Symphony of Lilacs

43. Everything and Nothing

I left Edenfield before anyone awoke today. Left before anyone could notice the black colour of my attire, instead of the usual navy blue. Sleep still doesn't visit me when I ask it to. It only taunts in small internals before whole consciousness comes back.

Even in the hospital, the steady drill of the day continues. I try not to think about what is inevitable, only on the influx of patients.
After finishing some work at noon, I stride through the white washed corridors. All of them move in a haze, while my footsteps echo.

Except for one dark skinned man, whose voice holds me back.
"You seem to be in a hurry," Doctor Hopkins says.

I blink, stopping. I hadn't noticed when I reached the hospital gardens near the gates.
"Doctor Jennings approved my half leave for today." Saying so, my arms fold across my chest.
I turn around, facing the doctor.

Nodding slowly, Doctor Hopkins says, "Also, I wanted to remind you about the paper we were supposed to write. We ought to start working on it."

My eyes blink.
"Lord, I'm sorry, doctor. I promise we'll get started on it soon. It's just that..."

Doctor Hopkins seems to notice the change in my suit's attire.
"It's all right, lad. You seem very... lost these days, lad. Take care."

When I don't say anything, the doctor starts to walk back into the funereal hospital. The slightest of cracks in its paint resembles the broken leaves scattered about these gardens.

"It's Mathilda's mother's..." I suck in a breath, "funeral today..."
Nothing keeps echoing in my mind, even while talking about her.

Doctor Hopkins blinks, taking a few steps towards me.
The doctor taps at my back, like he's done for so many years. My arms clasp across me tighter.

He opens his mouth-- closing it-- before deciding on his words again.
"Who is Mathilda, Matthew?"

Even I don't know the answer to that entirely, don't know the full meaning of that clause.
But I can't stop myself from saying,
"My everything... and so much more."

The cacophony of clouds above strike across the skies. They leave the gale bruised and battered.
Before that sensation mirrors across my own face, I escape from the hospital, from the doctor, from everything and nothing.

A single piece of paper lies crumpled next to Mathilda. No expression marrs her face, not while the cold snow on it remains.

"Tilda..." I say, reaching for her.

She shakes her head, while I take her hand. Our palms remain interlocked. I don't know how much time has passed, when her voice comes across as a cracked whisper,
"Bernard, my brother in law, wrote back. He says Della fell when she heard about... Mama." Tilda stops. My pulse lowers as the dread encloses, but I keep her next to me.
"She's at the hospital. She lost the baby. They don't know how long she'll have to stay... and the rest of the children can't be left alone..."