The castle greeted me with that special emptiness that lives only in places abandoned by those we love. Each step echoed through the stone corridors, as if a ghost was checking who dared disturb its slumber. I sought my mother—but was I seeking only her? Or that invisible thread connecting us to childhood, to faith in the simplicity of forgiveness?
The kitchen met me with the cold of an extinguished hearth and an orphaned still life of unwashed dishes. No sound, no shadow, no smell of favorite pie—only a light taste of something unspoken hung in the air, like the memory of a conversation that didn't happen.
The corridors stretched as silent arteries of a stone organism, where drafts whispered something in their language, understandable only to them. Even the garden, usually full of Mother's presence among roses and honeysuckle, seemed orphaned—as if she dissolved in the morning mist, leaving only echoes in petals and the breath of herbs.
Funny how quickly you get used to someone's presence, and then rush about lost as soon as the person steps away. Probably this is that very dependence philosophers write thick books about, calling it love, attachment, or simply human weakness.
The maid Elsa—a good-natured woman with eternally floury hands and eyes the color of autumn sky—became my guide in this puzzle.
— Hello, Loyn, — she smiled, shaking her apron. — Looking for Mom? She went to the market, for supplies for the royal family.
The words hung in the air, transparent as a spiderweb. It was unexpected. And suspicious.
— How so—she? — I asked again, feeling my eyebrows crawl up on their own. — Usually special people handle that. Why is Mom taking on others' duties?
Elsa shrugged with that special philosophy peculiar to people who've seen all sorts in life:
— She asked herself. Says her soul craves space, and a keen eye is needed for the royal table.
Her soul craves space... Or did my yesterday's tirade about the meaning of existence impress her so much that she decided to escape farther from the home philosopher-self-taught? In her words was too much unspoken, as if beneath simple phrases hid subtext I couldn't grasp.
— Will she return today? — I asked, already mentally calculating my chances for redemption.
— Today by night, as she said. Only who knows? Roads nowadays are capricious as the weather.