NaPoWriMo: Day twenty

It was in the red cabin, the one by the lake, that he finally started talking. For  nine days he had done nothing but write and rewrite, piling paper high around him, remaking a forest filled with descriptions of sunlight, rivers and the feathers of owls. After so long in silence, so long without the company of his own voice what came out of his mouth was the loudest whisper he had ever heard. He was standing on the beach looking over the silver water, knelt down and ran his fingers over the stones

“Loneliness is a strange thing. It cannot be cured by merely surrounding oneself with people. In fact that is when I’ve felt the most alone. The only cure is to find someone, anyone who will break off pieces of themselves, as you do the same, until you are both a collection of shared memory, living statues built to honour each other.”

He walked back to the house, hands still wet with moonlight and cold water, unlocked the back room and finally opened the chest, the one the ghosts had given him in exchange for the stack of poems he left by the fire. He crawled inside, gathered the pieces of himself that still knew how to sleep peaceful and dreamt of a single word…

Home.

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