For the past week I haven’t spent a moment outside my study other than to sleep, prepare meals and visit my father’s grave. The library that has been amassed provides me with all the entertainment which I require. Having no one with which to converse with I have noticed that the sound of my own speech has become nearly foreign. I expect, though, that Charles will be returning within a day or two, hopefully giving me a chance to talk to someone, even for a few minutes.
Having most of my time for reading, I have picked up another book which I recall my father reading at one point when I was younger. Unlike the others, this one is fiction. The main character is a boy, Raven, whose parents died when he was young and has been living with his older sister on the streets, living on alms and trash. Amidst their begging, they encountered a dog being attacked by a ruffian. The two fought off the vagabond and took the canine under their wing, reluctantly. I haven’t delved very much in to the story yet, but it appears interesting so far.
I found my father’s old chess set this morning. After dusting it off, I could only admire its crystalline luster. My father was never much of a chess player, and the last time I had played was back when my grandfather was still alive. I still vaguely remember the matches we had. He always beat me. Not wanting to put this beautiful set to waste, I set up the board on an end table in the study and placed two of the lesser chairs on either side of the table, coinciding with the white and black ends. I resolved that I would play a game before I took it down.
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