Taking Root (Stardew Valley - Shane)

Chapter Fourteen

Inside the doorway of the community centre, I could only be aware of two things. The outlines and shadows of disrepair; and the way Shane's face looked, soft and coloured honey, under the ribbons of light that streamed through the cracked roof.

The golden rays were the only thing lighting up the space around us, giving life to sharp corners and edges, lighting up the dust particles that hung in the air like strewn glitter.

"Must be insane. Friday night, and I let little miss watering-can coerce me into being here." Shane's voice was a low grumble to himself as he rubbed at his tired eyes in an attempt to acclimatise them to the low light.

"Hey," Was all I could think to reply, my voice sounding quieter than I thought it would. We both stepped further into the building, moving across the plane of the large, central room in slow, cautious creeps. The large door inched to a close behind us. I was suddenly aware of how the outside noise - the gentle birdsong and rustling of trees - had muffled, as if we were sealed inside an old cardboard box.

The large main hall of the building was wooden as far as the eye could see, and for the most part, it was pretty empty. I could make out an old fireplace, dust-ridden and standing tall against the far back wall. There was even an aquarium - a grand, rectangular fish tank - sporting an array of deep cracks and marks. A cork notice board hinted at passing memories and events, with its collection of pinned, yellowing pages displaying old photographs and pamphlets.

As with everything Shane did, he acted with disinterest, a look of plain boredom colouring his face. I couldn't tell yet whether he always truly felt that way - or whether it was just a well-crafted façade. I would be lying if I said I didn't want to find out. If I said that I didn't want to find something that could make his face come alive with emotion.

Still, I watched as he moved around the room in loud, echoing steps, taking in the scenery. His hands were buried in the pockets of his sweatshirt as he approached the large fish-tank, sullen eyes tracing his reflection. His messy, dark hair - a few thick curls around the ears, long eyelashes that complimented the shimmers of jade in his eyes, and a young woodland of stubble along his strong jawline.

"It's not too bad in here." I attempted to speak again, scanning my eyes over the patchy, rotten floorboards that creaked underneath my boots. "I mean, it's bad, but it's not... bad, bad."

Wow, Sophie. What a way with words you have. Truly, a generational talent.

"Just you wait." Shane veered around the corner, deeper into the building. I scurried after him, feeling nervous to be left out of his sight. The corridors were long. A merge of stale air and never-ending wooden panelling - hardy vines creeping under the soles of our shoes.

"Room number one..." Shane reached out to a pale blue door - the paint streaked and peeling - and twisted the bronze knob. It was dark, and I stepped over bits of clutter towards the glow of a large window. I swiped at the glass with the sleeve of my sweatshirt, wiping away old grime and dust to allow the outside light to pour in. Peering around with new vision, we were met face-to-face with stacks of boxes and piles of stapled papers. "Looks like a hoarder's wet dream."

"I-" I dragged my index finger along the top of a box and watched the thick dust collect against my skin. "-Lewis did say it was a mess..."

Shane just stood there, gazing away from me and at the landscape around us, his arms folded against his chest. "Probably the first time in his life that he actually told the truth."

Lewis had always seemed to me to be a decent man. Sure, the only times I was exposed to his world were in fleeting weeks spent in Pelican Town, during summer breaks where I could surround myself with piglets and oak trees instead of the cold walls of a classroom. But I always had an idealised image of him inside of my head - a kind man, who took pride in his job as town mayor, his heart full of love for his neighbours. What was he like, really? I remembered a picture I drew in an old diary, in thick clumsy lines of felt tip markers. A stick figure of my grandpa, next to Lewis, a scribbly sun keeping them company in the corner of the page. I remember how the red ink of my grandpa's sweater bled into the peach coloured skin of Lewis' arms. Maybe I made the same mistake in my mind. My grandpa's qualities - his sweet nature and caring disposition - bleeding over into my image of Lewis. Maybe those qualities never belonged to him at all.