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The Weight of the Unwritten

Finn

Saturday, 29 March 1823

Portugal

In my room, pale beams of light slip through a narrow chink in the heavy-drawn curtains. The parchment between my fingers feels heavier than it should, as though it bears the weight of these past three years. Each word tethers me to the promise of a future I’ve scarcely allowed myself to imagine. The inked curves seem to echo the ache in my chest—a longing so sharp it threatens to unmoor me entirely.

I rise, pacing restlessly, the letter trembling slightly in my grip. I read the last part of the letter again; the words sticking in my mind like an unshakable echo.

You have reasons for the silence you’ve kept, that I may not understand, but do come home. It has been an eternity since we last saw you, and we feel your absence keenly.

Safe travels,

Callan

A warmth spreads through me as I read those final words. Yearning is no longer a distant dream, but a reality. With each word, the tension in my shoulders loosens, replaced by something far more profound—a stirring hope that perhaps this distance kept has not been in vain.

I sink onto the edge of my bed, the letter still in hand, and fall back against the covers. The scent of wax and faint lavender lingers in the air. Closing my eyes, I let the weight of the moment settle over me.

“Why are you holding that like it might vanish?” Bran’s voice cuts through the stillness, making me jolt slightly. My fingers instinctively tighten around the letter as I glance toward the door. He stands there, leaning casually against the frame, a smug grin plastered across his face, clearly pleased with himself for catching me off guard.

“I’ll bet it’s important,” he continues, crossing his arms. “Judging by the death grip, maybe even life-changing?”

I roll my eyes and turn my gaze back to the ceiling. “Stop actin’ as if you didnae fumble through my things to read it.”

The grin in his voice is unashamed. “If it makes you feel better, I didn’t read all of it—just most.”

“Bloody insufferable American,” I mutter, shaking my head. His nosiness and devil-may-care bravado burrow under my skin like a thorn. Yet for all his pestering, there’s a strange comfort in his presence. He’s maddening, yes, but grounding in a way I can’t quite explain.

Bran barks a laugh. “What can I say? It’s an American specialty—we take what we want and figure out the rest later.”

“Aye, you said it,” I reply dryly.

“Damn, Mac, you’re not supposed to agree.”

I cast him a sidelong glance. “I willnae lie to yer face, Mums. You deserve the truth.”

Bran strides into the room and flops onto the bed beside me. His hazel eyes glint with mischief as he props himself up on one elbow. “So, what’s got you in a twist? Excited to see someone in par-ti-cu-lar?” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“The day’s new, Bran. Let’s not feck it up with yer shite.”

“Oh, come now.” He flashes an exaggerated grin. “Let’s not pretend your dashing good looks and charm didn’t catch the eye of many back home. Give me a hint of something to work with. It’s been near impossible to get through that stone wall of yours. You’re practically crawling out of your own skin to haul it out of here. This is the most alive I’ve seen you since you ate leite creme for the first time.”

Despite myself, I chuckle. “It’s a damned delightful treat, you know that.” I smirk, leaning back. “In truth, I’m just relieved to be rid of you.”

I stand, hoping to end the conversation and busy myself with the few remaining tasks before we leave.

“Sure you are,” he drawls, his tone teasing but softer now.

My movements are deliberate, but Bran, ever persistent, steps closer, matching my stance as if to challenge my attempt to disengage.

“I’m willing to bet there’s someone back home you’ve been dreaming about.”

I stiffen, keeping my voice even. “There’s not a single soul I see that way.”