In Zo's mind, it never felt like the day was properly begun until Lyn woke up, looked around at the room they'd been staying in, frowned, and said—
Day 13
"Where are we? And why does it feel so... familiar?"
"Well you see," Zo replied, as he always did, peeking at the underside of the egg he was frying, "we're stuck in a time loop."
Day 14
"A time loop?" Lyn swung her feet over the side of the bed, seeming to realize for the first time that she was in one.
"Don't worry, it's clean." After confirming they were, indeed, in a time loop, one of the first things he had suggested was finding a comfortable place to set up camp. Somehow it had worked, and they had ended up there every time things reset. "And there doesn't seem to be anyone around, so I don't think we're stealing or trespassing."
Lyn raised an eyebrow.
Day 15
"Well, we might be, but no one minds. It's a ghost town. Everyone seems to have disappeared." And since it was a time loop, they never ran out of cooking gas. Or food supplies. That, at least, was convenient.
"Disappeared?" Lyn stood up, adjusting her shirt from how it had gotten scrunched up in the night. Despite her attempts to look bright-eyed and alert, he could see the sleepiness that still hung from her eyes.
Day 16
"Our best guess so far is that it's connected to the time loop." Zo flipped the eggs. If this all persisted, he could open up a fried-egg restaurant once they got out; he was getting an absurd amount of practice flipping eggs.
"That makes sense." Lyn padded over to the window, still barefoot, and pushed the shutters open. "Do we have any evidence, or is that just, well, a guess?"
Her gaze swept the view, which he knew without looking was nothing more than the empty lines of blocky, one-story buildings and the too-smooth black-top of the streets. The neighborhood was pressed together as if sheltering from the plains beyond the town, with such a veneer of newness covering it all that each house might have been churned out of a factory yesterday. They hadn't been, though, considering the subtle signs of wear and tear inside the houses.
"Eh, a bit of both. Something weird is clearly going on with the area, and we know time is affected, too, so it's a logical guess that the two are connected. Whether that means some psycho wiped the town out before setting up their experiment, or just that their timey-wimey dealybob messed up physics in general is still up for debate. Do you want toast?"
"Yes, please."
Day 17
"Good. We have to finish the bread before it goes stale." Zo left the 'in case we get to the next day' implicit.
"I'm surprised we still have butter. I thought it would have gone bad in your pack."
"It smells a bit odd, but so far we haven't been affected by it."
Day 18
"Okay, but how do you know we're in a time loop?" Lyn asked, setting the table.
They were in a ground-level studio apartment, so the dining room, kitchen, and bed were all in the same space. No couch, which Zo took to mean that the owner was either poor or a cheapskate. Either way, it was disappointing. Still, the carpet wasn't bad. He'd slept on worse.
"Because you've asked me that so many times I've lost track of the number," Zo said, "and you seem thoughtful every time, like you're not as surprised as you thought you'd be."
She nodded and set a fork down carefully, wearing the expression she always did just then, brows squeezing down over far-away eyes.
"In all fairness, though," Zo clarified, "I mostly lost track because I wasn't really counting, and then it seemed pointless to start. It's been over two weeks, though, I'm fairly certain."
Day 19
She smiled, and the tension in her brows eased a bit. "This all does feels familiar. Like, I don't remember the other days, but all of this feels like I should, somehow, know what happens next. But I don't."
"I do know," Zo replied, "and it's getting a bit tiresome."
"Fair."
Zo nodded, slotting toast into the toaster. "Very. Whoever owned this place pretty much only had eggs in their fridge. I'm not sure how many more days in a row I can eat those without losing my mind."
Lyn looked up sharply.
Day 20
"Relax," he said, waving his spatula, "they respawn every day, so I don't think it's even technically stealing. If it is, we can pay them back later. There's a fully-stocked but unmanned convenience store down the road, one which we have very nobly not taken anything from, every single day."
"Good," Lyn sighed. "After all, if we get out today, we wouldn't want to be rewarded by jail for petty theft." She tacked on a fierce look at the end of the sentence.
Zo shrugged, and let Lyn interpret the gesture as she would. "Eggs are almost done."
Day 21
"Good. I'm weirdly hungry. Also, thank you for breakfast."
"Don't mention it," Zo smiled. "It's nothing I haven't done many times before."
An older lady befriends and adopts a ghost she found in her garden
Next part >>here
Michael Goffrey bid his wife farewell as he left for his next shipping job, and Gail Goffrey was once again faced with the fact that her house was cavernously empty.
She had expected the house to feel empty after her children grew up and moved on with their lives; that was the sort of thing one always heard about from the mothers and wives left behind. However, everyone seemed to stress the loneliness—not the rather more intense boredom.
Gail had always preferred quiet and alone time, so she did not take issue with the solitude. However, though she still had to cook and mend and clean and tidy and all the other tasks, it was one thing to do so for six people and quite another, shorter thing to do so for two. It was even less of a thing to do so for one, since Michael had been promoted to first mate and now had to accompany the airships personally, no longer simply loading and unloading at the cloudends as he once did.
Empty and meaningless. That’s what it felt like. With her family, she had people to help and care for. With just herself, she felt as though she were wasting time walking in circles for no other purpose than to exist.
She made it to the second day without any significant issue.
She was out tending to the herb garden when it happened—a bug wandered in front of her. That shouldn’t have been a problem. Bugs were some of her favorite creatures. But after the first smile, it hit her that she hadn't seen a new kind of one in months—this one already had three sketches in her notebook.
She’d run out of garden bugs to document.
Bugs, of all things. Bugs were everywhere, bugs had never-ending variations, bugs were constant. And she’d run out of them.
Stabbing the trowel into the earth perilously close to the offending bug, she sat back on her heels and looked up at the sky.
"Well, Lord, I reckon you put me on your good Earth for a reason. And I don't think it was just to sketch bugs." She smoothed her apron out, flicking bits of dirt off of it. "I also doubt I'm done with what I'm supposed to do down here, otherwise I wouldn't be here. But if you don't mind me saying, I'm awfully bored of where I am, though I do love my house and my husband and my town quite fierce. But I have all the time in the world, and I'd like to do good with it, if I could. So if you could show me what to do where I can—give me eyes to see as who I can do good towards—then I would appreciate it mightily."
Gail had prayed similar prayers before, with varying regularity. She knew the good Lord had heard her, as he always did. And if he answered with more solitude and time and boredom, then she supposed that was where she was meant to be for the moment. But she dearly hoped there might be something new this time.
So, really, she shouldn't have been surprised to see someone under the loquat tree. But then again, it had been raining since before dawn, so no one in their right mind would have been outdoors. She should know, since she herself had been out gathering moss for terrariums and hadn't heard a breath from anyone all day, even near the city.
Her first impression was that the lad was quite young. Younger than her youngest, in fact, who had not too long ago started her career as a professor at the nearby university. Looked perhaps like he could be one of her students. Very slight of build, as though he needed to eat more, and small looking as he sat hunched in the rain and letting the wet drip down his messy hair, full of loose ends that had gotten free from his ponytail.
Gail stood at the edge of her garden for a moment, resting her pail of moss against the stone border as she observed him.
He didn't move, just sat there with his face turned towards the soil, and didn't seem to see her. Part of his shoulder seemed stained, perhaps with mud. With the house not a few feet to the left, she wondered if he'd tried to knock and not gotten an answer, what with her out and about.
Well, unexpected or not, there was really only one thing to do.
Gripping her pail handle resolutely, Gail marched her way through the garden paths and stood in front of him. He shifted at the sound of her approach, turning his face up towards her—his eyes were pale, as if someone had sketched them on and not bothered with paint. What's more, up closer, the brownish stain on his shoulder looked rather like dried blood.
He tilted his head, as if trying to tell where the sound had come from.
"Well then," she said after a long moment of trying to figure out what to say, "who might you be?"
"Oh." He looked more directly at her, and somehow the eyes looked a bit more colored in, like they remembered they could be brown. "Dreadfully sorry, ma'am. I seem to have gotten lost in the rain. I hope you don't mind me taking a few moments here under your tree?"
He hadn't answered the question, but he seemed more surprised than shifty. "Not at all. Unpleasant weather to be lost in, for sure. If you'd like, you can wait it out under a roof."
"Oh," he said again, and looked to his left; this time it seemed like he understood what he was seeing. "I suppose that would be nicer."
"Well, you're welcome to my roof, if you’d like," she said. She wondered how long he would take her up on that.
He awkwardly stumbled to his feet before she could offer her hand. "That's very kind of you, ma'am."
"Would you like anything to eat?" She went ahead and led the way to the kitchen door.
He hummed thoughtfully. "Thank you ma’am, but I don't think I'm hungry."
She didn't think he would be, but, well, it wasn't like she had experience with this. Which concerned her—she had no idea what she was supposed to be doing. At least he didn't seem to be wicked. She supposed he must need a helping hand and, while she needed to figure out what that help was, he was still just a boy; she would do him the courtesy of treating him accordingly.
The porch and floors, old and creaky since long before she and her husband and infant son had moved in decades ago, greeted them with typical fanfare as they trudged over the threshold. She dripped her way over to the stove, where she put the kettle on; it was unlikely that her visitor would want any, but she most certainly did. Setting her pail of moss by the stove to deal with later, she glanced back to see the lad standing in the middle of the space, staring up at the roof.
Gail wondered if he noticed that he wasn't wet.
"Say," she said, carefully pulling teacups out of the cupboard, "what did you say your name was?"
He looked at her sharply. "I… I don't think I did."
"Hmmmm. Well, how should I call you, then?"
He stared at her.
In the background, the rain continued on.
"Should I just call you ma'am, then?" He said, smiling faintly.
Gail squinted at him. "Now then, young man, are you dodging the question deliberately, or do you just not have an answer?"
"Oh." He glanced around the kitchen, then back to her, and blanked. "Sorry, what was the question?"
Gail rested back against the counter. She picked up her glasses from where she'd left them this morning, and stuck them on, pushing the temples through her sodden mess of hair. "I was just asking what your name was."
His eyes widened. "I… don't… Didn't I answer that?"
"Not as I can recall."
"That… that was rude of me, then, wasn't it?" His eyes were still wide, and the brown was fading.
Maybe it was rude of her to keep pressing the matter. He seemed not to know. Gail pressed her glasses firmer on her nose, trying to reach some kind of decision—but whatever was going on with her guest had been set in motion.
"What is my name?" He asked, his voice rising. "I can't remember my name."
"That's alright, dear," she said, trying to distract him, calm him down. "Do you remember where you were before my garden?"
It had the opposite effect.
He stepped back, towards the door, and glanced around with eyes that no longer understood where he was. "No… I-I can't remember… where am I? Do you know my name?"
"I'm afraid I—"
The kettle shrieked into the space between them with a rush of steam.
The lad cast a wild glance in its direction, stepped backwards. Gail, startled into motion, scrambled to shut the thing off.
When she turned back, the space where he had stood was dry and empty. She and the rain and her pail of terrarium moss had been left alone again.
Previously on Terrarium Lights: the ghost continues to wrestles with what to do next; Gail tries to understand.
(Next part >>here)
"What I meant to say," she said over her shoulder, "is that I would make you as much bacon as you'd like."
Jonathon chuckled, a bit more lightheartedly this time.
Gail watched the eggs for a bit. "On the other side of the fear, there will be good things," she said quietly. "Like bacon."
"I know," Jonathon said in a small voice. "But I'm afraid. Of disappearing. Who will I be when I'm not me?"
"Someone else," Gail agreed. "But you'd be someone else in a year, no matter what form you took. To be a person is to be changing, even in small ways, even just by having been alive for another year. And I know that’s not the same as what you’re facing, but in a way it is. It’s just… a bigger change. That can be difficult, but it's not so bad."
"What if I don't like who I become?"
"Then become someone else in the next year."
“That sounds easier than I think it is.”
Gail chuckled. “Oh, for sure. It’s not easy. But it happens, and it’s possible, and we don’t have to do it alone.”
“‘Thou must save, and save by grace,’” Jonathon muttered. Gail nodded encouragingly.
Jonathon turned around to look at her notepad, letting his weight (as far as it existed) fall on the counter.
"You're still worried about Samuel, too," Gail guessed.
He nodded. "I don't know how his parents will find him if I go back, you know? I might not remember. And… what if I forget him? Not just where his body is, but who he was? What if this means leaving behind my friend, someone who seems to have almost been my brother? I have little enough of him left, anyway."
"Would he want you to stay a ghost for the sake of his memory?"
Jonathon's head flopped down onto the counter between his arms. "I don't know. I… I already can't remember."
Gail came over to pat his shoulder.
"I don't want to doom all the rest of my senses for the sake of my sight," he said, voice muffled by the counter, "but I don't want to lose my sight, either. I don't want to cut off future memories for the sake of what I have now, but what little I have is precious, meager and lacking as it is. I don't want to say good-bye to my friend and then never know him, but I don't want to move on without helping him, and so risk not being able to. I don't know if he even likes me anymore, but I want to help him anyway. I don't know what will happen if I stay, I don't know what will happen if I go, but I don't know that I have any other choice than to make a choice."
Gail rubbed his back slowly, wondering if he could even feel her.
"There doesn't seem to be any easy path," she said. "But… if it’s my place to say something, I do know that sometimes we must die if we want to live again."
"Like… like the Rock of Ages," he said, looking up slightly.
Gail nodded, not quite sure if he meant the hymn or the person. But either way, it worked. "It doesn't mean that the dying doesn't hurt."
Jonathon pushed himself up by his arms and stood there for a bit, propped up. Gail let him think as she rescued her eggs and put the second piece of toast in the remaining bacon grease.
“It’s all still a muddle,” he said, gazing intently at the counter with an almost defensive glare. “I still don’t know what all is the right thing to do, or the easiest or the best, or whatever.”
Gail flipped the toast, watching him, spatula in hand. “But you’ve reached some kind of decision, haven’t you.”
“As much as I can,” he said. “With all the uncertainty, I think there is still something that is plain to do.”
When he didn’t continue, Gail messed with the toast again.“Oh?”
"Ms. Gail," he said, frowning at the counter and pushing each word into being deliberately, "would you go with me to visit Samuel's ghost?"
She smiled at him. "Of course, dear. Just let me finish my breakfast, first."
Continuation of my Inkling's Challenge story, started >>here. Next part >>here.
Not sure if I'm supposed to tag @inklings-challenge anymore since times have moved on, but will do so just to be on the safe (the tag may be ignored if so desired).
Last time on Terrarium Lights: The ghost disappeared after getting an existential crisis when he realized he didn't know his own name, to everyone's surprise.
"I'm sorry."
Gail nearly jumped out of her skin, scattering her basket of freshly cleaned rocks across the dining room table. She wheeled around toward the kitchen, which had been empty a few moments earlier, to see the lad from before standing sheepishly in the middle of it.
She released her apron and took a deep breath.
"Oh?" She replied—with only a slight quiver in her voice—and allowed him to insert his own explanation.
Truth be told, she wasn't sure what he was apologizing for, unless it was scaring the living daylights out of her. It was, however, reassuring to see him again and to know she wouldn’t be stuck for the rest of her days with the mystery of what on God’s green Earth had happened.
"Well, I feel like I may have overreacted." He was looking at the floor, so she couldn't see the state of his eyes.
"About your memories?" She asked, and then mentally smacked her palm against her forehead. Perhaps it wouldn’t be wise to bring up the incident that had so upset him right the second he came back—in her defense, her heartbeat was still rather drowning out thought.
"Yeah."
"I see." Gail turned back to the table and started picking up the rocks—mostly shale and creek pebbles—from where they'd been flung, gathering her wits with them.
It had been several days since the ghost had come and gone.
At first she toyed with the idea that her mind was going on ahead of her to heaven. They did say solitude did odd things to mind, but while she didn't have concrete proof that the lad had been there, in the end she had decided to regard it as fact until proven otherwise. There were her sodden clothes and her pail of moss, confirming that she'd gone out in the rain at the very least.
After she'd settled that, she started to go over the interaction in her mind.
She had had no idea if he'd come back or not. Her gut reaction was that he would, someday. The whole venture was rather too strange and unfinished—he was clearly haunted by something, still. Whether or not she would be there to see it, she did not know.
Eventually, she decided that if he did return to her, she should handle him with more care and tact, and make him feel more generally comfortable before prodding at him again. That seemed like the best way to figure out what was going on, at least. From there—well, she didn't know. But one so rarely did know what one was doing, so that wasn't a great matter in the long run. Besides, if this was the Lord’s doing, he’d hardly abandon her here. Wasn’t His style.
And here the lad was, once again standing in her kitchen, though this time much shyer and more unsure, and she’d already prodded him more than she meant.
"I appreciate your thoughtfulness," she replied, rubbing her thumb across a smooth piece of shale. "Though I suppose I should apologize, myself, for startling you."
"Well, technically I think that was the kettle," he said with a nervous chuckle.
She snorted. "True. Dreadful loud that kettle is."
As she swept the last bits of rocks towards her, she heard him shuffling his feet. It was an odd sound. Not quite all there. "It… it doesn't seem to be raining anymore."
"Nice and sunny out, indeed." She kept an ear on him, still managing her rocks.
"Um. Thank you for letting me borrow your roof."
The rocks clattered back into the basket. "You're welcome to it as long as you might need."
"…Even if it's not raining anymore?"
She turned back round to face him and smiled. His eyes were a satisfying shade of brown. "Even then."
He beamed back.
Gail walked over to a makeshift desk to the side of the room and started sorting the rocks into their proper containers. Hesitantly, the lad hovered into the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room space.
“I… I still don’t really remember anything,” he said. “I think I have amnesia.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Gail gave him a sympathetic look. “I don’t suppose there’s anything I can do to help with that?” She gestured for him to come closer.
“Well, I don’t know.” Like a puppy prepared to be yelled at, he edged further into the house. “In all honesty, the fact that I couldn’t remember anything terrified me. Still does, kind of, but it’s not as shocking now, I suppose. I don’t know why I didn’t realize. I mean, how do you forget your entire life but just not think about it? Doesn’t make sense.” He trailed off with an attempted chuckle.
“Maybe it was something that happened recently?”
He squinted at what she was doing, seemingly half-intrigued about her activity, half-absorbed in his own nervous narrative. “I… I don’t think so. Or maybe the amnesia was recent? I don’t know. I kind of… remembered bits? But it’s very fuzzy, like it might have happened in some odd kind of dream, a long time ago. Or maybe not that long ago. Dreams can be weird. But so can memories. Like when something happens yesterday but it feels like it’s always been your past, that kind of thing. Or at least that’s what last time I was here felt like, I think, but that could just be because that’s all I can remember right now. But I don’t even know how long ago it was that I was here. I get the impression that memories are tricky.”
“True, that,” Gail chuckled. “You said you remembered something, though?” She rubbed her thumb over the ridges of a large creek pebble appreciatively, then dropped it into its jar with a satisfying clink.
“What are you doing?” He asked, tilting his head, curiosity temporarily overshadowing his dilemma.
“Oh, me? Sorting rocks.”
“Why?”
“If I don’t, they’ll just be a mess.” She waved her hand over the assortment. “This way it’s easier to get at the ones I need.” She wasn’t sure if he was dodging the question again or just distracted.
“O-oh.”
She chuckled again. “For terrariums, that is. I’m not just mad about rocks, though I do like them.”
“Terrariums?”
“It’s a hobby of me and my husband’s. While he’s away, I gather materials—and sometimes do a few myself—and then when he’s back, we work on one together.” She was sorting them roughly by size and color. Absently she wondered if she’d need to take a trip to the shore sometime soon to stock back up on driftwood.
“Could I… maybe… see one?” He had his cautious puppy act on again.
Resisting the urge to kid him a bit for his skittishness, she nodded and went to the living room (really only a bulge on the side of the dining room, but still rather nice for sitting), and picked up one of the first ones she and Michael done together, in the bottom of a large, broken canning jar that had once been the size of a small bucket.
“Here,” she said, and held it towards him. “The edges aren’t sharp anymore. We sanded what we could and covered the rest with a sealant.”
It was a simple terrarium, really. Not much more than moss arranged around a large lump of red flint they’d found when wandering along the creek, with a few small little plants stuck in. And the container wasn’t the prettiest, with the sealant smeared across most of the edges around the opening. Still, it was a good memory, so she liked to keep it watered and tended, and even though she didn’t know what kind of moss they’d gathered, it was one of her favorites—it flowered in the summer and smelled lovely.
"Can I touch it?" He asked. When she nodded, he slowly reached out and put his hand in the container, running his fingers along the rock and pressing their tips gently against the moss. "It's so strangely soft and not soft." He looked up and smiled and his eyes were very brown. "It feels nice. Almost scratchy, but comfortable. I like its texture."
"Isn't it just lovely?" Gail agreed. "Moss is one of those things that isn't hard to find, but is still so satisfying every time you do. I think it's one of the marks that God made this world with love."
The lad nodded absently. He was frowning slightly, and for a moment didn't seem quite all there, his edges ever so slightly blurring.
"I think I remember something about moss," he said. "I'm not sure. But it wasn't very green, and there were whole plains of it. Underground, I think. And blue. I think we might have been safe there, but I don't know." He looked back up at her. "Does any of that sound… familiar? Since you know about moss."
The lad looked so hopeful, Gail wished she could say yes. "Well,” she replied, pursing her lips as if in deep thought, “we don't have many caves around these parts. Soil's not built for it. And I don’t profess to know much about the subject one way or the other, but I can't say as I'm familiar with blue moss."
"Oh." Feeling along the edges of where the rock and moss met, he pressed his hand down again, softly. Gail noticed that it did not leave much of an impression, if any. "Maybe it was just the way it looked? Maybe it wasn't blue." He withdrew his hand. "But if there are no caves around here… I don't know. It was certainly underground." He frowned. "Well, I'm pretty sure. I… I guess I can't say for certain, can I? Since I don't know."
Gail resisted the urge to set her terrarium down and pat his back or try to hug him. The poor lad looked frightfully lost. "Perhaps you were a traveler in your time, before coming here. I will admit, I don't know much about what lies beyond my little corner of the world, so who's to say caverns of blue moss might'nt be out there, somewhere?"
Even as she said the words, they felt unlikely. Maybe because she didn't quite believe them herself—but it was true, at least, that she didn't know much about the world beyond Florida, or even beyond this northern slice of it. She could have hope in her own ignorance, for the lad's sake. Perhaps her Michael might know, or she could write to her son up in the Northern colonies. They were both much more widely traveled.
"As your memories come back, mayhaps you might learn to know more about it."
He nodded, stuffing his hands in his pocket, eyes still on the ground. "I hope so. It's… disconcerting, to know so little about what you can trust from your own head."
"We'll figure it out," Gail said, wondering if there was any way to physically console someone who couldn't be touched.
"I… I also really don't mean to drag you into this," he said. "We're both just strangers to each other. I wouldn't want to presume too much on your hospitality."
Gail clucked her tongue at him as she put the terrarium on the table, where he could still find it if he wanted. "Trust me, young man, this would be the best use of my time. I couldn't in good conscience just turn you out, anyway, and well, what can I say? I'm a meddlesome old lady. I like fixing other peoples' problems, if I can."
"Oh." He picked at the edge of his waistcoat. "That's… that's really kind of you. I… I'm not sure what to say to that."
"You don't have to say anything, if you'd rather not. You're welcome to just be here for a bit, if you'd like."
"I… I think I'd like that." He looked up at her again. "I wouldn't be a bother if I just stood by and watched you work?"
"No bother at all." Gail waved a dismissive hand. "I guarantee you'll be a lot easier to work around than toddlers, though admittedly it has been… a few years, since I've had to do that. I'll just be working on a new terrarium, anyway, for old Mrs. Oberson. She's been quite sickly for a while now, and having living things about you really brightens a room up."
He followed her back to the desk, where she pulled out a largeish jar and set it up, hunting down the different components she needed from the desk, and adjusting her glasses to a higher zoom setting to better view the details. The plan for this terrarium lay on a card pinned to the desk, half-recipe, half-sketch. Michael had helped her come up with it before he left, and now was as good a time as any to get it going. She’d need more time, too, since her hands weren’t as steady as they used to be.
Last time on Terrarium Lights: the ghost returned and tried to make sense of nonsensical memories. (next part >>here)
It turned out to be all very well and good to offer the lad help and a place to stay (as much as he could stay anywhere), but then she had to figure out what to do with him.
He seemed to be having trouble figuring out what to do with himself, too, and spent the rest of the day hovering at her shoulder—at which point they both discovered that he quite liked to talk, despite being firmly uncertain about anything he was saying. It was making working on the terrarium rather difficult, and she had trouble with the fine details at the best of times, but she found herself enjoying the company more than she expected.
It was nice to have sound in the house again.
By the end of the afternoon, she had learned he was pretty sure he had been traveling with someone else—the blue-moss cave was one of two places he was pretty sure he remembered, along with somewhere growing purple trees on blue and crimson rocks—he was pretty sure he had studied something at a university at one point, but had no idea what or where—he didn't know if he was from this area but he was pretty sure it seemed kind of familiar—he didn't know his name but he was pretty sure he knew what names were—and so on.
He asked her if she knew any names, and she found herself absently replying that she had no idea, before realizing her mistake.
To tell the truth, she had gotten distracted. When names got brought up, it occurred to her that if she could figure out his name, she might be able to find out who he was. If she started going through obituaries, maybe she could find out who he was—or had been. She was turning over the idea of looking through recent obituaries anyway, to see if any matched; while she wasn’t sure what had happened to the lad, obituaries about old folks dying peacefully in their sleep would hardly work.
Mainly her conundrum was that she didn’t know if she could tell him, either about the research itself or if she found out anything. The lad had gotten startled enough when realizing he couldn't remember his name; she had no idea what he would do if he realized he might be dead.
For now, she decided, it would be more helpful to the lad to listen to what he was saying and try to respond. She was about to rally her forces to his aid (her next strategy being to go through all the names from the Bible that she could remember), but the lad had gotten diverted again and was asking her about the papers open on the top of the desk.
"Oh, those?" she waved a hand. "I was trying to figure out if I'd be able to send a letter or two to Michael to pick up at his layover, but there don't seem to be any good letterships making their way out West. Probably wouldn’t get there in time. I forgot to put them away this morning."
Last night she had been trying to write a letter to him in her head, and had kept getting stuck on their guest. Hopefully, by the time Michael got back she'd be able to share information with him in some way that made sense; for now, she contented herself with keeping her diary updated and detailed.
"Who is Michael?"
"My husband." She took a second to fold the map and directory and timetables up, and stow them in their proper cubby.
"You're married?"
Gail had to chuckle at the surprise written all over the lad's face—the face of a child who finds out their parents' name isn't, in fact, "Mum." "Have been for the past thirty-three years, or at least so I've been led to believe."
"O-oh." He blinked. "I see. Do…do you have kids? I… I hadn't heard any… um…." He gestured vaguely around him.
"Four, but none living here," she said, resuming her work on the terrarium. "The youngest moved out a year ago, and she's working full-time as a professor now. Passed her last examinations for that station not six month hence."
"Ah. They’re all doing well for themselves, then…?" This sudden twist of information had rendered him back to incoherence.
In all fairness to the lad, Gail remembered it taking her some few decades to figure out how to talk to people. "Quite well, I'm happy to say. One took after their father, got into the shipping business. Moved rather far away, up north, where his wife’s family is from, but he writes often. A captain of his own airship now, in fact."
"Ah, congratulations," the lad said with awkward, but heartfelt, enthusiasm.
"The other is working in an orchard a few days journey away, seems quite happy with it." Gail knew quite well she could spend far longer than the lad would care to endure talking about her children, but kept the descriptions short. If he wanted to know more, he would. “From his letters, he seems like he’s getting rather taken with one of the other workers there, though I’m not sure he realizes it, himself. But they all seem to be well settled. I’m quite happy for them, though Heaven knows I’d like to see them more regular. ”
He cocked his head. "And the fourth?"
She carefully measured out how much gravel she’d need in between the layers—perhaps more carefully than she truly needed. "The Lord took him when he was a lad. Not much younger than you."
"Oh." He shuffled his feet. "I'm sorry to hear that."
Gail rested her hands on the desk, looking out the window at the bright, clear day. "Thank you for that. We miss him dearly."
Even after decades of practicing how to talk with others, she never quite knew what line to take in this particular conversation. David’s death had been something she had come to terms with, but it wasn't like it went away. One couldn't just brush over the soul-deep hurt, say that they'd been fortunate overall with getting to have him in their lives at all. But it wouldn't be right to dwell too much on the loss, not when there had been so much good.
She looked back at the ghost in her living room, standing there and watching her with soft sympathy; she wondered where his mother was, if she knew what had happened to him.
Gail dropped her plan of searching through the obituaries for the time being. Death wasn't a matter to be rushed; let him get there in his own time, when he was ready. She turned back to the desk, to the terrarium, and poured in the gravel.
"Maybe I can take you by the university sometime," she said, more abruptly than she meant. "It has been longer than I sometimes remember since I've visited my Charity, and I'm sure you'd find the place interesting. Deep into the city, it is—perhaps you’d recognize something of it. And we'd pass by the lighthouse on the way, too, if we did."
"Oh?" His tone was polite. He could tell that she was shifting the conversation, and was letting her.
"A nice place. A lighthouse and a café and the good souls that run both establishments, and it would break up the journey into the city. Though such a trip couldn’t be immediate. I'd have to let Professor Charity know ahead of time." She smiled to herself—the title still felt new and strange in her mouth, but she liked it. "The city might be nearby, but sometimes the letter system is abominably slow. Practically faster to send a whole package aboard a lettership to catch up with my Michael than to send a note to the university."
She could sense him nodding thoughtfully behind her, as if he knew what she meant. Maybe in some part of his memory, he did.
"I…I'm not sure if I'm quite ready for… something like that," the ghost said in a small voice. "I feel disheveled, and… and… I don't know where I can even go to get a change of clothes, or a bath, or anything like that. I don't… I don't know where I live."
"Ah." Gail turned in her chair, facing him as much as she could and with one arm hitched over the chair's back. "That is a dilemma. No idea at all? Perhaps if you remember a neighborhood of some kind we could take a look. Or I could, rather, if you'd prefer not to go yourself just yet."
Could he change his clothes? Should she urge him to try, and perhaps find out there was something wrong? She didn't want to lie to him and pretend he could be normal, but she also didn’t want to discourage or frighten him unnecessarily. But… he deserved to know.
He tugged at the bottom of his waistcoat again. "That's… that's very kind of you. I appreciate it, I really do, but… I have no idea. Honestly, I'm not even really sure where I've been that hasn't been here. Just… vague recollections of things like trees. Or that I was in a city once. But nothing clear, nothing that makes sense."
The ticking of the clock in the background became more present, more audible.
"I’m sorry to hear it," Gail said softly. "I will be honest, I'm not very sure what I can do to help, but… I do think it might be something that will get better with time. After all, you've been telling me bits and pieces of things you remember. Maybe more will come."
"True, but… I don't know." He looked around him, as if hoping something in the room would give him a clue. "Those feel like memories but they also feel… distant? Temporary? Not unimportant, but… I don't think I lived in a cavern of blue moss or whatever weird places I've thought up that don't seem to be from around here. It's all… dark. Did I have a family? A home? A… a change of clothes." He trailed off.
"It will come," Gail reaffirmed, unsure of what else to do. "At first, you didn't even realize that you had memories missing. So maybe, now that you know they are, you can look for them, and maybe you'll be able to hold on to something."
"Yeah." His shoulders slumped, somewhere between resignation and relief. "That's true. Like… what I'd imagine waking up out of a dream is like. I hope."
Gail nodded.
"So, um, yeah… I think for now I'd rather not try and go anywhere new."
"I understand. You're welcome to stay here as long as you need."
"Thanks." He smiled, but his eyes were foggy again. "Even here, every now and then… feels like I can't quite see it…"
"Well, it is getting on towards evening." Gail pushed back her chair. "It’s time for me to light the lamps. That should help."
The blank unfocus didn't change.
Pursing her lips, Gail looked him over, turning thoughts around in her head. "Well, I can't quite offer you a change of clothes—my Michael is of rather a different build than you." She snapped back into motion, busying herself with moving around the room and gearing on the lights, calibrating them deftly. "But if you'd like, you can look yourself over in the washroom. And if it helps, your clothes are fine. Your hair is a tad messy, with a few loose strands and all, but easy enough to put right.” She hesitated, hand on the last lamp. “Only thing with your clothes would be that stain on your shoulder."
"O-oh." The brown seeped back into his eyes, staring at her as she geared the lamp on and turned back to him. He reached up to touch his hair cautiously, as if he expected it to come alive and bite him. "I had forgotten about my hair."
"Just a simple fix needed," Gail assured him. "Washroom is right over there, and we've a decent sized mirror, too. You can go and check the matter out for yourself."
Nodding, he meandered his way over.
Gail went to close the blinds, noting the first stars beginning to poke out of the depths of navy sky.
"Lord, give me wisdom," she muttered. She didn't even know if he could see himself in the mirror, much less do anything to actually alter his appearance.
She didn’t like how she was edging on covering up the truth. She had always taught her children that honesty was better than secrets, and she had no intentions of turning hypocrite at her age.
But how could she break the news to him?
This was the best she could do, for now, to try and tell him—or show him—that something in particular was amiss, beyond what he was assuming.
A few minutes later, he returned with his hair neatly combed and tied back into a proper ponytail. He seemed to have made an effort to clean his face up some, as well. However, the bloodstain on his shoulder remained unchanged, rip and all.
"I'm afraid I couldn't find anything on my shoulder," he said apologetically, if a tad bewildered. "Is it still there…?"
Gail sized him up.
The injury or stain or whatever it was still clearly visible.
"Well, I suppose it might have just been a bit of grime, or shadow," she said, unthinkingly approaching him, "you look quite the charming lad." She dusted off his shoulder, adjusted his tie, as she would with her own son.
He beamed, the melancholy in his features giving way to bashful pride. "That's very kind of you, ma'am."
“Shall we go into the kitchen?” Gail gestured toward it, hoping he wouldn't notice the sudden strain in her smile. “It’s about time for me to get my bread kneaded and in the oven, if you’d like to hang around.”
He nodded and headed towards the kitchen.
Gail waited a moment, looking down at her hand.
The sensation still sat there, like her skin was reliving the moment of touching and not touching. His clothes, his body, had not reacted to her at all. But there had been something there. Nothing physical, nothing solid, nothing like a person--but something. Like the feeling of a blanket that's been drying in the sun but isn't done yet, warm, soft, but wet and clinging. Except not there at all. And still there was a prickling in her hand, like static build-up during a cold winter.
In her mind, too, there was something more, a sudden flash, like an unveiled lamp, a moment of brightness and lostness, emptiness.
She closed her hand around the feeling, keeping it her palm and engraving it in her mind.
It was odd, but it was him. Maybe it meant something. Maybe it could help her figure out some way to help him. And if nothing else, she had connected with him for an instant. That alone was value enough.
He, apparently, had not noticed anything odd.
Squaring her shoulders, she followed him into the kitchen, and decided that, for now, she would not bring up the clinging charge and heat that moved with her.
This is the last installment in this story--we have made it to the end. Thank you for coming this far with me.
Previously on Terrarium Lights: Gail works through some of her own grief
(Alternate Epilogue >>here)
Of course, Gail did not forget her promise. Once Michael settled in—and heard the story of the past few weeks several times over, and read her journal and the notes she and the lad had made, and walked the length of the coast with Gail—they headed to the lighthouse.
After some polite chin-wagging, Mrs. Seward put up a sign saying she'd be back to the café after a break, and ushered them towards the lighthouse. She saw what Gail was carrying and smiled approvingly. As they went, she explained that he was in a room in the stairwell there. It was brighter and airier than the rooms in the house, she said, and he had often stayed there before, so they felt it was more appropriate. Besides, easier access for the doctor to not have to go through either the café or the rest of their house.
The doctor was not in at the moment, but Mrs. Seward was pleased to report that, according to him, Jonathon was recovering splendidly—which Gail was pleased to hear.
"But… I'm afraid the worst we feared was true," Mrs. Seward said, whispering almost as they approached the steps. "He doesn't quite remember things. He seems to have kept impressions—he knows that he knew us, but he doesn't… quite… well, remember us. And he doesn't see very well anymore."
"Ah," Gail said. So it was as Jonathon had thought.
"We're sorry to hear that," Michael said softly.
"Still," Mrs. Seward said, drawing herself up with her hand on the doorhandle. "Our boy came back. And we are ever so grateful for that."
If either Gail or Michael saw a hint of tears in her eyes, they did not comment.
The room was, indeed, quite nice. It was small and cool, but large enough that it felt cozy instead of claustrophobic; the long, wide window on the wall let in a stream of sunlight, and looked out trees and, through them, the sea. When the window was open, Gail imagined that it smelled and felt quite fresh.
Jonathon was sitting on the bed, placed just under the window and piled with the surplus of blankets and pillows Gail had noticed upon entering. He looked different. "Solid" was the first word that came to mind. It amused Gail somewhat that she half-expected his eyes to be blank and colorless as he stared with a different kind of vacancy toward the window. Overall, he seemed to have more color in him. His cheeks had more warmth to them, his lips looked less dry, and his eyes were a rich brown. Perhaps he looked different because he was in a cleaner shirt and waistcoat, and there was no blood or injury to be seen.
When the door opened, he turned his head towards them.
"Hello, Jonathon," Mrs. Seward said. "You have some visitors. They’re friends of ours from church. You don't know them, but Mrs. Goffrey has been praying for you while you were sick."
"Oh," he said, his hands fiddling with the blankets. "That's very kind."
"My pleasure," Gail said with a chuckle. She shifted the weight of her gift in her arms. Honestly, she should have asked Michael to carry it.
He tilted his head at her voice.
"I'm afraid I was traveling just now, through the weeks that all the goings' on took place," Michael said, "so I’ve only started on my prayers recently. But I have heard a lot about you."
"Ah." His face squinted in an embarrassed smile. "Thank you, I think."
"I'll be back at the café if you need anything," Mrs. Seward said, looking back through the lighthouse door towards the rickety and ungeared wagon pulling up around the bend. "And you two are familiar with the area. Just pop in and say good-bye before heading out."
Gail nodded.
"So." Gail started, suddenly unsure of how to start a conversation with so familiar a stranger. “How… how have you been?”
"Truthfully, I'm not sure." Jonathon went back to rubbing his fingers along the hem of the blanket. "I don't have much to compare things to. But… I think the weather has been nice. I know Mrs. Seward has been dealing with a personal loss, but they haven't told me much. Apparently I was asleep for several weeks, but… I assume you must know that already."
"I had an inkling," Gail said with a chuckle.
She glanced around the room, looking for a suitable spot. The best place was perhaps the dresser beside his bed. The only thing on it was a framed picture of Jonathon, standing posed with… someone. He looked vaguely familiar.
"We have a present for you," Michael said. "Something my wife made for you."
"Oh." He blinked. "I… you didn't have to."
"No worries," Gail said brightly. "It’s something of a hobby of mine. Is it alright if I set it on the dresser by your bed?"
"What is it?" he asked.
"It's a terrarium," she said, coming closer.
"I… I'm not sure what that is," he admitted.
"Well, usually, they're made in glass jars and the like, and a little scene is made with rocks and moss and various other things. Like a little mini garden, but of moss. But I made this one a little different." Gail set it down on the bed beside him, the weight of it making the mattress bounce a bit, and gave him a chance to explore it. "We made this one wider and more open, and in what was supposed to be a clay garden pot. It broke a few years back—though don't worry, no edges anymore, we made sure to sand them all down—so it's solid and won't fall over easy if you bump it."
“Technically, it’s not really a terrarium anymore,” Michael inserted helpfully. “But we made it using similar principles, and neither of us could remember what the other type is called. Mossarium didn’t sound quite right.”
Gail chuckled. “We tried to make it more for feel and texture than looks, so that’s another reason why we made it bigger. Easier to put your hand in, if you want.”
He felt it gingerly, brushing his fingers along the edge of the clay, stopping at a sudden protuberance.
"That's a little lamp we attached to it," she said. "It gives off more warmth than light, and it should be easy enough to find and turn on if you need it. Michael helped me rig it. A friend of mine gave me the idea," she added more softly.
"Oh." Jonathon's forehead was creased as he fingered his way down to the moss. "That feels nice," he said, smiling slightly and gently pressing his hand down on it. He picked up one of the smooth stones lying in the moss and fingered it, rubbing his thumb along the irregular notches and blunt edges.
"There are some stones for extra feeling and texture," Gail said. "And the moss will flower in summer. It has a lovely smell."
"I… I don't know how well I can take care of it," he said, slowly setting the stone down as if he were afraid to break it. "Will that be a problem?"
Gail lifted it and slid it onto the dresser beside his table, bending down to plug the little lamp into the cogstow beside his bed. "Don't worry about that," she said, her head still done by the dresser.
"It doesn't need much water," Michael explained. He put a spray bottle in Samuel's hands and gave it a light tug, the gears clicking slightly as the water built up pressure and shot out. "A few sprays every few weeks should be quite enough. We're not sure how it will work with the lamp, but I suppose we'll see. We can repair and reconfigure things as needed, but I think it should be decently waterproofed."
"That's… it's all very thoughtful of you both," he said, in a tone of gratitude that bordered on distress. "Thank you."
"Our pleasure," Gail said, straightening up and dusting her hands off. "We like to help when we can."
"You seem like kind people," he said, still holding the spray bottle, "and we don't even know each other." He held the bottle in both hands, frowning down at it. "Do we…? I… I can't quite tell… but… somehow I feel like I've heard your voice before." He tilted his head towards Gail, not quite turning all the way.
"After a fashion," Gail replied with a chuckle. "We have met before, though it makes sense you wouldn't remember me."
"Ah. I'm sorry. It’s… it’s something I’m hoping to work through."
"No worries," Gail said. "But recovering is a difficult process, I'm sure you could use some time to get back on your feet. Speaking of which, we didn't want to stay too long today, but we plan on visiting again—just so long as you wouldn't mind. We can help tell you things about the area, or read to you, or do whatever you might like. Try and help you adjust or else just keep you company."
He smiled brightly. "I think I'd like that. It's… it's good to hear more voices."
"We'll come by soon, then," Michael said, patting the lad on his shoulder.
As they made their good-byes and prepared to leave, Gail turned again to the framed photo that was now beside the terrarium.
It was of two lads, one of them Jonathon, in front of a building that Gail recognized as belonging to the academy. They each had an arm around the others' shoulder, and were smiling. The lad on the left wore a big smile, as natural as if that's what his face was born to do, while Jonathon’s half-smile was bashful and unsure.
It clicked. It was odd, seeing Samuel in a much more normal setting, and in a more normal color palette—or at least as far as Gail could tell, considering the obvious limitations of photography. She wondered if it had been able to capture color, how he would look. What color his hair and eyes would be, when he was alive. She smiled at the picture and set it down gently.
She was glad that, in a way, he would still be around to look out for his friend.
Previously on Terrarium Lights: Gail got plot-twisted and now she's trying to do something to help about it.
(Next part >>here)
Most of the other customers had already moved on, so the café was largely empty by the time Gail made it in.
Mrs. Mary Seward saw her as she came in, and waved at her.
They knew each other due to the annual festival held at the lighthouse, and because the Sewards had recently started attending Gail's church—though perhaps it was better to say that they were familiar with each other rather than knew each other. They had talked some, and were vaguely filled in on each others' circumstances, but they were little more than pleasant acquaintances who got along well at after-church lunches.
As such, Gail was both surprised and unsurprised that Mrs. Seward came out to serve her personally, instead of the worker that… did not seem to be there at the moment, actually. Odd. They typically made a point to employ some of the youngsters from the surrounding area.
"How are you doing, Mrs. Goffrey?" she said cordially, pulling a pad of paper out of the front of her apron and smiling pleasantly.
"The good Lord made the sun," Gail replied, sitting down at a hopefully private table further in the corner, "and it's shining as it ought. So I reckon I'm doing well. How about yourself?"
"Busy," Mrs. Seward laughed. "We've had to cut down on some of the days we have extra hands about the place, so it's a bit heavier on us. But business is good. Speaking of which, anything I can get you?"
"One coffee, please," Gail said, "black, no sugar. And if you have any fruit pastries, I think that would go with it well."
"Coming right up," Mrs. Seward confirmed, jotting down things on her pad. She whisked herself away to the kitchen, and left Gail to wonder how on Earth she was going to be able to learn what she needed to. Over-thinking was something she took pains to avoid, but at this precise moment it looked more like she hadn’t done any thinking at all. Another prayer, it seemed, would be in order.
Beside her, she noticed that Samuel had made his appearance, materializing through the doorway as if he had just walked in. He waved at her tentatively, then stuck his hands in his pockets.
Gail nodded at one of the other seats at her (admittedly) small table. Inwardly, she wondered how well she'd manage to deal with a sensitive conversation to someone she didn’t know very well, plus an involved spectator that only she could, but well, it would be rude not to invite him. Besides, it would rather cut down on time (and an elaborate game of mailcarrier) if he could just hear what was going on, himself, and not rely on her second-hand summaries.
He hovered near the table but didn't take a seat.
The last customer (presumably belonging to the one remaining gearmount out front) carried their cup and plate to the kitchen counter, and left with a merry jingling of the café bell.
It wasn't long before Mrs. Seward returned with one of her fruit dumplings and a cup of steaming coffee.
"There you go," she said, sliding the plate onto the table. "Made fresh this afternoon."
"Thank you, Mrs. Seward," Gail replied. The smell of warm dough and fruit—mango, she'd guess—mingling with the strong, bitter smell of the coffee struck her stomach with the force of realization: she hadn't brought any extra food, and she was hungry after having walked this far. "It looks delicious."
Mrs. Seward smiled politely. "Thank you."
Gail patted the table, indicating the seat across from her. "Sit, get off your feet a bit. There aren't any other customers here, and if any new ones come in, you'll see them fine."
Mrs. Seward hesitated.
"How about this," Gail said, "I order one more of the dumplings, and you get a snack out of it, too."
Mrs. Seward coughed a surprised laugh. "I couldn't take your money for food for me to eat in my own café."
"Nonsense," Gail retorted. "I couldn't ask you to sit and share your valuable time with me and not reimburse you fairly. We don't get time to talk often, and I haven't had much opportunity for socialization or chatting with Michael gone."
"Well…" Mrs. Seward sighed. "I suppose that's true. And if I need to get up and working, I'll be able to get back on my feet right quick."
"Of course. I wouldn’t dream of keeping you longer that you’d want."
Mrs. Seward’s smile felt less polite and more genuine. "I'll be just a second."
Gail exerted a great deal of self-control and did not scarf down the entirety of the (thankfully large) dumpling before Mrs. Seward got back.
"Ahhhh." Mrs. Seward sank down into the seat opposite, thin cheeks flushed from the warmth of the ovens in the kitchen. "I will admit, sitting down does feel nice."
"You seem to be quite hard at work," Gail agreed. "Why are the part-timers off-duty?"
"We're needing to save a bit more money just now," Mrs. Seward said, slicing into the dumpling neatly.
Gail was already several forkfulls ahead of her. "Oh? Is the lighthouse not doing so well? Repairs of some kind?"
"No, all of that's going well," she said. Now that she was sitting down and eating, her early reticence had dissipated. "Something else happened that is quite a miracle, so I'm very grateful for it, though at this exact moment it's a bit difficult."
"Oh?"
"Well, it's all a bit strange, but a close friend of my son's showed up again after having gone missing for six years, and we've been needing to pay the doctor to be here regular, since he hasn't woken up for the past three or so weeks."
Gail nearly spat out her coffee. Apparently, she had not needed to be concerned about information.
It, belatedly, occurred to Gail that if something big and surprising had happened—such as a young man appearing at the lighthouse one day—she would likely have had more trouble avoiding the topic than not. She bit down onto her fork with enthusiasm and general gratitude.
Wait.
"Your son?"
"You’re familiar with the annual remembrance festival, right?" Mrs. Seward replied, giving her a quizzical look.
"Well, yes," Gail replied. "We've only been attending since a few years ago, but yes. A festival of remembrance for those lost at sea, and for those brought home again, right?"
Mrs. Seward chuckled a bit, taking a delicate bite of her neatly sliced up dumpling. "Well, it actually isn't specified where they were lost. Your son was lost at sea, though, wasn't he?"
"Aye. David."
"We lost our son six years ago, but it was under unknown circumstances. The next year we wanted to give something back to the community that helped us through such a difficult time, so, in honor of him and those around us who we knew who had also suffered losses, we started the festival of remembrance."
"O-oh." Gail found she didn't have much of an answer.
"But, well, we still haven't found our son. We may never." She pushed her fork slowly into the dumpling, contemplating it. "But, again, we never thought we'd find his friend again, either, so there may be hope yet."
