Eir returned to her small rented room, closing the door behind her. The cold evening air dissolved into the faint scent of something warm mixed with old cigarette smoke.
She pressed a hand against the bathroom door, pushed it open slowly, and faced the quiet space. Piece by piece she undressed, every garment sliding to the floor like a discarded memory.
She turned the tap to cold first, then let the warm water bleed into it until the temperature was just right. A soft sigh left her lips as the first drops touched her hands, then her arms, before she stepped fully under the stream. Every droplet felt as though it was trying to rinse away something far heavier than dirt — the dried blood of her past, the things she had done and could never erase.
When she stepped out, water dripping down her skin onto the tiles, she reached for her oversized cotton sweater. Its muted brown-grey fabric swallowed her arms halfway, as if it could shield her from the room's chill, or from herself. Her soft cotton trousers hung loosely on her hips, offering a moment of comfort after a long day.
She sat on the edge of the bed; the mattress dipped slightly under her weight. She didn't dare look at her hands. Her fingers felt stained — not with soil but with what could never be washed away. Every small movement reminded her of what she had done and what she could no longer forget.
Reaching for a pen on the bedside table, between books left scattered for days, her long fingers felt stiff from years of holding knives instead of pens. The pen's smoothness felt foreign, almost unwelcome.
Before the first word was written, she imagined her mother's face, turned away from her. That thought made her hesitate before she wrote the opening line. This letter wouldn't change anything… it might never even be read.
> "Mother, today if something bad happens to you, even something small, it's because of my prayers. Every day I pray for you to become desperate, I pray for you to become just like me. I hate waiting at home all day for a phone call. When I spend the day alone, I feel my body rotting, melting until nothing remains but a green puddle soon absorbed by the floor. Only my clothes would remain. That is what waiting at home all day means to me.
But at the same time… I want to talk to you. I have millions of things to say.
I'm sorry if I've taken up more space than I deserve. The memories of the past are a weight I can't carry anymore. Everything I once cherished has changed, been destroyed, disappeared, or died with time.
So, the natural ending for me after all of this feels like my own death certificate."
She took a small envelope from the drawer, slipped the letter inside, and added some bills — crisp, clean, untouched. They were a symbol of her hard work, her quiet intent to still do something right.