Chapter Seven: Chasing Cars

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Grams, the saviour I am forever indebted to, was completely her normal self. Unlike everyone else in this town, she had no ink in her eyes, just the warm twinkle that had somehow always appeared when she knew more than she allowed herself to let on (which was, well, always). She gestures for me to sit down while she put my favourite mug down in front of me, in the same place where I had drawn my name, or at least attempted to when I was six. Instead of cleaning it, she got the table sealed with the scribble still intact. The thought of coming here when I was that little and making a comeback to her warm shelter makes me all fuzzy inside. One of these days I'm going to have to repay her for everything she has done so far for me.

I sit down, fully aware of my rudening silence, but unable to say anything. In return, she continued smiling and humming in her apron, the one that had been covered in these triangle cross things she has imprinted all around the house. She loved that symbol, in fact, gave me a lovely necklace with it being the main charm. I only ever stopped wearing it because every person who saw it asked what religion it was from. After recalling her giving me this, I smile. Then glance up to see she not only has my favourite coffee in her hands but cookies too. Food is always good to me. Besides the food is a few books scattered about with titles I recognize but am too tired to focus on. They are really old by the looks of it and have been used to study in. Maybe her retiree group is doing a book club or some sort of 'learning isn't just for the youngins' thing. She moves with an effortless grace, setting all the books down and taking her seat across from me she looks me in the eye. With her face having the many amazing features my father must have inherited. The beautiful blue eyes that always looked like they were into some sort of trouble you wanted in on. Hers specifically seemed to have lived to an age much longer than the human body could bear. Her flawlessly dark flesh tone, from the middle eastern background, her family had gathered throughout the earlier years of her childhood, and a signature smirk that got her everything she wanted, and more. Tonight, she looked at me, seriously and maternally all at the same time. As if the stare was supposed to tell me everything, and nothing. A juxtaposition of a look that freaked me out to no end, releasing any calm this room had given me.

"Now, I know you just got here, and you're boxes aren't even unpacked. But there are things we need to talk about. You need to know what's going on. Not just about you, but your brother too." I stare, jaw agape and then compose myself with all the grace I can muster up and prepare for all the answers I can possibly get. Finally, some form of answer for the events that have unfolded around me. Albeit from an obtuse source, one that raises more eyebrows than any makeup kit could accomplish, but answers nonetheless.

"Okay...." I raise an eyebrow, encouraging her to go on. Instead, she points at the old books in front of her. There were three of them, each looking like a tattered poetry book, with an extra touch of very old children illustrations. They were kind of witchy when you looked at them from a few angles. Old, battered, riddled with margin notes and sticky tabs, and quite strange titles on each and every one of them. As if gathering my thoughts onto its own, a thunderstorm starts outside and lighting strikes, lighting up their covers and darkening my surrounding. Then it's gone, and I'm back to reality, staring at the books again.

The Twins, The Legend and the Death looked by far the most read, having its side guiding peeling off and some of its once deep dark green cover faded. The title makes me think back as if I'm supposed to remember something valid. Something recent. Nada. I do, however, get a sudden chill and a few strange scenes play in my head, they come in quick flashes, vibrant colours to only dulled out shades. A war being fought. One with flames and lions and swords.

Because out of those three war themes, swords are the most out of place. I banter myself with that thought, brush off the scenes in my head and continue on.

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