Chapter 21
Requiem For My Dead Son
The air in Amy’s study hung thick with the scent of aged paper and dried ink, a familiar perfume of her solitary existence. Dust motes danced in the slivers of light that dared to pierce the heavy velvet draperies, their silent ballet a constant companion to the oppressive quiet. It had been weeks since she’d begun the monumental task of organizing her poems, each sheaf a testament to a life lived largely in shadow. The weight of memory pressed upon her, a physical burden as she sorted through the stacks, her fingers tracing the faded ink of verses born from the deepest wells of her soul.
She picked up a particularly worn bundle, its edges softened by countless readings. As her eyes scanned the lines, a familiar ache tightened in her chest. The words, penned in her own hand yet imbued with a spectral voice, spoke of a love lost, a beauty intertwined with decay, and a pervasive dread that clung like grave-damp.
“My heart, a sepulchre of dreams untold,
Where shadows dance and memories grow cold,
A love entombed, a whisper in the night,
Forever lost to everlasting blight.”
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