Running Again
The days after the funeral were the quietest Iris had ever experienced. Not peaceful — quiet. The kind of quiet that comes after a storm, when the world is still recovering, when the noise has faded but the damage remains. Ezra moved through the cabin like a ghost, present but not present. He worked on his violins, ate his meals, slept beside her. But his mind was elsewhere, trapped in the past, reliving memories of a father who had never loved him the way he needed.
Iris gave him space. She understood grief. She had been living with it for years.
She practiced her violin every day, her fingers growing stronger, her sound growing richer. She played for Ezra sometimes — simple melodies, folk songs, the music her grandmother had loved. He listened without comment, his eyes distant, his hands still.
On the fifth day, she found him in the workshop, staring at a half‑finished violin.
“Ezra?”
He didn’t turn. “I’m thinking.”
“About what?”
“About leaving.”
Iris’s heart stopped. “What?”
He turned to face her. His eyes were red, his face pale.
“I can’t stay here. This place, these memories. I need to get away.”
“Where will you go?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere new.”
“What about me?”
He walked to her, took her hands. “I want you to come with me.”
“I can’t. The estate, the violins, the investigation—”
“They can wait.”
“Can they?”
He was quiet.
They argued.
Iris had never argued with Ezra before. They had disagreed, debated, discussed. But this was different. This was fear speaking, and fear was louder than reason.
“You’re running,” she said.
“I’m surviving.”
“You’re running. Just like I did. Just like my mother did. Just like everyone who’s ever been afraid.”
He pulled his hands away. “You don’t understand.”
“Then explain it to me.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t understand it myself.”
He left that night.
Iris woke to an empty bed, a cold space where his body had been. She walked through the cabin, calling his name. The workshop was empty. The kitchen was empty. The porch was empty.
His car was gone.
She sat on the steps, staring at the tire tracks in the snow.
He had left without saying goodbye.
The days that followed were the hardest of her life.
She played her violin. She worked on the violins. She ate when she remembered, slept when she could. But the silence was unbearable. The cabin was too big, the bed too cold, the world too empty.
She called his phone. It went straight to voicemail.
She called his friends. None of them had heard from him.
She called the police. They said adults were allowed to disappear.
On the tenth day, she received a letter.
It was postmarked from New York, addressed to her in Ezra’s handwriting.
Iris,
I’m sorry I left without saying goodbye. I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough to face you. I’m sorry for everything.
I need time. Time to think, to heal, to figure out who I am without my father’s shadow.
Please don’t wait for me.
Ezra
Iris read the letter three times.
Then she set it on the table and walked to the workshop.
She picked up her violin.
She played.
The music was not beautiful. It was raw, angry, broken. She played until her fingers bled, until her arms ached, until the tears blurred her vision.
When she finally stopped, the workshop was dark.
She sat on the floor, the violin in her lap, and wept.