Meet Corwin Reed
The fishing pole forgotten at his side, he sits on the dock more often than not, staring sightlessly. Corwin doesn't see the water anymore, only the sharp, nebulous shape of his grief.
Right now, he looks somewhere in his thirties, but he is in his mid-twenties. Sorrow has a way of shaping a face and aging it. His hair is the kind of long that comes from neglect. His beard is coming in scraggly and unkempt. Tears run down his cheeks unnoticed, eyes raw and red-rimmed. His clothes look slept in. He doesn't notice.
When Corwin speaks of Fiona, he lacks the warmth the rest of the village has. His mother was dying of the Fen sickness, rare and incurable. It was also said to be an agonizing end before the person finally succumbed. Ellen Reed made a trip to see the marsh woman and came back changed. She was at peace and moved with ease.
He wasn't there. Now his mother is gone, without ever explaining. The marsh woman is the only one who could say what changed in his mother. What did Fiona collect?
And why can't he remember the lullaby that his mother used to sing for him?
He has no evidence. His grief doesn't need it.
He insists that someone bring Fiona to account. His grief and anger are sharp and close to the surface. But he asks, quiet and embarrassed, after the lullaby. He can't remember the tune, and he doesn't want to lose that, too.