My story starts, and ends, on a sombre September morning. I was woken up unusually early by my Mother, who had a grave look on her face. I was very young at the time, but I still remember it as though it was yesterday, even though there have been many times I have tried to forget it. It was the moment my Mother told me that my father had been murdered.

I know it’s wrong to have favourites, but I always preferred Father to Mother – he was away much of the time, but I loved the time we spent together. I was an only child, so I guess he spoiled me, he was always bringing me back elaborate gifts from his trips away. My father was a very powerful and wealthy man, so of course people were jealous, and with jealously, comes anger and hatred. I believe it was that, that provoked my father’s enemies to murder him; or so I was lead to believe.

After that day, I became more and more withdrawn, only speaking when I needed to, and hardly ever cracking a smile. My mother was much the same, in fact the only time I really saw her was on Sundays, when she took me to the nearby church. Since that day, I have been brought up by a series of Nannies that my Mother hired to look after me. My secluded lifestyle led me to be cut-off from the rest of the world. I would sit alone for hours on end, dwelling on the days when things were more joyful, craving the attention of a loving parent.

As I progressed into my teenage years, I came to realise that my mother had given me very little information about my father’s death at all. You could say I started to become more inquisitive about him, but I gradually stopped being miserable, and became keen to find out more facts. Then one Sunday, I plucked up enough courage to ask Mother a few questions. As soon as I mentioned my father’s name though, she froze and her eyes widened. She stared at me, and opened her mouth as if she was about to speak – but then she just shook her head, and carried on walking. I was used to being ignored like that by Mother, but that day it struck me as curious.

She had looked so fearful when I only mentioned his name, that I decided to not ask her again. I believe the thought of my father brought her so much pain, she couldn’t bare to speak of him. So I proceeded to sneak around the house looking for clues. This was very unlike me, as I normally spent most of my time sulking in my room. The first place I looked was in my father’s old study.

It was a magnificent room, with a large bookshelf and a charming oak desk. The study hadn’t changed at all since I had last been in it, all those years ago – except for the thick layer of dust that had accumulated on every surface. The smell of old musky tobacco that I associated with him, still lingered. I could picture my father’s face lighting up when I used to come in to see him, how he never minded taking a break from work to spend a few hours with me. I searched for a bit, but it soon became clear that I wasn’t going to find anything useful, just a mixture of old letters and notes from various people my father worked for.

I decided to look in my mother’s bedroom, this was quite a bit harder to get into, as I had to find a time when my mother was occupied elsewhere. I lurked outside of her room for hours, and as soon as she left I entered. I had no idea of how long I had to search so I had to work fast. I searched through her bedside table, with no luck. Looked through her chest of draws, also with no luck. Then my head turned towards her beautiful dressing table. I opened the first drawer. Nothing. The second. Nothing. Then the third. There was a small tatty envelope pushed to the back of the draw. I could hear footsteps, so without thinking, I snatched it, then sprinted to my room.

Back in the safety of my own bedroom, I slowly sat down on my bed. My hands trembled as I pulled a small piece of paper from the envelope. I unfolded it. I smiled for the first time in years as I saw my father’s curly handwriting. As I read the letter my smile only grew. Although I did get quite confused. It basically explained that he had to go away as some people were hunting him, and it was unsafe for him to come home. He said he would most probably never see my mother or I again, so it was best to tell me he had been killed; so as not to worry.

There was no time to think, I knew exactly what to do. I packed up all my essentials into a large drawstring bag and swiftly ran out of the house. I had a strong inkling, that I knew where my father might be. He had once told me of a small village he had loved when he was a child, but it was very far away.

The only way to get there was by sailing down a long hazardous river. I knew my family owned a small boat; I didn’t know what condition it was in though. I hastily ran towards the old warn out dock, looking over my shoulder to check I wasn’t being followed. My family’s boat was the only one there, it was small, but efficient and in excellent condition. I lifted up all my possessions, and they fell with a thud at the back of the boat. With a deep breath, I stepped into the boat myself.

Then fumbling, I untied the loose not that attached me to land. I couldn’t believe I was finally about to see my father, after years of believing he had been tragically murdered. I was nervous, but at the same time extremely contented. I looked up in time to see the town that I had suffered so much grief in, speeding away. I mouthed a silent goodbye, then looked forwards, towards my new life.