𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐘𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐒

3. Downpour

Lydia walked slowly, feet trudging, the tip of her shoes dragging sludgily in the dirt. She trudged along the side of the road, pressed close to the trees, reluctant to leave their whispery, gossipy branches. But she had to face the future, and she would rather face it on her feet, fighting, than laying down in the backseat of a car.

She smiled at the sudden thought of Beckett, bittersweetly. To think of a time when she might've been like that: cheerful, full of reckless innocence, ready to take on the world. Now she wanted to curl up like a pillbug and sleep in the sewers. Beckett had been fresh air on cool skin, sun-kissed and golden. He was good for her. He had given her the strength to go home, to dance a little harder on her way through the woods.

Lydia turned up the road, waiting with docile patience as a slow car lumbered before her. When it had passed, she followed in its muddy tracks. As she walked, civilisation slowly began to poke its way out of the woods. First a sign, then a tall wire pole, then a few cans littered in the street. Lydia picked up the cans, cradling them close. She'd find something to do with them.

Soon enough, houses bloomed like purple ivy, chained together with roads and small alleys. The town of Wellspring was small, no more than two hundred people at most. It looked like a storybook: shades of purple colouring the town, swinging weathered signs advertising honey cups and knitted shawls. Lampposts gleamed every few feet, and if it were night, they would have twinkled like stars. In the afternoon sun, they reflected gold in bits of gleaming light. Banners and paper cut outs hung from strings across Main Street, reminiscent of a dollhouse lovingly decorated by childish hands.

Lydia passed through the town, a ghost. Peoples' eyes slanted away when they saw her, gliding over her, the way the human eye does when it sees something unpleasant and small. She knew she was not easily ignored. Months of a gnawing hunger and empty stomach had taught her to occupy a space, to take up room just by existing. If people couldn't forget you, they couldn't forget to feed you. But in Wellspring, starving creatures went better unnoticed: they slunk away to another poor town and haunted them instead.

Main Street began to taper off, branching out into Poplar Street, Swift Street, Macadamia Street. Lydia twirled like a compass needle, drifting down Plum Street. In that bottle-green car, she had glanced over Mrs. Pomatter's shoulder, following the red inked lines that the old lady had drawn for herself. The path was simple enough. Up the road, turn onto Main Street, follow it until Plum Street. After that, it was just a matter of chugging onwards until you reached the smallest house. Lydia had memorised that map, carved the path into her brain because she knew she was prone to forget, then threw herself from the moving car with a burst of exhilaration.

Plum Street was a quiet place. Something about its relaxedness, the way the road sagged into the earth, the way the houses leaned towards each other, gave the whole street a worn, comfortably tired feel.

As she passed each house, she glimpsed in the windows. Bay windows, curved ones, circular port windows, square windows, jaggedly shaped windows, all kinds winked their glass panes merrily at her. The only common trait among them was that each and every window was as large as possible. Privacy didn't seem to be a concern in this well-worn little street: everybody knew everybody, and they were all family. Children ran to set the table, husbands lit candles, women wiped the sweat from their foreheads, dogs and cats cuddled in the darkening light. They seemed to welcome the intrusion, call to the rainy orphan that stood beneath the darkening sky. A far cry from Main Street, which seemed determine to forget her.

One house was brighter than the others. The light in the window was dim, but the purple walls were painted with bright rainbows, cheery flowers, nonsensical patterns, and dancing peacocks. A string of lightbulbs framed their circular window, and inside, Lydia could see three sisters gathered around a small table. The youngest one was chatting animatedly, puncturing her sentences with wild gestures, nearly toppling over. The brown, textured buns atop her head bounced with every motion.