Kaiar,

I have murdered the grasping child. I throttled them atop my brow and tore them free by my own hands. I strangled them willingly, passionately, heedlessly. I doubt you could have stopped me. They did not resist. I watched them burn away. They now sink into the grains that support me, intermingle with that which raised me. A ghost of my maternal failure. Thanks go out to my esteemed company and abettors, my dearest echo and my sturdiest table. For those who attended the wake. My thanks. My thanks. Mine and only mine, unadulterated and undiluted.

It is an uncomfortable reality to outlive one's child. But regretfully, here I am and so are you. Home lingers on in spite of the past century, a steepled leather memorial to the potency of a good home, a loving family, nurture and care and all the best parts of Mortality yet to be extricated from the dismal rest. I will rest easy here atop their grave. I will remember how it felt to sever my child's vibrant life. I will heal wounds by pruning away Perfection's gifts. I will dream of my unexpected joy in muting the tones of their possibility. And I will dream too of muting yours.

I am,

Harenae Uraian'gattar
Harenae Al'Jafri
Harenae Wintermourne

[An aggressively large silvered enneagram overlays the triad of names, filled with a lush squiggle of a line and a lopsided dollop of silver heaped once above and once below the line.]
Penned by my hand on the 12th of Ero, in the year 909 AF.