Receeding Tides (mcyt)

Chapter 31

For a house that looked so nice on the outside, it was horridly chilly at night. Poor paint jobs and pictures posted on the stone walls did little to make the place more warm and friendly, but they made the building lived in. It wasn't abandoned memorial or a lone vacancy. At least it had the makings to become a home. Laying awake in his university dorm style cot, Tommy huddled under his covers trying to fall asleep as his thoughts drifted back to that mailbox.

School hadn't been in session for years, and consequently, skills like reading, writing, and public speaking took a backseat in popularity and necessity. You don't need writing to survive in no man's land. Tommy knew he could still read, but could he still write? If he could, was it legible? Could people even forget how to write after three-four some odd years?

Assuming he could still write legibly, who would Tommy send a letter to? His parents? His friends from the safehouse? Even if he did choose to write one, what would he say? He couldn't ask how the afterlife was or offer closure a parent would want to know. What the hell do you even say to a dead person?

Hey Mum! Hi, Dad! Sorry y'all are dead. Say hello to the dogs for me! Miss you <3

Tommy sure as heck didn't know. He rolled over screaming into his pillow. He didn't even know if he wanted to write one. These late-night intrusive thoughts hadn't invaded his mind in a while, and Tommy didn't quite remember how to confront them. He rolled over and faced the abandoned cot beside him.

The pillow and blankets on Ranboo's cot had already collected a layer of dust, and Tommy wondered how long it'd been vacant. Everything on and around it looked to have been placed with intent purpopse. As if each item was never to be touched again. A grave without a body. At first he wondered who kept it so orderly and untouched, but secretly, Tommy knew it was Tubbo's way of accepting reality. The same thing would happen with parents of kidnapped children.

These parents would live off the slim sliver of hope that their child or children were still alive when really, 76% of the time, the child in question is dead within three hours of the abduction. Not the report. Worse, 88% of children are found dead. Regardless of the odds, parents don't just pack up the belongings of their deceased children and leave them in the attic to collect dust and cobwebs. In fact, they often leave the child's bedroom, their clothes, their toys in the exact places and positions the child left them in. Clearly, Tubbo didn't take the news well. He didn't even sleep in this room.

Wilbur and Philza slept soundly across the room, and Nikki snored softly into her pillow. A little boy slept near the door to the bedroom, but he easily could have been a bunched up blanket. Tommy tiredly forced himself to sink into a light sleep.

The following morning was a Sunday. The one day he could sleep in for a few hours or spend them doing nothing. Unnecessary jobs, like construction and hunting, were delayed on Sundays originally for religious purposes. After the Waves, people often turned to God for explanations. Why their parents died before they could. When the Waves would end. How they could perservere. Dozens of prayers landed on God's desk, but as time went on, God became less and less of an acceptable explanation for the hell even the most devout of believers experienced. In only a few years, Sundays were moore commonly spent grieving than worship.

Tommy sat at the little pond in the middle of the street with a blank piece of paper in front of him and dozens of crumpled sheets behind him. Children ran around in the background, and several of Tommy's friends basked the sun's warmth. Perhaps they'd already written a letter or two. Perhaps they'd already grieved. Ready tro move on. Or maybe they were pretending. There was no way to know for sure. There hardly ever is.

Sapnap pushed Karl's wheelchair alongside someone Tommy didn't recognise, and the "Aphmau" woman watched her children play with the pink-haired woman, affectionately called "Elle Di" or something like that. Tommy didn't know for sure, but she was the same woman he'd seen when he first arrived.

Wilbur and Philza mourned Techno together under the silent sunlight trading bittersweet memories between periods of silence, and Tubbo introduced Nikki to neighbors and friends. All friendly and welcoming. All good signs of a passive life ahead of them. He had yet to see George, but Tommy couldn't imagine him wanting to see him of all people. Nonetheless, Tommy sent every ounce of good will to George under the dirt under his feet.

Tommy looked to the cloudless sky letting crisp, Ash-free gusts of wind tussle his hair. The same way Dream must have done a lifetime and a half ago. It was hard to believe only a month had passed since the week Dream came to Tommy like an angel in disguise.

The sun mimicked a blush on Tommy's face. He couldn't help but return to that Sunday all those years ago. The cool air and warm sun. Birds casting shadows as they flew overhead. The voices of friends and the lughter of strangers blurring together. The slight fizz of coke on his tongue. No Ash, no acid seas. A life Tommy was glad to still remember. That single day of peace. A moment of silence. He opened his eyes to the same clear skies he'd seen when things were normal. Glad to see at least some things stay the same.

I wish you were here to see this.

He didn't know who that thought was for or who it was about, but it was there. Tommy's pencil tapped incessantly against paper. The writer at a loss for words. The pencil pierced the paper by accident, and Tommy added it to the pile behind him. Yet another crumbled ball of kindling. Something about this sheet was different, but it was the same as all the others. Fuck it. Tommy pressed the pencil to the paper and began writing without regret.

Word count: 1061