What Must Not Be Told

Dear Kelly

Anne

Anticipation surged through me as Monday unfolded its routine embrace. Mondays, a unique respite in my otherwise silent existence in Silverhelm, marked the arrival of letters from my family in Azurelia. In the realm of parchment and ink, my parents, the esteemed King Alferd and Queen Tammara, would weave words that transcended the physical distance between us. Each missive, a lifeline that bridged the void of solitude, carried the warmth of familial love and concern.

Kelly, my younger sister, also contributed to this symphony of written exchanges, sharing tales and snippets of life across the miles. Their letters, tangible fragments of connection, had become the solace I craved in the cavernous silence that enveloped my daily life. The ink-stained pages held the power to mend the holes of loneliness that seemed to etch themselves deeper with every passing day.

Human interaction, reduced to the art of penmanship, became the beacon of my week. The echo of their voices, though confined to the written word, resonated in the hollow chambers of my solitude. Oh, how I yearned to hear their laughter, to feel the warmth of their presence, but the written word became a lifeline, a tenuous thread binding our hearts across the expanse.

The confines of my isolated existence pressed upon me, pushing me into the reluctant company of Silverhelm's aristocrats, with whom I shared neither kinship nor camaraderie. My inherent solitude, once a chosen preference, now coerced me into their midst. I, who had never been a social being, found myself entangled in the dance of societal expectations, forced to endure the company I neither sought nor desired.

Yet, even in these social circles, where masks concealed both faces and truths, my true identity posed a constant threat. The risk of exposure lingered, curtailing my interactions and rendering me a distant observer. Elliot, a vigilant guardian, cast a watchful eye over my every move, ensuring the facade of normalcy remained intact.

In the interlude between letters and societal obligations, I found solace in clandestine pursuits. Secret investigations into the murder of my beloved husband, Andrew, became the clandestine occupation that filled the voids of my days. With not much else to occupy my time, this quest for justice, though fraught with risks, became my silent companion, a purpose to cling to amidst the echoing silence of my secluded existence.

In the ritual of weekly letters, I am not alone. A handful arrive bearing Elliot's name, nestled among the envelopes that carry the familial warmth from Azurelia. I find myself wondering about the mysterious sender behind those letters, aside from the expected missives from my father. The etiquette instilled in me from a young age resists the urge to pry into another's personal affairs. Hence, I resist the temptation to inspect the letters addressed to Elliot, as they disappear into his possession with each passing week.

His movements are a silent ballet, a choreography of collecting those letters and retreating to the sanctuary of his room. I've observed him, almost clandestinely, posting a letter with the same diligence that marks my own routine. The curiosity, unbidden and persistent, gnaws at the edges of my consciousness. I'm not intimately acquainted with him, and the distance that separates us, while protective, breeds a quiet longing to unravel the enigma that is Elliot Pollard.

The idle moments, in the quiet interludes between letters and secret investigations, become fertile ground for speculation. Who could be the recipient of those carefully sealed missives? What secrets does he pen onto the parchment that demands such discretion? Questions, born out of idle musings, linger in the corners of my mind, creating an invisible thread of connection between our separate worlds.

Yet, I dare not breach the walls of propriety to satisfy my curiosity. The dance of idleness, it seems, begets not only a hunger for answers but also a realization that some mysteries are meant to remain veiled. The very idleness that allows such contemplation also cautions against trespassing into realms that shouldn't concern me. And so, the unspoken inquiry remains suspended, like a delicate cobweb glistening in the morning dew, fragile and untouched.