an ode to the lost
brixcheng:
When Bridgette had gotten the call about Tomβs death, her entire world had shut down. While she knew the burns were bad, it hadnβt crossed her mind that this could be something he perhaps couldnβt bounce back from. It utterly destroyed her. Since then, sheβd been spending most of her time at home, simply waiting for the diner to get back into business so that maybe sheβd have something to do with her days.Β
Sheβd had some visitors, but for the most part people seemed to sense that it would be best to leave the young woman be. Given that, she was a tad surprised when she heard her doorbell ring. It took a moment to muster up the energy to go to the door, but once she did, she was glad for it. A soft smile tugged her features as she saw the young man on the other side.Β
βAdrien. Come in.β She stepped aside for him. Sheβd always be glad to see the blond. He was her brother in all means other than blood, and seeing him always put her worries a bit more at ease.Β
To think of Woodleaf as boring was once thing. To consider it dangerous was another altogether. A break in, a fire, and the death of Tom Heft were quickly turning such perceptions, however, into more than pure speculation. The students felt it, too. That much was easy to tell. And the young teacher didn't feel right silencing them, such tragedies deserved to be remembered.
But it was Bridgette he worried for, confronted once again with that uncomfortable inevitability of death and of loss. He hadn't seen her in days. Although in all honesty, Adrien hadn't known what to say. He still didn't. He rang her bell, not pushing his way in unannounced as they had as children. When she answered, Adrien forced his model smile, lightness to his eyes that remained purely on the surface.She didnβt buy it. Of course she didnβt.
His hand rested on her shoulder, lightly, greeting and comforting in equal measure.
"Do you have some time, Bridge? I was hoping we could talk."
Talk like, actually talk unlike the half answers and dismissals he got from certain other citizens of Woodleaf. Upon her answer, he'd nodded, made his way to her small kitchen to brew tea, the way she'd liked when they had been young, when heβd been to young and protected to touch the stove. Over the whistle of the kettle, he let out a breath, low and deep, and let that mask of a smile fade.
"You were there, werenβt you?"














