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f i f t e e n

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𝐥𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫

The room still smelt like the man.

Old parchment paper, ink and dusty books. It was still prominent in here, and I could tell everyone else felt it too. This room was a huge representation of the two Routledge boys, and the longer I stand in here, the quicker I'm learning who John B got his untidiness from. To put it quite frankly, the office was a mess. An untouched, Routledge-y mess.

"I've slept over here like 600 times and have never seen this door opened." Pope mutters as he walks in, slowly spinning around to take everything in.

I hum in agreeance, following the boy as he scans the numerous bookshelves and paintings around the walls. My eyes land on a few maps pinned to a cork board, different notes and circles scattered all over the page.

Big John was a mystery in himself, always wondering, wishing and believing. The man knew that there was things beyond what everyone else knew, and he was determined to find it. It's where John B gets his stubbornness from, I think. The most painful but beautiful quality to have.

John B darts over to the corner of the room, grabbing a frame and placing it onto the desk. "Here, look." he announces.

The four of us gather around the desk, joining him, looking down at an old frame with a handful of the Routledge families portraits on it, including his father. He points to a man at the top of the frame, who stands there dressed in uniform, the compass hanging from his breast pocket. "This is the original owner."

"Okay," Kie nods, tracing her finger down to the man's name. "Robert Q. Routledge. 1880 to 1920," she moves her finger to the compass. "There's the lucky compass right there."

"Actually, he um... he was shot after he bought it." John B tells us awkwardly, glancing out the window as we all share glances.

"...oh!" I say, clearing my throat.

"Then, the compass was shipped back to Henry," he continues to explain, moving his finger over to another man who stands proudly in his photo next to a woman. "He was killed in a crop-dusting accident when he had the compass."

"Uh..." JJ mutters, using his arms to lean down on the bench next to me. He slowly nods and purses his lips, listening to the boy go over the old owners.

"After he died, the compass was given to Stephen," he moves his finger to another man who is dressed in military uniform, standing with a gun in hand. "Stephen had the compass with him when he died in Vietnam."

"Let me guess, he died in action, right?" JJ questions.

"Sort of... uh— he was killed by a banana truck... in country." John B stutters, scratching his neck.

"Bro, what?" Pope whispers, shaking his head.

"Anyways... after that, Stephen passed the compass down to him, my dad." he finishes, his finger now landing on a photo of Big John and a little John B from when he was at least 5. His eyes catch on the photo for a little longer, eyes becoming cloudy as he stares.

"Hm. Sounds like there is a recurring theme here." JJ speaks up, breaking JB out of his trance.

"Yeah! Um, you have a death compass." Pope deadpans, almost making me laugh.