Three Heart Echo

Chapter Four - Sully

The fawn follows me out into the graveyard. I step through the gate, veering to the left just slightly, and turn to watch her step into the puddle she didn't know to look out for. A tiny satisfied smile crosses my lips as I look back in the direction I'm heading.

A total of one hundred twelve people rest in the ground here in Roselock. At least that's how many gravestones mark the ground. I have little doubt there are more surprises resting elsewhere, but within the township's borders. Not to mention the poor souls forever entombed in the mountainside.

I lay a rose on the grave of Lanna Perkins before moving on to Bernie and their daughter Penny. Next is the Revinski family and poor lonely Betty Simpson.

"Did you know all of these people?" the fawn asks as she quietly follows me. The rain picks up, enough to darken my shoulders and coat my hair.

"I do," I answer her, despite my desire to make her disappear. A power I don't apparently have.

"You do?" she questions of my odd-sounding reply. But maybe she isn't completely dull, because she doesn't question further when she takes a moment to piece together what I've said and the one fact she knows about me.

I move from batch to batch, leaving roses at some graves, while others remain empty. I move among the dead, the only company I've had in so long.

I try not to give the fawn's presence a second thought, but she remains so close, so observant. I've not had another living presence around in so long, she's impossible to ignore.

Careful not to let her know I'm observing in return, I take a sideways glance at her.

She looks to be a little younger than myself, maybe twenty-eight or so. She's tiny, only coming up to my shoulder and thin as a bird. Boots rise up to her knees, a black button up coat drowning her tiny frame. Dark, nearly ebony-colored hair is done up in a loose bun at the crown of her head. Thick and rich.

High cheekbones accentuate a strong chin, and those too-big eyes. Soft lips, ready to spout a million questions.

The fawn is beautiful, there's not a question about that.

But she shouldn't have come here.

Yet, like all the others, I know I won't be able to turn her away.

My curse is the one blessing I've ever been able to offer the world.

Looping through the graveyard, I last make my way to the southeast side, where the graveyard meets the tree line.

A rose for the little girl who lived too short. A rose for the woman who stayed, despite the curse. And a rose for the man who passed it on to me.

"Aaron Whitmore," the fawn reads. "Marian Whitmore. Cheyenne Whitmore."

She doesn't say it, but I know she reaches the correct conclusions.

My entire family rests here in the ground. My baby sister. My mother who outlasted the rest but still went to an early grave, and my father who couldn't escape his fate.

The clouds continue to darken, and the rain continues to pick up intensity and speed. The puddles form in the grass, the mud grows thinner. I look over my shoulder once, meeting the fawn's eyes as the day grows darker and evening stretches over the sky.

She's a pathetic sight now. Hair hanging in her eyes, shivers rocking her tiny body that offers her no padding or warmth.

I only tip my head in the direction of the door, and she immediately follows me without a word more of invitation.

Water drips all over the floor as we walk inside, though the wooden floor is so worn and old we can't cause any more real damage than it's already suffered. I cross the common room, to the wood-burning fireplace.

Crouching beside it, getting ash on my soaked jeans, I take another log round, and shove it into the roaring flames.

"You didn't seem to think too highly of my invitation to leave," I say as I push a second log into the fireplace.

"I can't give up that easily." I can almost hear her shake her head, imagine the way her big eyes widen just slightly.

I stay with one knee on the ground, my arms crossed over it, for a few moments. The exhaustion is already settling in, stealing everything I have inside of me, and we've not even begun.

"What is your name?"

"Iona," she says quietly. I hear her take three steps closer to the heat. "Iona Faye."

"Iona," I whisper to myself, quiet enough I know she won't hear me.

A perfect name for a fawn.

I climb to my feet once more, and without looking in her direction, I head toward the kitchen. "If you're hungry, you can eat. If you're cold, you can change. If you get tired, there are blankets in the basket next to the couch."

An invitation I've never extended to another.

"I'm too tired tonight," I say aloud, though it's justification aimed at myself.

"Thank you," she breathes, silently following behind me.