Chapter Text
They step through the gate, and Robin turns to close it.
“No, leave it open, please”, Maria says. “Just a little bit?”
So he takes a rock the size of his fist and places it at the gate post.
Maria is still shivering and her clothes, the red velvet coat…dress…thingy and the white lace dress, are soaking wet. Even Robin’s leather gear is beginning to feel a bit damp. He goes to look for the house key in the little milk pitcher in the shed and finds them some dry clothes in his old wardrobe and his mother’s, and then they make tea in the small kitchen with the colourful tiles and the old coal stove. The kitchen clock tells him that it is either a new day, or he spent no time at all beyond the gate.
They walk to the station and Robin buys Maria a ticket and writes his number on a scrap of paper when she asks for it.
“In case I get lost in strange lands again not knowing who I am.”
“London’s not that scary.”
“I’ll text you anyway if I get there.”
“Anytime, Princess.”
And then they hug and board their respective trains in opposite directions.
Things are right again, Robin feels it deep within his soul. Time and light and the weather seem more…balanced than before. Occasionally, when the world feels like a doomed pile of dogshit again, it’s as if there is a draft somewhere, and his attention is drawn to something lovely. A bird. A fence overgrown with old man’s beard. A house with a pretty door, kids playing in the street, someone humming a melody, a sticker or graffito protesting against fascism and hate.
Sometimes the draft leads him onto a path in the greenery that definitely wasn’t there before, and he ends up having taken a much faster route. Sometimes, it sends a pigeon flying his way so fast he has to dodge and ends up not stepping in an actual pile of dogshit. Sometimes, he comes home after a long and exhausting day to a hot cup of tea already waiting for him in the empty flat.
And it’s not just him, either. He notices people’s faces lighting up for no apparent reason when the draft passes them. His downstairs neighbour with the two little kids and horrendous energy bills due to drafty windows gets a call back from a job interview he already forgot about, and Mrs Tally from next door overhears it and immediately volunteers to watch the kids during the day, because she is a bit lonely and her cat is fond of the children. People in a hurry suddenly stop to smell the literal roses (or lilac, or lavender, or jasmine…).
Odd, that.
The time he spent in another dimension, falling down caves, walking through woods, and watching his childhood friend throw jewellery into the sea, seems like a fever dream now, but maybe it was good for something. Maybe whatever it was that needed fixing was fixed by the pearls, and maybe leaving the gate open allows for some healing to bleed over into this world, like a breeze of fresh air through an open window.
Nevertheless, the feeling that something is missing is still there. It’s not nearly as urgent, and not of a global, all-encompassing nature anymore. A personal issue, rather.
As he steps off the tube, a new message pops up on his phone.
Hey, i’m coming to london for undergrad open days next weekend (fri-sat). any chance i could stay at your place?
no problem 👍
A few minutes later, his mother of all people sends a follow-up text that makes him blush.
It’s been nothing but ‘Robin this, Robin that’ around here since you two met again. You better treat Maria like a gentleman, or I’ll disown you, you hear me?
On Friday, when Maria steps off the train and into his embrace, the last bit of unease dissolves.
Nothing is missing anymore.