She sat now in the childhood bedroom alone. It had cooled long before the sun hid itself from view behind the horizon. The scent of old wood and lavender still hung about. Her thoughts jumbled over Dylan's visit, the words hanging as some kind of ghostly echo inside her chest. Trust was as fragile as glass, and she wondered how many lies lay under the surface of her welcome home.
She tried to dismiss his words from her head, but the weight of her father's absence grew heavier with each moment. Questions swirled in her head: Why did he leave? What does he know?
That's when she noticed something.
There was a small, out-of-place envelope lying on her old desk, mostly buried under the pile of yellowing papers. She probably put it there ages ago, probably amidst all that frantic unpacking, or perhaps she had just missed it.
Scarlett frowned, moving forward in dainty hands to the desk. She picked up the envelope, noting the way the edges were worn in some places and the way the paper had a certain feel to it like it was almost ancient. The lettering on the front is precise, elegant, and familiar.
Her breath catches.
To Scarlett, in ink that shines faintly in the soft light.
She held it and could feel her hands shake. This was no ordinary letter. The name of her father must be hidden somewhere in those words. She felt it in her bones.
She hesitated, her fingers hovering over the flap. What if this was a trap? What if this letter, this cryptic message, was another lie?
The paper was thin and rough, written with deliberate care. The words seemed to dance on the page as she read:
Scarlett,
I never intended to leave you with questions, but the weight of this town is heavier than you know. Hawthorne has secrets that are buried beneath its mist, secrets that cling to the very earth and roots of its trees.
They took my voice and my choices, but they'll never take my love for you. The answers live in shadows, but they can be found.
I fear what comes out if you dig deep. But you are strong, daughter mine. Trust in that within your heart. Our story and my absence go along with the first fires of ancient memories and the hope that forgiveness will be received.
You have to determine what you want to delve into; know this: I shall be watching over you, far.
Scarlett's hands trembled as she held the letter. The words were obscure, mysterious, and yet somehow seemed truthful. Her father's voice, his presence, and his intentions leaped from the page, vibrant, alive, and full of feeling.
"What does this mean?" she whispered to herself, staring down at the paper once more.
Mysteries lurk under Hawthorne's mist.
The words were riddles and clues in texture. She felt her father had left her trails of breadcrumbs, but all of them were packed with metaphors and darkness. Every word had his weight on absence, on love, on pain in all his choices.
She ran out of breath, and so did her mind.
She closed her eyes. Try to make sense out of the cryptic phrases. "The old paths"? "Which fires"? And now, forgiveness has something to do with his disappearing?
Scarlett reached back for the desk and dug into the papers she had set aside earlier looking for anything that could aid her in deciphering the message. Maybe the answer was not just buried in that note but hidden elsewhere, within the history of her family, within the very history of Hawthorne.
She looked for anything that could link the past to now: photos, old family journals, newspaper clippings. Her fingers stumbled upon a small leather-bound book—a family heirloom she remembered from childhood. She carefully flipped its pages, her heart pounding, when she noticed a familiar symbol in the center of one of the old entries.
It was a symbol—a chain of flames interlinked with an ancient emblem. A reminder of old fires.
Scarlett's breath caught.
It could not be a coincidence. The symbol in her father's letter, the symbol in the book, and the metaphor of "old fires" must connect. It felt like a thread, a key she could pull on to begin unraveling the mysteries of Hawthorne.
She gripped the letter in one hand and the old book clutched in the other, held tight as a vice. By design, he had made her an aware woman, though this letter, this book, were the message, or so she sensed. He had set her off into mystery; but how was she to go?
Scarlett knew where to seek the answer.
And now she had to choose between following the map he left for her or being paralyzed by fear of betrayal and shadow.
With shaking hands, she began again, but this was only the beginning.
But the question was if she would have the strength to continue it.