The Lost Sense

Epilogue

A shallow flash of vellum white appeared in a black pitch infinity—like light coming out of a deep well—the smell of rosmarine and million lilacs perfumed the imagination. A familiar voice appeared, talking in words extent from his understanding, in a low tone and ancestral accent—somehow sounding like the genie in his dreams, or the beggar outside the shop. He also sounds like a businessman or the reporter on the television morning news show. Everything feels soft and silky, like lying over solid water.

The brightness completely overmounted the dark insulation, and turned into something between little snow mountains and embossed concrete ceiling. The sounds of snow hitting the window and wind whispering between the gaps of the walls were enchanting, yet it was creeping artistic. Lowering his view was a painting of a pinchem on an olive branch and it was beside the windows, and there were more snow, wind and frost.

He blinks a couple of times, seeing the black part of his lids, trying to shake off the heaviness on his eyes. He looks to his left and saw a blurry figure of a guy—color mix of browns, white and denim blue. Getting in to the vision, it was Suho, standing two feet away from him just by the door, holding a box. The things he sees slowly registers on his nervous system, everything reverting from bright to dim. He props himself up to a reclining position, spines hurt like they weren’t moved for days.

Suho slowly walks towards him, handing over a box that spells his name in a series of pictures of letters. He carefully read the letters, looking at the older one, asking if he reads it correctly. He opens the box, and a flood of polaroids bestowed on his eyes. Every single one catches his attention—they were beautiful. He picks out one by one, and let Suho read the notes on the back of it.

“101213. This is your flower shop.”

“101613. Your bedroom.”

“100613. Your favorite cereal: flakes, almond, clusters, pears and yoghurt. Did I forget something?”

“102913. The street when we walked and it was really cold.”

“110313.  Daffodils.”

“111813. It wasn’t snowing, so I took you again to the beach so I can take a photo of you there. Look at you.”

“101913. The bath tub, you know.”

“100313. The first picture that I took of you.”

“100413. The first picture that you took of me.”

He smiles at everything he hears—those precious notes made his heart flutter. But as he looks to Suho, his face was of dismay and he looks like he couldn’t hold the pictures in steady.

“Why?” He asks as Suho places back the picture he was holding. He didn’t responded.

Baekhyun looks back at the box and pulled out more photos, but didn’t lent it to Suho to read the notes. At the bottom of the box, he saw a white paper, very wrinkly and crumpled, pestered with grays like they were wet with tears, but it looks like it was forced to straight out. He flips it open, not being able to read, he hands it over to Suho.