↕ ✂
↕ — a memory that may or may not have happened
Dreams can be deceiving.
Sometimes, they are so good that upon waking up, one would be immediately filled with a sense of regret; a heightened awareness of the sheer mediocrity of reality when compared to the dormant infinity of the mind. Other times, when they mutate into nightmares, they are so horrid that upon waking up, one would be filled with breath-taking relief and a humble acceptance of reality in all of its grounded aspects such as logic and tangibility.
But then there are times when one can’t even distinguish if the vision they’ve experienced was merely a floating cloud in the skyline of their mind or a fact, rooted in reality and bound to it. Memories are facts, but when they become intertwined with dreams, it becomes harder to distinguish between the two. Evan doesn’t dream often. He doesn’t quite know why; perhaps it’s because he’s an unimaginative person or perhaps it’s because he’s too accepting of his reality, in all of its burdens and responsibilities, that his mind no longer conjures the reprieve of dreams. Or perhaps it’s just his insomnia.
He doesn’t dream often; so the reasons shouldn’t matter anyway, should they?
But he’s just had a dream---a vision as he wasn’t quite sure if it really had been a dream or if it had just been a random memory prompted to the surface of his mind by the haziness that precedes awakening; the blessed in-between of sleep and lucidity.
In the vision, he was a child and he was holding his mother’s hand as they walked through a broad, seemingly-endless meadow. It had felt so peaceful, as though he had stolen a glimpse through Heaven’s gates---it was the main detail that made him question the validity of the memory. They walked for what felt like an eternity before his mother halted him with a gentle tug on his hand. Bending down, she plucked something from the ground and she rose with a Calendula, grasping its stem delicately between a thumb and a forefinger. The dream version of himself smiled, admiring the stark color of its petals; as though his mother was grasping a floral version of the sun in her hand.
“What is it?” He asked.
“I don’t know,” She answered, eyeing it with the same curiosity reflected in her son’s eyes. “but I’m sure your father does. Botany is quite a passion for him.”
“Most flowers have meanings, don’t they? I wonder what this one means. Do you think Father would know?”
“I think he would. How about we go ask him?”
✂ — a vivid memory
Evan sighs, eyes skimming through his schedule lazily before he groans; they have both Herbology and History of Magic with the Hufflepuff six years today. Both subjects are mind-numbing to him but he supposes that they might prove interesting if he ends up sitting somewhere near Amelia Bones. They share several classes with Hufflepuffs this year and it’s led to an implicit competition between him and Amelia to see who would answer more questions. She was currently ahead of him but he had studied vigorously for their upcoming History of Magic lesson and he’s bound to get one step ahead of her if he answers enough questions today. That is, if Professor Binns even bothers to ask any; he’s particularly negligent in that aspect.
The owl mail starts coming in as usual and Evan sighs again, expecting the usual letter from his mother and a copy of the Daily Prophet. What a drastically uneventful morning this is turning out to be, he thought idly as his owl landed gracefully near his bowl of cereal which he pushed in her direction before unlatching the expected letter and newspaper.
“God, Mother should really find a hobby,” He commented to Barty who was sitting next to him, unrolling the parchment as he spoke. “Not that I don’t enjoy corresponding with her but it’s a bit excessive at this point. Remember how often she sent letters after the Yule Ball?” He elbowed his friend with a chuckle. “When she asked for every detail, she’d meant every detail.”
He was still chuckling by the time he started reading the letter but it only took a few seconds for the color to drain from his face.
Darling, I’m so sorry.
He lowered the letter with a trembling exhale. For a moment, he couldn’t even see. It felt as though the ground had split open beneath him but instead of falling, he was left dangling over the void by the shriveled, sadistic hand of Fate.
Your father has passed.
