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April 07, 2020 - 315 words
Meia, Blom wrote. He wrote that single name and his pen hovered over the rest of the page, ink welling in his quill-type pen-writing tool. He stared at the name he had conjured on the parchment and sat in the old memories that surfaced. He could call them on a whim, at will.
A cauldron of dockets passed, during which he wrote nothing. He instead played his memories in real-time, wondering if any of them were at all accurate. He’d heard somewhere, at the Ragged Maiden most like, when the evenings were full o’ fellas with a fact, that you lost your memories the more you got lost in ‘em. If that were so then Blom had lost a lot of memories.
He had begun this letter without words. Meia was as like as not in a diff’rn’ part o’ the world these days if she were alive at all. She said she would write him but he had received nary a single bit o’ proof o’ that.
True it was indeed that thoughts of Meia had less of a stranglehold on him these days than they used to. As though the years’ passing had made them less real, or mayhap he just had less energy to devote.
He didn’t really know where this was going. He looked at her name on the parchment. It was a name that once ignited a torch in his mind and burned until his vision was loaded with junk. Not healthy but still fun in its own way. He had lost many senseless evenings with a tankard in one hand and a pen in the other, writin’ horrible words down that no real person had any right to be writin’. Lots of those journals had been burned in a dramatic ceremony that meant a lot at the time, and felt less important in hindsight. Heartbreak was funny like that.