Symphony of Lilacs

25. Like the Morning Star

The background converges into a single blur, while all sorts of memories submerge my mind.

"Go there yourself, find out. And then tell me, please."

This morning, I asked Edmund to confirm Crimley's information. Since the request, a conflagration resounds in my ears, awaiting the results. He did try saying something to me, but I was getting late for the hospital.

A knock on the door makes me shake my head, breaking my reverie.

Blinking, I take a few steps back. The smog and huddled streets hide the descending sun into a perpetual eclipse.

How do I always end up in front of Mathilda's home?

Wind blares about, as my gaze travels to the curtained window facing the streets.

It's always open when someone's inside.
She's probably at work.

And I should probably get back home.

Sighing, I recoil.
When my foot hits the stone pathway, the door clicks open.
Mathilda stands there, an ink blot adorning the end of her right sleeve.
"Matthew?"

My lips fail to form to a sentence. Instead, I stand there with hands behind my back.

Mathilda walks inside, but leaves the door open. She stops midway, seeing me still frozen on the last step. Her bright brown eyes make my feet ascend the steps. But there's something else in them today, an extra shade of mist.
But a storm thrashes in my mind, as I close the door behind me. The ship swings up and down in the currents, while my feet plod towards the seat next to Mathilda's.

A boy and a girl in the hall.
A married man and a widowed woman in the secluded room.

The ship threatens to sink at that thought.

Mathilda gestures at the two vacant chairs and I shake my head. She shrugs and moves to a table on the right, a table with scattered pieces of parchment. A golden pen gives a slight glimmer as she rearranges the papers.

My ongoing steps stop for a moment- considering- but then decide to continue to the table.
"You wanted to stay home and write."
I start rearranging them too after seeing that they all are numbered.

"I needed to stay home and write today." A strand clouds her face; I raise a hand, but it runs through my own hair when Mathilda pulls her untied hair to the side.

From the lost pages, an old copy of Wuthering Heights lies buried within.
I pull it out, brushing my thumb against the weathered cover.

"I like the writing." Mathilda places the papers in a neat stack on one side.

I do the same to my own stack.
"Likewise, but I don't like the characters, however unconventional."

"I take it more as a cautionary tale with untraditional turns, rather than a romance."
The deep lilac of Mathilda's dress melds into the darker corridor behind as she turns. Though, she still looks like the morning star.

My gaze tears itself away and moves to the bookshelf on the left. I sigh, "I just don't understand why the quote, 'Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same', is romanticised."

Mathilda frowns a bit. "Maybe because the quote's context is ignored and it's forgotten that Catherine thought Heathcliffe was beneath her."

I press a palm against the table, nodding.
"Yes, but why one would prefer social ranking over love?"

"It's our reality that many would prefer social ranking more than anything else." She sighs, taking a step towards me. "Nevertheless, Brontë still showed how cruel even Heathcliff was to others, especially Isabella."