Strings of Fate

Chapter 34: Friendly Notice

"My dear Rosie,"

Well, at least the start is normal. But it's he who wrote that, no doubt: who would say dear or darling anyway.

"Here, the wind wails and waltzes between the empty hall of their house. It's like it's an old phonograph stuck on a scream —rather poetic, I feel like you'd say. Except for it, it is usually rather quiet around here; they themselves are playing, blending into the furniture. It is quite fascinating how silent they are: they used to hum all the time to fill the long silences."

He always was acting like some showman. Had a way with words no one could quite understand, but that no one questioned. 

"Their condition is quite... poetic, I must say. They took a liking to that eastern window in our room, staring at it for hours on end. They don't move from that spot. I have taken a liking to count their blinks: 19 3 hours ago, 25 last hour,... what a fascinating trend here."

Fascinating trend. Sure. That's what he calls it. Watching someone unravel like it's a science project. He didn't emphasize that they stayed next to that window for days. It didn't matter time did not stop for them while waiting to fully grieve the dead.

"They don't eat when I or someone else make food. They don't drink, even the tea you brought a few days prior. They don't sleep much either: those bags under their eyes were a testament to this statement. They're not as dapper as before: now preferring black, long clothes covering everything except the head, but especially as quiet as a church mouse in a confessional since the Extermination. How refreshing."

It's not 'refreshing'. It's grief. And you play with theirs like it's a bloody carnival.

"There's something charming about this. They refused every cup of tea I offered—three kinds, if you can believe it. It's like a tragic stillness. Like a ballerina after the music stopped. Like waiting for the world to apologize on its knees for the tragedy they put on their shoulders. You know just as well as I do, dear Rosie, that this will never happen; however, I think we can admire their optimism. 

They were watching as Hell was still burning.

They were watching the dust fall like snowfall — still as a statue and twice as tragic.

They were watching the sky while flinching every time the gramophone played or I hummed.

It's interesting how grief can change someone in the blink of an eye.

It's almost as though... the fire's gone out of their heart.

See them being out like a light from grief? Suits them like a glove — or maybe like widow's lace. They've gone clean 'round the bend, bless their broken ticker. Everyone's pushing up daisies nowadays. It's becoming quite the fashion, I must say."

I'll give you a point for that. Everyone dies at some point. But you don't speak how you stopped humming or speak loudly to not make them twitch further, huh? Typical Alastor. Unable to say he cares without putting on a damn show.

"Their friend came to visit them a few days ago. I hummed while cooking another meal that'll be gone to oblivion in a few hours. Even little Ghost came with them, forgetting his usual colourless appearance to materialize himself into something more... child-like. They didn't stay long, you know, those sinners: Amber, Alexander and Arabelle. They must have had those long faces when they saw how high hat Y/n's attitude was. Doesn't surprise me one bit when the little ghost makes his rounds—trying to cheer up our sad tomato. Poor kid's playing therapist to a broken radio."

Ghost's got more guts than all of us. The kid walks straight into heartbreak and still shows up the next day. Can't say that for most grown-ups. He always liked Y/n: I can see why he did, to be honest. They're a pearl.

"The presence of that young fella seemed to let them blink more often. I let it pass for a while."

Real generous of you.

"Like you noticed, my broadcasts didn't stop just for the death of Henry. Such a kind fella, but we need to move on. He's not the only one to have died that day, so why bother, right?

I can't help but look at them when I know they won't notice: that dame their sister's lower than a snake's belly in a ditch. I wonder what would've happened if I didn't listen to them: nothing would be better, of course, but what an amazing murder this would have been! You and I would be able to taste an angel's wing: but don't you worry, it will happen. Soon or later, this will happen."

That's Alastor for you—always planning the next disaster like any other broadcast.

"Back to our little raven, yesterday, a first emotion showed on their face. I do not know how this Ghost made it happen, but they didn't refuse the tea I prepared yesterday. My, their cheeks were even stained with those tears. 

Those tears, oh those tears Rosie; they were the bee's knees, with enough ugliness and salt in them!"

Jesus, you're cracked. Who the hell says that with a straight face? Oh yeah: you.

"They didn't flinch at the sound of the teacup clinking on the table, nor did they stay put. This time, they hugged me and I just stared and saw if they'd move for once. I didn't dare to move, like you may not expect: after all, it wouldn't be rude to push her back to that sofa under the eastern window because of that sudden, dislikeful touch."

At least you didn't push them away. It shows you care for them.

"I asked you if you think they'd forgive themselves for killing Victoria as a human. If they'd forgive themselves, I listened to them for once. If they'd forgive themselves, period.

I'm not sure if they will. If they ever will. I hope you'll help me with this: you always were better at comforting people and their too-human emotions like them."

Yeah, I don't think they fully will either. Slowly accepting it, maybe, but we both know them: they probably won't.

"Stay tuned, because this is just the beginning of a story we can't see the ending just yet.

A."