On the Either Side of the Page

13. Evan

Mrs. Anderson had never been so direct as this one meeting.  As all of our previous encounters were probably staged with others nearby, she was the trying not to expose too much of anything. However, as words escaped from her mouth this time, the room surrendered into silence. An eerie silence wave, that passed. An odd moment of hearing the deep sighs after how she explained her affiliation with the witches that had probably forgone many disruptions until it finally came into an end. She kept it close yet deliberate. 

"Those women won't stutter before planting you in your grave with their words. Do not their warnings for their inability to take actions," she said, her forehead wrinkled and dipped with sweat. Clasping hands in the front, she took mine in hers and held it firm. She blew out and our gazes locked--hers a bit grayer and faded as it seemed than mine. 

"The diary you have, Evander," she continued, "is connected to Faye's."

"You know her-"

"That's not it for now. And besides, it's only normal for witches of the clan to know of their stuff's burrowers." Sitting back, she spoke. The uncanny ticking of the clock, adding to the wooden chimes ringing from the wind, brought me to a world of much unease, immediately followed by my constant gulping and twitching brows. "As the tale of Gardenia has it, Hera and Gabriel, their own star-crossed Romeo-Juliet, are responsible for the origin of the diaries. When Gabriel had to serve in the army amidst a war, Hera wrote him letters. Letters of how the snow melted into delicate dew on fresh leaves, how their cats purred when given belly rubs. The sweet fragrance of their own little garden of tulips and poppies that, however, would wither away just like the never-stopping time of their parents. Or just parent."

"He died?" I asked, presuming the obvious, but it turned out to be not so obvious after all. 

"No one knows." Uncertainty. Crueler than loss and I'd felt it. I knew it. For mourning was almost always easier an acceptance than hanging on to the non-existence hope. A helpless hope. 

"But what one knows is how there were stuffed letters in his little box that went to the war with him. He'd received and replied but never returned. Perhaps, it was his time or maybe he had come to know that it was his waiting wife's."

"She died." This was surety in my voice.

"And those letters with smudged ink were recycled into the rich pages of the books you two are using--"

"And losing," her sister completed. "Didn't you?"

My head was low, and as I slowly registered the unanswered question clear out in the air, I dared to give a slight nod and gazed straight into the eyes that were already staring right back at me with the same intensity as her sister's. 

"If it's either of you two coming to the women, then beware to face the consequences of destroying the property of theirs. It's either you both or no one," she warned as I could just heave the umpteenth sigh in the day. Not that I was not being attentive but it just also umpteenth warning or maybe more like an ultimatum that I received from her. 

She rose to her feet, her eyes still not leaving neither my face resting on top of my fisted hands, nor the despise that was held high in them. "Hope you find a way to solve this. Because, the next time it will be you just like it's running in your blood." There was nothing left to answer with. My mind that was flooded with thoughts about the upcoming fair was definitely committed to overthink the worst case failure of our equipment and later, the sales. This, however, was able to grab my attention for a split second and as if known to this, Mrs Anderson turned around just as she was about to leave and...winked. 

"The Artists' Fair will surely be fun." And she left with that. Although, after the Anderson sisters were gone it was appropriate for me to at least think through whatever solutions they had suggested but it rather seemed unrealistic to postpone such a strategic event in our marketing history to sate the wants of a cult that I'd never seen or met before. And more so, it happened to be the only time I could see unmasked people around me. And there absolutely was no way  I could let this go--even if it meant risking not meeting Faye ever again. For we still had time and had it come to an end then, we could've met anyhow still. We're after all unsocialized in this century because we don't want to meet new people not because we can't. 

The diary, however, had to be found. Not for them. But for us. 

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Hello everyone! This short update's to restore the momentum of the story. I really hope I can get longer ones out and soon as well. 

Take care,

~The author you don't read '-'