Nightingale - Dreamnotfound

||A Day Meant For Tragedy||

TW // mentions of death
—
November nineteen was a day meant for tragedy.

Although the day itself was just another rotation across the Earth's axis, it still carried weight that appeared to slow the Earth's rotation down by a couple hours at least every year without fail. Luckily Wilbur was always kind enough to give me a day off somewhere in mid-November when I felt at my worst. And today was that day.

"You and Sapnap haven't completed a mission in over a month, Clay. Especially with the case of the missing file," Wilbur had told me that morning. "I've been reassuring Techno about it and keeping him off your arses, but seriously, how many dead ends could you possibly run into for this case? It's the Slums. The only way you could not have found him yet is if he ran away. Did he run away?"

I shrugged. "I've been working my ass off looking for him, Wilbur. I don't even know what clout goggles look like. Can I take one day off?"

"You're only getting today off because it's a personal day off." He shut the door behind him, leaving us both alone on his porch. "You need to talk about it?"

I rolled my eyes. "No offense, Wilbur, but you're the last person I'd go to to talk about this."

He nodded in defeat, although he barely put up a fight in the first place. "I understand. My door's always open, though, whether it's your family's death-anniversary or not."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," I replied as I turned on my heel to leave.

"And also, be in the lobby by sundown. Tommy and Tubbo's graduation is tonight."

"Alright. I'll see you later, Wilbur."

"Best wishes, Clay."

Of course, though, I wasn't the only person who lost everything that day eight years ago, and I knew he felt the weight when I approached his rustic blue house to silence. No humming. And I poked my head inside to see him lying on the floor in his starfish position, staring at his ceiling per usual. Except he didn't have a small, resting smile. He had a subtle frown. 

"Hey, George," I said as I entered the house.

"Hi, Clay." He didn't tear his eyes from the spot he had been staring at.

"Are you... okay?" I asked, laying down on my stomach and resting my head on my arms as I gazed up at him. He turned his head to look at me, and he smiled. Except his smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

"I mean, we all go through days where it's easy to say we're not okay," He replied.

"Ahhh," I drew out. "So you're not okay."

He let out a weak little laugh. "I suppose that's one way to put it."

"I know what day it is, George." And the act dropped.

"So you remember, huh?"

"My family died around today, too. Of course I remember."

"Every year. It never gets easier, huh?"

I shook my head. "Nope. But it doesn't get worse either. It's like a constant sting in the same spot, although it stings a bit more around this time of year."

He sighed. "Yup. I still remember this day eight years ago like it happened a week ago. I sat at my home, waiting for my parents to get back. The sun had begun to set and they still weren't back. Instead, a grown man in an all-black outfit came to my house to tell me what happened: my parents died in a crossfire. If I'm being honest, I didn't believe him, and I still don't believe him," George told me.