I have returned to the manor to find my self again before I die. I cannot fathom how I lost it. I have had more selves taken from me than I care to remember, once two at the same time most cruelly ripped away. Many years passed before I found even a semblance of a substitute, and now it seems I have lost even that.

The manor before me is a shambles, though it cannot have sunk yet to the level of decay that my dear Faith once described to me. The pebbles still outnumber the weeds on the drive, the veranda sags but still stands, and although there is a definite angle to the tower, it is not yet strong enough to wrench the bricks from their seams. Slate slabs lie shattered at the foot of the wall and the exposed roof beams look like bare ribs in a carcass. The thought sobers any pleasant memories that the sight of an old home might have arisen to greet me. I had thought I would never live to see the manor in such condition, and yet it is so far gone that I believe it looks how I think of my aging self: not so much fading as falling apart, piece by piece.

I am still seated on my horse, though the guards around me have dismounted and begun setting up camp in the overgrown fields. When I finish staring, it takes only a glance their way for two to scurry forward to ease me down from the saddle. From there, my young assistant takes over, supporting my weight so that I can walk upright, so that I can pretend I still have some control over my aching body. Soon I will need a stronger assistant. Soon I will need someone who can carry me.

As I make for the entrance, the two guards hover on either side, though my pace is unsteady enough that they have time to survey the crumbling building with increasing dismay. They think I do not notice the worried faces they pull at my assistant, who swallows audibly before daring a whisper.

"Are you certain it is safe, my lord?"

I smile--after five decades, everyone entering my presence knows how I dislike the more formal and traditional "your lordship"--and give no reply but to continue without pause.

Seeing my determination, the guards stride ahead to the veranda, where one takes the steps two at a time so that he can test the strength of boards green with age, to be sure that they will hold my weight, however slight. It is still sturdy.
The two guards lift me up and offer their hands for balance while my assistant scrambles up the steps to take his place at my side. As he helps me turn, I see that the front door is open. I wonder if I am, somehow, still trapped inside anyway.

The guards test everything-doorways, floors, walls, ceilings-before they allow me to take a step inside. I wonder briefly what would happen if part of the building crashed down upon them, but dismiss the thought. I know that none of the major structures will collapse, though I know I cannot explain this to them. Whether they believed me or not, they would test anyway.

At last they deem it safe and begin dragging furniture from the parlor into the open foyer, close enough to the front door that someone could shove me out onto the veranda if the roof decided to collapse. A slight admonishment and my assistant leaves me leaning against the doorpost while he scurries back to the camp for his supplies. I look up in time to see the two guards wrestling the largest, grandest chair out of the parlor.

"No. Not that one."

Their eyebrows shoot up in confusion. I know am being difficult, but I also know that indulgence is one of the few blessings that comes with old age. They nod and return the chair to within a finger's width of where it came from, discussing the merits of the others in sight to decide which one is the second best. It takes only one of them to drag the chosen chair across the foyer and set it in front of the table, where my assistant hastily claims his own seat and begins laying out pens, ink, and blank books of parchment. The chair intended for me is so close that, before anyone can stop me, I step forward and sink into the ancient cushions. All three look embarrassed. I struggle to keep my smile more amused than smug as I instruct them to move the chair--and myself in it--over to the left-hand wall, away from the safety of the open door.

As I approach the wall, my care for my attendant's concerns fades. As soon as I can reach, I run my calloused, arthritic fingers over the nearest images, the carved scenes of my discovery and birth. When I hold up my hand, each of several infants hides beneath my thumb, one after another. I glance along the wood-paneled wall. Although I cannot see it, I know that just a few squares down there is another important image, that of a small girl running through a grassy meadow in her underdress. It is now hard to imagine that we were once so small.

Two weeks ago I received word of Avelina's death. I have not remembered my mortality often, but hers was the latest of ever more reminders as the years pass. My story is here, in these images, but images are so easily lost, forgotten, misinterpreted. It is time to record my story for what family I have so that they may know who I once was. I hope, in the telling, to find who I am.

Again.