Tattersail

papers and notes strewn all about the floor. pieces of a man, collecting his thoughts and scattered from one end of the room to the spot where her feet are planted. soon, she will break, crumbling under the monolithic realization that she is alone. a moment later, she will gather her heart and lungs and try to stand. she will sift through the debris for clues. scribbled notes and diagrams in alphabets she could never decipher. they are hers only in pain.
the Wind sits perched on the windowsill, surveying the scene through the shattered glass. our Heroine scrambles to collect as many pieces of the puzzle as she possibly can, but the Wind is impatient. it enters the room, a conquistador setting eyes on the New World. in an instant the room is a flurry of papers as she grasps desperately for every fitful moth of type and font.
she chokes out a scream through her tears, and the Wind listens. it has never known stillness, for every period of calm is only a moment to catch its breath. no, this time it is paralyzed, forced to wait until every last page is gathered. she will release the Wind when she realizes what has happened, but she won't understand for some time.
the Wind leaves in peace, its ego bruised a little. our Heroine stuffs her arms with the pages of her father's work and closes the door behind her.