Write about: the telegram.
Chopped and hauled wood. Got a haircut. Looked for work.
That about sums it up for today.
"Sir, a telegram has arrived for you."
The man being addressed, seated in a plump chair with a drink in his right hand, continues to stare at the dancing flames in the fireplace before him. The servant who had addressed him, the message held tightly in his left hand, remains standing in the doorway.
Several minutes pass without any change in the scene, save for there being slightly less wood in the fireplace and, therefore, slightly more ash.
"Sir," the servant tries again after clearing his throat, "a telegram has arr-"
"Put it on the table," the man says, nudging his left elbow toward the circular surface he had indicated, "and get out."
The servant does as requested, as unhurriedly as he can manage. He does not wish to taint the room with the stench of his fear. His master does not look kindly upon such transgressions.
"And lock the door behind you!"
Having returned to the safety of the doorway, the servant is glad to know that his master could not possibly have seen him jump, like a startled child, at the shouted command. He, again, does as he was told, before fleeing with silent steps to the sanctuary of the hotel's front desk.
The man does not pick up the telegram. Does not even look at it. He does not need to. He knows who it is from and, minus a few specifics, what she has to say. And he is in no hurry to read her words.
It is, in some ways, a surprise that he does not simply feed it to the flames. At least, for someone who does not know this man well.
I, on the other hand, know him all too well. For I am his son. I still think of myself as such, at any rate.
Even though I have been dead for all these years...