It’s the middle of autumn today. The elder trees we planted outside are an exquisite color already, a ripe assortment of reds and yellows accompanied by the sweet air that makes me think of fresh pies and blueberry cordial. You’re wearing the dress I bought you in the market eight or so seasons ago, the one the color of everblues. We’re old, but when you wear that all I see is that cute girl I knew as a young boy, the girl filled with vibrancy who helped keep my head from dismantling itself. Even now you pressure me to do this task, this dreadful activity. Writing is far from relaxing. I need a break.

I hope that you read this though.

Maybe I’m just stalling, unwilling to write the next portion of the story. You know why, I’m sure—you’re in it, after all. Lucky for you, you don’t know what was going on in my head in those days. Would you still love me if you knew?

Maybe you shouldn’t read this.

Lately, I’ve been returning to this memory of us, and I wonder if you remember as well. It was when we first moved in to this castle. I was still healing up, walking around with a cane, appearing much older than I was, and you asked me to accompany you on a walk. I told you I wasn’t ready for something like that, that my leg wouldn’t be able to handle it. Yet you insisted, and you lead me out of our home and outside to show me a nest that was in a tree. In that nest were eggs, and with your impeccable timing we got to witness three little chicks burst forth. Do you remember what color they were? They were different shades of green. One was light green like grass in the summer sun. Another was the dark green shade of leaves at night. The last one you should definitely remember; it was mint green. You thought it was some kind of sign, and I called you superstitious. We laughed, returned inside, and spent the remainder of the day relaxing together, catching up on lost time.

I’ve been thinking about it because despite what I said, ever since we saw those chicks hatch my life has been nothing but better. You taught me how to conquer my sins, and replace them with good memories, and I’ll never be able to thank you enough.

Even so, I still have trouble. That memory is good, but I can’t help but wonder why those chicks left so soon. They weren’t ready; I wasn’t ready.

I’ll resume writing after the winter solstice. This first part was therapeutic, albeit difficult, but this next part is going to be the most difficult by far. I made my best and worst mistakes during that part of my life. You know which you are.

Thank you for pushing me to write this. I love you with all my heart.

Peppermint Avocado,

The Last Moss Knight