Unwritten

Sarah

Worn, weathered hands cup mine in the warmth of a room covered in faded wallpaper. Toys are scattered across a woven carpet of muted greens and yellows, and small voices lift in glee and mischief, blurred and faceless.

The hands around mine are so large compared to my small, child-sized hands. Warm and rough, tender and caring, they curl around my fingers in a mother’s touch.

“I know you're young,” the woman says, her face a fuzzy, fractured memory, “but you’ve lived through more than anyone should have to experience in one lifetime.”

I’m eleven. Rain slams against the windows beside us. The landscape is a tangle of fog and storm clouds with nothing but a turbulent sea beyond. I’m just a child. I should be able to enjoy my childhood and not have to deal with all of this.

“Look at me,” she whispers softly, gently, her voice so full of love but also pain. Her hands shake as she strokes my fingers. “You know what must be done. I will help you, but you can never go back. Everyone