Bearclaw Valley b

The same kindness he once saw, that had first drawn him in, was flashed his way again for the first time in years. For a second his heart stopped, then stuttered back to a start as he made every attempt possible to rein himself in.

What had happened to the man that could so expertly compose himself, even in situations most dire? Why, he had become but a distant memory.

My grandmother.

Those two words struck him harder than anything else that followed, the impact knocking the wind right out of him. It was foolish to believe that she might still be alive, this he knew, yet his heart still found ways to alter his mind—still, after so many years now, he could not control that awful organ. He visibly sunk in upon himself, gaze downcast and eyes... his eyes lacked something nameless. Scarlett was not there, she did not live any longer. This he had been told some time ago and this he knew to be reality but, in spite of his best efforts, he could not deny the wish he held that it might be anything but. That she might live, that the past years had never been anything more than a nightmare dreamt on a stormy night.

Would life not be the most amazing thing if thought alone could alter all that which was known and true?

A true wonder, indeed.

“I did know her... a long time ago,” he said once he was able to find his voice. Visually, his entire being shifted as he found his compose and settled his outer appearance, the agony and distress displace by neutrality—how typical. “She was my wife in a faraway life,” he further explained, eyes drifting past the girl. It was there within the walls of the valley that they’d once lived, and it was there where he’d then allowed everything to fall apart. That which he’d done could not be undone, his mistakes having forced him into a chapter of life that was most unpleasant, dreadful, and downright soul-crushing.

But these things he did not—could not—share. Not with her nor anyone else, for the burden created was his own to bear.

“Who are your parents?” he asked thereafter, wondering which child might connect them. Was it Alexander, perhaps? The appearance, as similar as she was to Scarlett, could lead one to believe that—but she was too kind, too outgoing, to be molded from half of his son. So one of his daughters, perhaps, but which? Or, perhaps, she wasn’t related to him at all. There was always the chance that this child came from a child of another, that Scarlett had brought more life into the world with another man after they parted ways. Perhaps... ah, maybe it might be better if he didn’t know.