May 12th, 1821

They are gone. Daisy and Alan left the manor before I woke up. There is a floating sadness in my room, the one you feel when your father leaves the house for a long journey and does not wake you up to say goodbye even though you asked him to the night before.

The reality is that I do not know Alan nor Daisy for that matter. But the vulnerability contained in genuine tears and unrequested truth blurs the social rules. I already know what these goodbyes would have been like. There would have been a grateful intensity in her eyes. She would have held my hand a little longer. I would have noticed an inflection in her voice on the word “you” in “thank you”.

Before luncheon, I wandered in the deserted guest rooms on the second floor of the manor, carrying my soul among melancholic paintings and carved pieces of furniture. The waxed wooden floor was dappled in sunlight. The birds outside were loud. The door of the room in which Alan and Daisy stayed, at the end of the corridor, was half open. As I was approaching it, aunt Emeline came out of the room, the white of her eyes slightly pink, wet stains on her dress, a sad handkerchief in her hands. She briefly looked at me and pulled the knob behind her.

As I watched aunt Emeline walk away in this corridor with her back so straight and her emotions so carefully locked away I thought how things could be so simpler if the protagonists in the story would only dare speaking out their obvious sentiments.

But maybe I am wrong. Maybe relationships just can not be simple and I am oddly seduced by this idea.

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