IRISIt was a simple sunny afternoon, where the sky was entirely blue, without any hint of clouds, and the fresh breeze brushes though my hair as I lean my head on the side of the window. The sun shines between the branches of the trees, and I’m not lying when I say I can hear the birds chirping as if it was singing me a song. A welcoming song because finally, after 8 years, we’re coming home. The home we abandoned after the tragedy of losing our king after being in a battlefield for almost all his life. And we knew he needed rest, but we didn’t want it to be forever. Would it be heartless for me to call him selfish for leaving us just for a very long nap? Or should the selfish one be us for wanting him to stay longer.“We’re almost there, hon, you sleepy?”. Mom broke me off my trance and for a moment, I was only able to stare at her. I’m not the only one who witnessed her messed up state when dad died. There were lots of us. But I’m the only one who witnessed her break down every sec

IRISIt’s already dark when I woke up and I can feel my puffed eyes due to crying. I tried to open the lights and couldn’t believe that it still works. I look through dad’s old stuffs that my mom didn’t bother to pack up because it will only remind us of him. His books, his glasses, the bean bags that he set especially for me so that I wouldn't feel lonely when he's working. Oh Did I mention that he was an author? He was known for the pen name Morpheus and had lots of followers and readers online. He was a famous fantasy writer, and the book, entitled Iris, was supposed to be his last piece. But it was incomplete so it was not acknowledged. Dad's account is still alive, but no one can access it. So it had been left, just like that. As if waiting for it's owner to come back. How many readers had been kept waiting? How many readers still remembers him? Do they even know that no author can come back for them. I sighed and sat down his office chair and ruffled through the papers that was