It was Lenore's tentative hope that her family would send a single letter. The four that appear on the table in her chambers are unexpected—a better outcome than she didn't dare to consider as being possible. She hesitates, uncertain as to which one she should open first. Once she opens the letters and reads their contents, there's no going back. She can't erase the words from her memory. After so many years, she's not sure she can handle another rejection.
Gnawing her lower lip between her teeth, she picks up the letter from her father first. Her memories of him are vague now, but she recalls feeling safe with him and peeking into his study at night to find him hard at work as the fire in the hearth died down. The idea that his face is nothing but a blur in her memory brings the familiar sting of tears to her eyes.
It's when she starts reading his letter that the tears fall down her cheeks.
Dearest Lenore,
News of your marriage to the Duke of Barrowmere came as a shock. However, it's the thought of you believing that you did something wrong that left us unwilling to see you that truly broke my heart. While I don't know where to begin, I do need to let you know that we never stopped loving you. We tried to contact you, but my brother blocked us from reaching you. It was the same when we tried to visit his estate to check on you.
I should have fought harder, and I'm sorry that I didn't. No words can undo the years you spent in a place you should never have been forced to call home.
I was relieved—and ashamed—to learn that you have written to us. Relieved to hear your voice again, even through ink and parchment; ashamed that it was you who reached out first when it should have been me. I want you to know that you have always been loved, even if my actions did not show it when it mattered most.
If you find it within your heart to permit it, we would like to see you again. There is no expectation, no demand. Only the hope of a father who wishes to mend what was broken. If you're unhappy in Barrowmere, we will always have a room ready for you here—in this home that has been waiting for your return.
If nothing else, please let us communicate through letters. I've missed out on too much of your life already. Tell me the small details. What you like. What you don't like. What Barrowmere is like.
Know that you're never far from my thoughts, and I will await your next letter with an excitement that I haven't felt in years.
With all my heart,
Edric Rowanhart
Lenore's tears fall onto the paper, smudging the ink. She tried not to get her hopes up that her family wants to reconnect with her, but her father's letter has already stirred old emotions she's been too scared to deal with. Her father has given her a touch of bravery, so she opens her mother's letter next, finding that it's already been stained with tears that are now dried. As much a part of the letter as the words.
My Sweet Lenore,
I don't know how many times I've started this letter, only to stop. There is so much I want to say to you, but words feel far too small for the ache that's lived in my heart since the day you left. Seeing your handwriting again—how elegant it's become—reawakened the old pain of your absence in ways that I wasn't prepared for, but I would tear out my own heart as many times as I have to if it means I can speak with you.
We tried, darling. We tried to see you, to write to you. But your uncle—not that he deserves to be called family—blocked every attempt. It wasn't for lack of love—it was never that. I want you to know that you were never forgotten. Not once.
If I could, I would wrap you in my arms this very moment and never let you go. But I understand that you may need time, space, and healing. So instead, I'll simply ask: write to me when you can. Tell me about your days. What makes you smile. Whether the evenings are cold in Barrowmere, and if someone brings you tea when they are. Is the Duke kind to you? I wish you could have married for love, but if he can keep you safe, warm, and happy, then that would be enough to soothe this mother's worried heart.
When you're ready to see us again, I will greet you with open arms.
All my love, forever and always,
Your mother,
Isolde
At this point, Lenore's heart is so shaken that she's uncertain if she can handle reading her siblings' letters, too. She decides to save them until tomorrow—when her heart has had a chance to recover. Instead, she reads the letters from her parents again and again, their kindness and acceptance of her soothing wounds that have been left to fester due to her uncle's malicious actions.
So much time that she could've spent with her family has been lost—taken from her. It feels insurmountable, a gap between them that's grown over the years. She doesn't know how to bridge it, but both of her parents have expressed a willingness to try. They simply asked for connection, like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Perhaps, for a normal family, it is. Maybe the problem is that she's spent so long living in the shadows of her uncle's manor, she's forgotten how to be a daughter.
Mary finds her at her table with the letters clutched in her hands, but she doesn't ask questions. She just smiles and helps Lenore change into her nightgown before bringing a basin of warm water and a cloth to her bedside. After dipping it in the water and wringing it out, Mary gestures to Lenore to lie down, then places the warm cloth over her eyes.
"Your eyes must be sore, my lady."
"Yes, you're right," Lenore says. "But my heart has never felt lighter, so every tear is worth it."