Chapter 25

  ~ Informant ~

  My Dear Lily,

  I know you want nothing to do with me, and I'm still not sure if writing to you makes sense. Maybe not for you. Maybe I just want to write your name—to hear it… even if only in my head.

  You always said I had a way of apologising without ever saying sorry. Well, I guess you're right. Last time, I didn't even say a thing. I only let you leave, too proud to stop you. Sometimes I wonder if it's better that way, if I should just shut up and let you be right. Because you are. You always are.

  So I wanted to do it, before I forget. Before I say the other things I wanna say.

  I'm sorry.

  And you'd be right to doubt me. I'm inconstant. I'm untrustworthy. I've failed you more than once. Today, I'm not sure I deserve to be forgiven. But you… you deserve those words, you at least deserve me trying, even if you judge the attempt pathetic. I would understand. I don't have a say anyway.

  But I've also decided I didn't want to shut up. I want to fight, and try, and fail, and try again. Because this is what love is, right? We try. And we'll certainly fail along the way, me more than you probably, but as long as we keep trying, I'm sure we'll be fine. Or that's what I think.

  I don't see myself ever doing this with someone else, and I know, I know you've all the reasons to doubt me. Love is also about what we do, and I've done too much to upset you and too little to be worthy. I know that. But maybe I don't. I always pretend I understand because then I feel in control; then I don't freak out about all the things I don't actually understand. And you're such a complex person, and I'm such a simple one. I would never know you truly.

  But I know how much I enjoy watching you talk. How much I enjoy hearing your skin, and feeling you be. I want every part of you to exist around me. That much I know. I know I'll annoy you and anger you, I also know I'll cherish you and wait for you, with the patience of the sea grinding down stones into sands. With the patience of the Earth growing rocks into mountains. And I know I love you. I love you with the passion of the sun reflecting off the moon.

  You're such a complex person, and I'm such a simple one. I would never know you truly.

  But I want to try.

  Yours, always,

  Connor

  —

  He folded the letter twice, for good measure, making sure the lines were clean and right, although he crooked a corner in the process. And then, even as it would make him late, he took the time to draw. Over the blank surface folded in a square, he drew. In hatched lines and pastel colours, a sunset and a beach. And the words 'from my heart', because it was. All of it.

  When Connor stood up from the mahogany desk, he suddenly felt silly. She'd find it stupid, she would. Maybe she ought to have some peace for some time, rather than another of his pleas. He let the letter be and began undressing.

  His clothes smelled of firewood and ash, and they weren't the type he'd wear outside. He was late, of course, and because he was, nothing worked the way he wanted. First, he struggled with his boots for too long. He'd laced them in the same stubborn knots Lily would make fun of. Knots that had allowed him to steal her a few minutes each morning before having to inevitably leave.

  Then, he couldn't find his t-shirt—the one he liked, black with a single pocket on the heart. He'd look everywhere, he had, in the old wooden wardrobe, too small for all his clothes, and under his bed, dusty from weeks of neglect. But it turned out, clothes did stay where you'd left them, and Connor had left them on the drying rack.

  At least, the t-shirt was dry.

  When he was finally ready to leave, Connor heard the cars outside in the street. He paused at the threshold. The window was still open; he'd forgotten. Like always. He quickly stepped across the room and leaned over the desk to wrestle with the frame. The wood groaned in protest until finally, he tightened the handle just as a breeze slipped through the gap. The latch clicked, and he turned to go.

  That's when he saw the letter at his feet, pale against the dusty floorboards. Following me little bugger?

  With a pat, he made sure it was secure in his breast pocket. Maybe she'd come to the stadium after all, and he could give it to her then. Or maybe not, and it was fine.

  In the carpeted corridor, Connor tried discreetly going past room 47. Without success. The door creaked and so did Mrs. Dombrowski, landlady and neighbourhood gargoyle. "Connor Post, don't you dare keep walking away like you don't hear me."

  He winced and rolled his eyes but turned with a smile nonetheless. "Morning Mrs. D., you're looking as charming as ever."

  She emerged from her cave, cigarette smoke billowing around her. There were crumbs on her maroon housecoat and coffee stains that had turned pale, and her wiry hair was pinned into the same bun it had known since probably… one of those wars from back then. "Oh, you insolent little man," she snapped, her voice so high it hurt his ears. "Two weeks late, Mr. Fireman. And in this economy? Perhaps you'd like to see me dead, you'd like that, huh?"

  She kept on grumbling the way she did, saying no one cared for her and they were all ingrates. But he was late, so he raised both hands in surrender. "I promise I'll pay tonight! Station's dragging their heels and payroll's a mess, but a quick shift at the stadium and it'll all be sorted, it will."

  "You better, Mr. Post! I know where you live," she said, waving her finger. "And don't go thinking that mop of yours will charm your way out of it. I've seen better men in my days… though you're not too bad-looking yourself. If it's money you lack, you can always help me change my computer picture, I've had trouble with it, the old machine—"

  "Oh, I know Mrs. D.," he said, embarrassed and slowly walking backwards to the stairs. "Sorry about that but it's okay, I've got it figured out, I have."

  Mrs. Drombowski's mouth twitched into her half-frown, half-smile of hers. "That's what you always say, isn't it?"

  He supposed she was right; he always said and never did. But this time he'd come back with it, he would.

  Waving her goodbye, he leapt down the stairs and jumped through the door.

  Outside, the city was bustling with the agitation of Saturdays. All those couples latched together, going on fancy dates and being all happy. He wanted to hate them, he did. But given the opportunity, Connor knew he'd be one of them.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  He ran down Collington Road and ducked past a street vendor hawking glossy sticks of fake meat. Someone shouted "watch it!" when he nearly clipped their elbow. But he was already meters away; there were four blocks and a bridge separating him from the stadium, and then he'd still be late. His faith blindly lay in the bus that could take him there in minutes.

  It was a good thing their meeting wasn't official. That he knew she'd be present, but not for him. Otherwise, she'd have rolled her eyes at him for being late. The twitch she got when she was not really annoyed, but still a little, or at least for show. Lily waited for no one. Not for buses because she'd rather walk, and not for people. Definitely not for men who showed up late and reeked of smoke. He'd learned the lesson, he had.

  With a sniff, he made sure his shirt smelled okay, and it smelled great, according to him. The smell of laundry that had dried under the filtered rays of apartment sun.

  He turned a corner just in time to see the bus cough away from the stop. "Course not," he muttered. "That'd be too easy." Connor slowed to a jog, hands on hips. Right about then, he half-wanted to give up, go home and lie in bed all afternoon. That was catastrophic. Clark would be angry, and he'd probably deduct some amount from his payroll.

  Well, there was no point in dwelling on it. Maybe if he went across the park, he could still limit the damage. So he took off again, through Magnola Square this time. It wasn't much of a shortcut, but at least it cut out two crossings.

  Past the iron gate, the ground was dappled with sunlight, and some kids were chanting Christmas songs. Connor liked Christmas. Especially in this city, with all the lights, the snow, and the songs. Every year, he craved cold and loathed heat. And although today was free of snow, the air was as fresh as any other winter day and with every breath he took, he could feel the crispness in his lungs.

  At the far edge of the park, he first noticed the bouncing signs.

  SAY NO TO RELIEF ZONES!

  JUSTICE FOR THE VICTIMS OF NEGLIGENCE!

  Some had even weird wordplays and obscure drawings. He slowed before he'd hit the crowd. The bodies chanting and waving banners would be an annoying obstacle, not that Connor had anything against demonstrators, no. If anything, he'd love to walk the streets with them, but it was not the best of times.

  A girl no older than sixteen shoved a pamphlet into his chest "Don't let them mask us into oblivion!"

  "I just need to get through," Connor said, awkwardly pushing through the throng with his hands up. "Sorry."

  At least the police had yet to arrive on the scene; otherwise, the agitation would have made for even more lateness. And even less pay. When he finally burst out on the other side, panting, he was soaked in sweat. So much for smelling proper. He crossed under the cracked monorail, the tracks above abandoned in the middle of repair. Too many incidents, too many lawsuits. The city had stopped their endeavour for more modern facilities.

  He knew better than to start puzzling over it. He wasn't a journalist or one of those whistle-blowers; he was just a guy trying to get to the stadium on time.

  He passed some service robot dogs working away at removing rubble. They were cute critters, although their white shells sometimes gave him the creeps. Connor figured with little ears and a little waggy tail, they'd be easier to advertise, but he'd heard they worked well, so that was something.

  When he reached the top of the bridge, the name of which had escaped him at the moment, his breath was just starting to run short. But he could see the stadium and the people waiting in lines, so the view was a relief. Getting closer to the impatient crowd, Connor couldn't stop himself from searching for her there, amongst all those souls gathered for the same thing. He noticed a few agitated people worried about some news they'd seen on their phones. But he was late, so there was no time for more gawking.

  Clark, perched up the maintenance stairs with a ledger in his hands, gave him a big frown when he saw him. "You're late… Again."

  "I'm sorry, I am," Connor replied, jogging the last few steps. "Bus skipped me. Protest on Regent. Won't happen again, I swear."

  "I should certainly hope so," he said, gesturing to a box. "Here, bring this one to the storage room in B7."

  The opposite side of the stadium, of course. With a groan, Connor hoisted the box and made for the door. The evacuees were shuffling past each other in the service corridors, some with grim looks and blankets wrapped around them, others presumably angry or impatient. Connor could only imagine what it was like.

  Volunteers and dispatched doctors or firefighters, like himself, were already flying through and busy helping as much as they could. He knew there weren't nearly enough people to help with the number of refugees, that in the first days of displacement alone, the stadium's field had already been filled with tents and EMS cars. But they were doing the best they could, they were.

  Connor ducked under a length of caution tape and weaved towards the B aisle, hugging the wall where he could. Above, the loudspeakers crackled with instructions no one seemed to hear; he always ended up with a migraine at the end of those days.

  He adjusted the box in his arms and rounded a corner. Some of his coworkers were loitering by a maintenance desk. One of them, a bald guy named Jules, had a radio tucked under his arm. "After years of rising tensions," a stern voice said, "the situation had reached a boiling point…"

  The guy twisted the dial with a scoff.

  "And now," said another, smoother voice. "Let us listen to a beautiful song of flowers and fields. My favourite: Edelweiss. Stay safe out there."

  Connor slowed as he passed them and the hairs on his arms stood up when the melody began. One moment, they were exchanging a look with Jules, like both of them had felt it before it had even happened, and the next—

  BOOM.

  Connor staggered, and the box fell, spilling its contents on the ground. Needles. He would have certainly taken the time to gather them if not for the walls shaking from a faraway shock and the very voices of the refugees shouting from stupefaction. Another rumble echoed the first, closer this time but not as loud. Right outside the stadium's gates.

  The chaos that ensued gave him vertigo. A violent wave of fear had overtaken the impatient crowd, and everywhere, yells, and cries, and people trying to control the mayhem contributed to an atmosphere of terrible fright. And in the last moment before the roof fell, Connor was sure he'd seen her.

  Past a running father clutching his child, and sisters hugging. Past doctors taking care of the wounded, and a couple saying 'I love you' with their eyes.

  The song continued. Edelweiss, edelweiss, every morning you greet me~

  And there she was. Hair caught in a beam of light. Just as charming as he'd expected her to be, even in these conditions.

  The ceiling groaned, but Connor never heard the final crack. He'd only felt the change in the air, the pressure drop. His eyes had found the light one last time. Not the harsh fluorescents above but the golden hue spilling from outside.

  He'd always loved the sun. Loved taking the time to slow near a tree that caught it, or tilting his head to feel it. Maybe if he'd stopped being late, he'd have had more time to enjoy all of it. Connor had regrets, he had, but he was also glad.

  With the sound of music, a half-smile twitched on his lips.

  And the roof came down.

  Pinned beneath a metal beam, one of them was still moving. All those skeletons they'd passed, all the destruction… made it easy to forget. But this one, he reminded Milo. That all of it had once been alive. That once, the walls stood clean, and the people voiced things other than grunts and murmurs. He could imagine it, in a way; from his mother's tales and the library's books, a time when this place had been warm. A time when the before world was… everything and more. Not just forgotten memory.

  And from this time, the man under the beam wasn't really gone. His mouth moved slowly, and his clouded eyes flickered. Milo wondered what the man could see that had kept him from going to sleep after all this time.

  A soft ray fell on the sunken face; it lit up the cracked skin, bluish veins, and tendrils climbing over the man's body, spreading over the walls and floor. They'd formed a cradle perfectly fit to endure for years. A cradle to join him to all the things he'd once known.

  Milo swallowed and crouched. He wasn't scared; he could tell the man wouldn't be able to reach him. And as he inspected the peculiar find, he saw the edge of paper—from the man's heart, all yellow and crinkled, with one corner crooked. It almost fell apart under Milo's touch, but he could still admire the faded drawing of a sunset. And when he unfolded the paper, once and then twice, he could still read some of it.

  It began like all letters did.

  But it was more than a simple letter. Milo could almost picture the man's life as it had been, he could imagine his apartment, and his job, and the people he'd love, all there between the lines. And somehow, that made Milo smile.

  He stared at the words for some time until he knew them almost by heart. And then he put the paper back, right above the heart, in the torn shirt. "If I see her, I'll tell her", Milo whispered. And the man gave no answer. He only stared towards the light, as if the past itself waited for him there.

  ***

  As the writathon draws near its end, I'd like to talk about one of my Royal Road's friend fiction he wrote for it. I had an exclusive look at it before it began and immediately got hooked. If you like murder stories, crazy narrations and vibes like Disco Elysium, this might be for you!