The Lost Heirs

 My head rested against the sill of the rental car’s window. Rainy tears streak down the glass. They run, battling its trajectory, then free fall until the brink. They gather themselves into bulbous droplets, huddled together as if they’re cold.Bored, I shift and flop over unto my other side to watch my dad. His one hand on the wheel and the other idle on his lap. His loam-grey eyes are trained ahead of him, his scythe eyebrows furrowed in intensity. So pensive.

Fidgeting restlessly, I stalk to the standing mirror in the corner of the humongous bedroom, the same size, if not bigger, than my old house’s living room. I stare back at my reflection; I twist my torso to see as much of the back as I can before I straighten again. The tail of my braid lank to my hip.The black dress is simple, sleeves with thick straps, fitted at the waist and from the hip, it reaches over the knees, whispering to my ankles. The silky fabric on the outside is appealing with its glossy skirt. The material on the inside, however, is irritating and feels like millions of tiny

“I think its late enough,” Atticus grumbles, sleep anchoring his words with the heft of exhaustion. “Any longer and I’m gonna pass out.” His eyes droop, fluttering them wide open. He sits slouched against the lime-green Victorian chair. A frail grip on his phone, the dim light of his screen reflects on his night-worn expression.The entire room bathes a ebbing metallic glow. Streams of moonlight, sieved with silver fringes, spills through the expansive window beside him, creating meres of enchanted light. Whereas he resides in the shadows, besides his face, blackness

I step cautiously onto the earthen floor, layered with straws of hay. My gaze wanders around the interior of the enclosed stable, listening to the gentle sounds of horses whinnying. My nose slightly wrinkles at the pungent odour, but its familiarness is comforting.Years ago, in a chasm of time, a gap where our stormy lives were stilled into a short-lived silence. Atticus used to take riding lessons at Mell’s ranch. He was good too, won an accolade of medals to prove it, until his hobby became an unmanageable expense. And it became a thing of the past, along with a lot of things.

After breakfast and after an indignant amount of begging. I manage to convince Atticus to take the horses out for a ride, whereas Joshua needed no persuading.Via the foyer, we use the main backdoor and step outside to be greeted by the smell of brine. We casually walk down on the flagstone pathway that meanders around a geometric garden that gleams a perfect green. The pathway, a surfaced way among the sea of ivory gravel. It continues with a tributary of paved options and I navigate them down the one that leads to the stables, connected to a manicured open field that elongates out as far as the