Seventeen years, ten months, two weeks, three days...
Each moment is agony.
Every second of every day, George Beaumont is reminded of his young wife's untimely death. With every glimpse of that painting up on that mantle, with every glimpse of his...
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Firstwinter, 1870
Raymond panics. Is he dead? There is nothing but white outside the window, a merry tune in the air, and he is certain that the girl giving him the biggest smile he has ever seen is not Anne. But... gaunt cheeks, bright eyes? And the way she seems ready to drag him out of bed? He knows better. If anyone were to lead him out of that mist that shrouded his dreams, it would be her. Always her.
"The first snow arrived right after your fever broke. You woke up for one minute to smile at me, but then you fell back asleep. At least we saw it together, but, oh..." Her eyes begin to tear up. "The only miracle here is that you're okay. I didn't know if you would ever wake up, but you did, and you're still here, and I'm just so relieved," she rambles, checking him for signs of fever, her hands gently compressing his chest, trying to draw out any excess water. Her touch lingers.
His eyelashes flutter. For a moment, he looks like he is going to fall back asleep, but he doesn't. Instead, he looks around, looking for the familiar tune. She follows his gaze to her music box. Something he'd given her for her thirteenth birthday.
"You still have it?" He asks, grinning faintly. His eyes hold the fog of sleep, but his voice is full of wonder. Breathy and melodic. She's missed it.
"Of course I do. You made it. I keep it with me when I'm distressed, and it reminds me of you when you're not here," she pauses, her smile fading into wistfulness until it once again brightens, "It keeps me sane. This, I mean. The memory of you. Especially when I need something to tie me down."
"Come here," he rasps, dehydrated despite what felt like the gallons of water in his lungs. Walking over to him, she leans over his bed, and he suddenly pulls her into a tight embrace. So tight that he feels as if his lungs will burst. But he does not let go.
"It's okay," she murmurs, her gaunt, emaciated body awkwardly hunched over his. She feels his tears over her heart as he begins to sob softly, shaking.
"It's not," he says, attempting to keep his voice from shaking. He fails. His hold on her is bruising, but she lets him continue.
Why didn't she see it before?
He is broken.
And it is all her fault.
She remembers placating him with kisses when they used to fight when they were younger. Now that she can't do it anymore, now that she doesn't know how to fix him... All she can do is want to go back to those days. All it should have taken was a kiss.
As she sinks down on her knees beside him, brushing his curls away from his blotchy face, everything she's been trying to hold together shatters. She can't take seeing him that way.
Tears swim in those bright eyes, and there are no words between them except I'm sorry.
