Three Heart Echo

Chapter Nine - Sully

"It's quite the grim beginning to a love story," I say as I stand and begin blowing some of the candles out as the sun begins to rise.

"It didn't look like it was going to be a love story," Iona says quietly as she looks down at the ring on her finger and twists it around. It looks far too loose for her tiny finger.

"Morning details first," I say, walking past her, back into the hallway. "We'll continue the riveting story in a little while."

The fawn scrambles to follow after me. The clock shows 5:43 as I walk into the kitchen. I pull out the ingredients needed to start the oatmeal and light the stove.

Sometime during the night it stopped raining, but now it is bitterly cold. I stoke the fireplace with more wood while the water boils, and then return to the kitchen.

"What brought you to this place?" Iona asks, leaning against the counter and watching me work.

"Birth," I respond simply. I pour in the oats and stir, staring into the mush.

I hear her nod. "I saw the family names out in the graveyard. Have you lived your entire life here, then?"

"Most of it," I tell her, but her questions are causing irritation to rise in my blood.

"Where did you live when you were away?" she asks.

"It's a Friday," I say, cutting her questions off. I look over my shoulder at her. "Don't normal people normally work on Fridays?"

Her eyes widen and she leans back from me just a touch. It's easy to startle fawns. "I, uh..." she struggles to change her line of thought. "Yeah, normally I do work Fridays. I took yesterday through the weekend off."

"What kind of work?" I ask, turning the tables.

"I'm a data analyst for a big power company." She takes a few steps back, retreating to the table as if she's afraid I'll attack. "There's a whole team of us, so it wasn't a big deal to take some time off."

"Data analyst," I repeat, not quite connecting the words with a contributing occupation. "That's a real job?"

Iona nods, only slight offense showing in her expression. "I've been doing it for six years, so yes."

I grunt and turn back to the stove.

When it's done, I scoop it into two bowls and add the brown sugar and milk. She picks at it again, not really eating. I stand at the sink, eating as I stare out the window.

Heavy fog sits low on the trees, spilling down the mountain. It only settles just higher than the church's steeple. My lungs feel tight already, just imagining how cold and damp it must be outside.

When we're finished, we leave the bowls soaking in the sink. Iona runs to her car and returns with a change of clothes and I silently wonder just how long she plans to stay here.

Dawn breaks past the trees just as we step outside the church and head down the road, pushing a wheelbarrow in front of us, gloves at the ready.

I didn't even hear the wind last night, but branches are scattered everywhere. They litter the road, and have fallen on...well, I wouldn't call them lawns anymore, but the property that surrounds the crumbling and abandoned homes. She gives me a look, but Iona follows my lead, gathering the limbs, and throwing them in the wheelbarrow.

"Is there someone who lives here?" Iona asks as we finish clearing one plot.

I shake my head. "Not in about seventy-two years," I say as we cross the road to the empty lot where I dump the branches.

"Then why are you going to all this effort?" she asks.

"Because Mrs. Granger will yell at me if I let her property turn into a mess," I say as I make my way to the house two doors down. "So will Mr. Darrok. He's a mean old bastard."

The gears turning in Iona's head are practically screaming as she turns the meaning of that over. The homes are obviously in disrepair. It's clear no one lives in them, and haven't in quite some time. Yet I'm taking this time to clean them up.

"Do you live in the church all the time?" she finally asks some time later.

"Yes," I huff as I haul a huge branch.

"Then why are you letting it fall apart?"

Annoyance flares in my chest as my eyes flick over to her. "Because no one will be living in it soon."

"Are you moving?" She looks back at me over her shoulder while her hands continue scraping the small twigs together.

"More like moving on," I huff and carefully step over the line of pennies that run across the sidewalk before going to gather more fallen limbs.

"You met Jack at your father's funeral," I say, tired of her endless questions. "Where did it go from there?"

She takes a moment to respond. "Downhill. At first."