October 10, 1997
Dear Aisling,
Told you I would write. We got to Ireland yesterday. We had to stay in this inn or something. I wanted to write to you as soon as I could so I don't forget, but there wasn't any privacy there.
Where do I start?
We moved into the new house today. I say "new," but it's actually really old. It's covered in ivy and a little moss like the plants are trying to take it back or something.
The walls creak a lot like they're always complaining about having to stay standing.
There's a chill in the air, and it is not from the weather. There's this big fireplace in the living room that Mom's already made a fire in, trying to make it feel cozy and warm, but it just makes the shadows flicker on the walls. It's hard to describe, but it doesn't feel right here. It's like the house doesn't really want us here like we're intruding.
The village is tiny, smaller than I thought it would be. When we drove through it, I noticed that everyone seemed to know each other. They all stared at us like we were aliens or something. No one smiled or waved. It was like we didn't belong, and I felt like we were being judged or something. You'd probably find it funny how quiet it is here, but it's not the kind of quiet that's peaceful. It's more like the quiet you get when something's hiding.
The house is surrounded by woods, and they're really dark and thick. Which you would think I would like, but it feels weird. It looks good for hiding though, you would have loved it.
Dad is fascinated with the music box you made me. He said it shouldn't even work.
Gabriel misses you. I do too. But only a little.
I still can't believe this is where we live now.
Write me back.
Ethan