Letter Left Behind 12

A letter was left behind on the table of a tavern called the Wayfayer's Rest, or just 'The Rest' to locals.

Each letter was made with ink, which bristles with shards of frost that blur some of the writing of the unsigned paper.

"I’ve locked the inn.

I can still manage to light the hearth, but it does little good. It offers no warmth to these tired fingers.

The guests sat closer and closer together as the frost crept in, speaking less with every hour. Laughter fell short and heavy to the floor, like it had to push through something to exist.

The frost crept in beneath the door on the second night.

We attempted to melt it with candlelight, but it slinked ahead as if melting, without ever losing density. When we took the flame away, it sat there.

Just resting there, like it belonged.

This morning I rang the bell for breakfast as I always do and heard nothing at all.

Not even the echo.

I do not think the silence is emptiness.

I think it is occupation. Oppression.

If you find this and the tables are still set, please leave them that way.

It seems to prefer it."