and their disregard for his existence."

“Do you feel the same way as he once did?”

Kanrel nodded his head; there was no reason to lie, nor was there a reason to speak out loud these words, for the man continued without even looking at Kanrel.

“I’ve always found it so beautifully dreadful, that painting... It has something to it; something wrong; I feel like I should not look, yet I cannot look away.” The man placed his hand on his chest, above his heart. “It is like that Angel will one day set us all free; they will save us, not the others, just that one specific Angel.”

Kanrel couldn’t help but look at the painting, feeling dread and disgust as his eyes met the painting's eyes and as he witnessed, again, this strange Angel and the imposing way it held its sword, as if ready to strike, to smite evil away from this world.

“I’ve seen many paintings, murals, engravings, and statues; this one surely is the one that has left the most lasting impression on me,” Kanrel said and lowered his gaze; he just couldn’t look at it again.

“I’ve only ever seen this one since I was a child... I’ve always lived here; the woman I... married is—was—from here." The man went silent and kept his gaze pointed at the Angel, his expression filled with wonder withering away, and soon a melancholic question was brought to his face.

“Tell me… Can I meet her again? Can I one day see her just for a moment? Can I love her when I am no longer here? Is there nothing after death?” Joor broke his gaze from the painting and stared at the priest at his side; his blue eyes dug into Kanrel’s. There was pain, there was grief, and a wish was engraved on his face.

Kanrel stared at the man, not breaking his gaze or blinking. What was that wish? To meet once more? “I have no answer, for I don’t know; if there is something, no one has told me; if there is nothing, that too remains unknown.”

Joor visibly gritted his teeth and soon swallowed; his brows quivered slightly, and then he shifted his gaze and looked past Kanrel. “So love just dies?”

He slowly grabbed Joor’s hand and placed it on his chest. “It does not; even when you no longer can see her, she still remains; she is here. You love her, and that is what hurts the most.”

“And if there is a place or anything after death, you will surely meet her, and you may surely confess your love to her once more.”

“And if there is nothing, then at least you loved each other; at least you have the many, many memories; the moments you shared with her.”

Joor, with all his courage, met Kanrel’s gaze again; his eyes were watery. “But I am all alone now; I cannot touch her; I cannot hear her; she is now just ash; those memories are present, but all they do is make me long for her more.”

Kanrel brought a slight smile to his face. He shifted his gaze toward the painting of an Angel, “Then cry not because of the memory of her loss; cry because of the wonder you shared; look at those cherished memories and ask yourself this: Would she want you to regret the memories, the life you had together?”

“Would she not want you to rejoice and to realize what longing for her means?”

Joor kept continuously swallowing, and his voice trembled when he asked, “What does it mean?”

Kanrel got up and offered his hand to the man. He helped him up from the bench. “If you have to ask me that, then I advise you to first look into your heart and find the answer for yourself.”

“Come now; let me brew you some tea.”

Later, after they drank a cup of tea in Kanrel’s kitchen, and when Joor finally bid goodnight to the priest, Kanrel was left sitting at his kitchen table, wondering if all the things he had just said made any sense, if any of them could give any solace, or if he was lying through his own teeth.

What can one say to a man who has lost his wife? Really? What can you say to anyone who has lost someone?

The first year in the village crawled by; he was the same man that had entered it, yet he was ever so slightly wiser about how difficult life was and how much suffering existed.