Symphony of Lilacs

34. The Mourning Sun

"My... husband did that... but he loved our daughter..."
Mrs Merope's voice drifts in the air.
She picks at her disarray hair, tightening the shawl wrapping her person.

Harvey and I glance at each other, not knowing what to say further.
He keeps to his cigarette, while my arms stay folded against my chest.

Mrs Merope stands from her seat, walking over to the balcony in the far corner. Each step of hers is longer than the previous one, till her figure disappears behind the wailing blinds.

"I'm still surprised you decided to come," Harvey says, letting out a puff of smoke.

I never interact with people involving these cases directly. But something inside made me want to intervene this time.
"It almost seems as if you enjoy my presence, cousin."

"Don't flatter yourself, Knightley."
Harvey rolls his eyes. Though his returning to his smoking so quickly makes me fidget more.

More time passes with no word from Mrs Merope.
We remain seated in this frostbitten library as unlikely guests. A few embers remain in the ashtray placed on the table in front of us.

Sighing, I stop fidgeting and stand. Harvey busts his cigarette on the ashtray, following me.

"Mrs Merope, we're afraid we may have to leave now..." Harvey starts.

We stop after seeing her gripping the railing, knuckles whitened, breathing heavy.

"Mrs Merope..." she turns around at my voice, slower than a wounded house sparrow.
Tears streak her face, blood shooting through her eyes.
"I have nothing now..."
She glances at the balcony again, back pressed against its railing.

Harvey and I take a few steps ahead on the semi circular balcony, staying at a distance that doesn't make her react.

"You still have everything... Please stay away from that edge..." Harvey says.
Words die out on my tongue.

Mrs Merope shakes her head violently, a trembling smile on her face.

Sunlight tremors with each breath she takes, becoming a dying flame.
"It's beautiful, isn't it..."

Throwing her head back, she slips herself towards the nothingness behind herself.
Everything quivers; Harvey and I bolt; my hand is a mere centimetre away from hers.

But it slips. Like all my calculations. Like all my expectations when her white dress wails in the descending winds.

Now Harvey and I are the ones gripping the railing when a maid in the gardens screams.

A hallow of blood stains the frostbitten pathway as Mrs Merope cripples away with the mourning sun.