The months went by, and it was nearing my sixteenth birthday. I continued to perform, and the journaling center kept requesting my uncle, letters piling up on the table as if they alone were trying to build another mountain range. One afternoon, I came home from private lessons, my belongings hanging from my shoulder in my favorite maroon duffle bag. I used it for my performing equipment. It was a project my mom had been working on until my eleventh birthday, where she then gifted it to me. On the strap, my full name was embroidered in the finest gold thread. It was perfect. I set my bag down on the floor, and my wings tucked in. I sensed something off. The main room was usually silent, save for the occasional snipping of fabric heard from Mother's studio. But this time the silence was heavy. Heavier than the bag I just set down. I would usually find Uncle in the wide field behind our mansion, lounging on the deck and drinking one of his weird, but delicious concoctions. He was nowhere to be found. I soon learned that he went to the interview. Their begging was finally submitted to after mine. I panicked. Why would he go? I told him to stay! What if something happens to him? It wouldn't be my fault, but I would feel responsible just as well. I sat down on a sofa and eyed the clock warily. My wings never untucked. I began to molt, watching the feathers flit down to my lap and the seating around me. Hours ticked by, and it struck midnight. He wasn't coming home, was he? I dragged myself to the gates, fighting sleep. I opened them and walked out, shutting them behind me. I sat on the sand, fixing myself so I was comfortable. Sleep took over. A whole day passed, and still no sign of him. Months passed, still nowhere to be found. I knew where he was. He had crossed over, forcefully shoved by the hands of the merciless. They killed him. Even though I knew he was dead, I would wait outside for him every day until the hope in me shriveled up and vanished. I would think back to when I was five. His large hand behind the back of my tiny frame to steady me when I felt like I would fall, even catching me if the situation called for it. That gentle reassurance? Gone. That hand behind my back? Also gone. To the point where I fall on my own with nobody to catch me. I fall down a deep hole, reflecting my own abysmal grief. And that's when it hit me hard, the damage worse than any fall could ever do. Nobody will ever hold me like that again.
