Piercing Archives — Rowan Peirce

fragment_001.eml

Dear you,

It’s raining here. Not the kind that washes things clean—just a dull, gray drizzle that makes the windows weep. 

I keep thinking about that oak tree by the river. The one with the gnarled roots. Remember how we used to say it looked like an old man’s knuckles? Funny, what sticks.

I found your sketchbook yesterday. Tucked behind the radiator, of all places. 

The charcoal smudges on page seventeen—that half-finished bridge—it’s still there. I didn’t touch it. Couldn’t.

The kettle’s whistling now. Always too loud, like it’s screaming. I’ll let it. Some silences need filling.

Funny how the radiator still clanks in that same uneven rhythm. Like Morse code. Or a heartbeat. 
I never told you I’d listen to it at night when you thought I was asleep. Your breathing, the pipes—they’d sync up sometimes. A duet in the dark.

I burned the lilacs today. The ones you left pressed inside that Dostoevsky. Dry petals flared blue at the edges when the match touched them. 
They smelled like sugar and graves. You’d hate that. You always said graveyard air tasted like rust.

The postman came early. Left nothing. Just stood there at the gate, staring at the weeping windows. 
I wonder if he knows what’s written on the back of your sketchbook. The part where you scribbled over it so hard the paper tore. 
I’ll never scrape it clean to see. Some ghosts deserve their ink.
  

STATUS: partially recovered — checksum fail 0x3F4A

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