Hope

She lay in bed like a rag doll, her head lolled to one side and her limbs rid of all energy. Her stomach rumbled loudly but she couldn’t even lift an arm, let alone get food. Her eyes found her clock; she’d been lying here for hours - nine, to be precise - not speaking, not moving. If it wasn’t for the steady rise and fall of her chest, an intruder may have mistaken her for dead.

A sigh sailed through her, cleaning out her lungs from the gathering dust she felt was congealing in them. It was funny how lying here for hours could make you appreciate even the smallest thing. Like a sigh.

Her mind wandered as the sun slowly shied away into the night, casting long shadows on her bedroom walls. They danced like demons in a fire, stroking her skin and laughing at her stillness. Yet she did not move.

She had woken up that morning screaming and writhing,her bedsheets twisting around her body. The nightmares were infecting her mind again, as they had done every night for the past year. Ever since her child had been brutally torn away from her.

The shadows seemed to churn and coil, telling the story of that day, the day when she would no longer feel happiness, but remain in this cocoon of stale emotion, in this pool of mouldy tears. They toyed with her mind, tugging at every last bit of feeling she had left, turning it into the sharpest knives that plunged over and over into her heart.

Well, what was left of it.

She had never seen the man who took her child since he had, never even caught a sight of his shadow. She swore to herself on that day that she would stop at nothing to get her child back, but the day after proved to her that anger had been lying to her. The sadness seeped in and she crawled into her bed, thinking it was only for a night. But a night became two, which then became three, and eventually she was spending every day of her existence lying and breathing in the same solitary space. No way could her child be alive. The man who took him was known for his murders. No hope. There’s was no hope left.

A gust of wind suddenly whistled through the open window, sending the dust billowing off her old and tattered curtains. With the swirling of the dust fell a leaf. She watched it as it landed and settled next to her hand.

And she moved for the first time that day.

Her hand slid over to the leaf with agonising pain, her joints creaking like rusted iron. She touched the leaf lightly and a piece crumbled off. Making sure she was gentle, she scooped up the leaf into her palm and lifted it up into what little light was left suspended in her room.

It was old. Too old to even exist. She was surprised it hadn’t reduced to dust when it landed on her bed. She held it closer to her face, squinting; she was sure she saw something else.

Writing. There was writing on the leaf. She read it slowly, her eyes unaccustomed to the shapes after neglecting them for so long.

The only way to live forever is through someone else’s memory. The only way to live in peace is to love. And when someone loves you, you can never die.

That’s odd. The writing was vaguely familiar.

She sat up. If it wasn’t for her aching bones and screaming muscles, the movement would have been sudden. Of course she recognised the writing.

Her child. He lived. Which meant hope.