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Ethan didn’t miss those things. Didn’t wish that his son was growing up in a world where people stared at screens all day. Where communication had devolved into the tapping of tiny letters and humanity lived by and large for the endorphin kick from the ping of a received text or a new e-mail.
‘Before I built a wall I’d ask to know what I was walling in, or walling out.’ Robert Frost wrote that.”
“Winter’s coming.”
“As you’ll find with your son soon enough, letting go is the hardest, greatest thing we can do for them.”
And only when the man was broken in every way imaginable, when his body had wasted itself into nothing but a shell for a shattered mind, then, only then, she’d release him back into town. Give him a nice little job—maybe a waiter, maybe a secretary—something subservient, boring, soul crushing. Of course, she’d check in on him each week. Hopefully, if she’d done it right, there would be just enough of his mind left to remember who she was and all that she had taken from him. And he would live out the rest of his days as a pathetic scab of a human being. That was how you dealt with men like
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But like every important, defining moment in his life, it had all roared by too fast.
The emotion in the room was staggering. Like the hushed devastation of a funeral. And in many ways, that’s exactly what it was. People mourning the loss of their previous lives. All the loved ones they would never see again. All that had been stolen. So much to process. So much to grieve. And so much still to fear.
