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If anyone else had been there, near that small grassy hill, they might not even have noticed that anything was different. After all, the only sound was a soft whispering noise that could easily have been the wind, and the only light to see by was a few weak stars above.
Wilbur would have noticed, he likes to think. He’s been to places like this so often, and lately, he hasn’t been much of anywhere else. If there’s so much as a single scrap of paper on the ground, ruining the image framed by his video camera, he’ll hurry to remove it before starting over. There’s no way an entire person would escape his attention.
There’s not much wind tonight, for once. The whispering that follows him is nothing more than his own footsteps on grass- and thank God for that, because the winter wind knows no mercy. It’s more of a creature than a force of nature, sinking its teeth into anyone unfortunate enough to be outside, and refusing to let go.
If he stares through a tree at the perfect angle, he can just see a pinpoint of light that doesn’t look like a star. It’s not moving. A house, maybe? A streetlight? He almost wants to yell at it, just to force someone to acknowledge that he’s here. He’s used to getting some attention from passersby, mostly due to his height- which made it all the more noticeable when it started to fade away, when interest and awe were replaced by quick glances at his tattered jacket and tired eyes, and a careful performance of having not noticed him. God forbid he start asking them for money, right?
He doesn’t want money. He doesn’t need it. Maybe he used to think he did, but these circumstances have shown him otherwise. Even when he can’t get anything to eat, even when he has nowhere to sleep for twenty-four hours or more, his camera sustains him for as long as it needs to. When he’s making videos, he’s real. His existence means something, to someone out there, and it’ll still be there when the last remains of his body rot away.
So he keeps making them. He keeps leaving clues, desperate to keep people engaged, to make them remember him. Whenever interest starts to wane, he drops another breadcrumb of a clue, leading them a little closer to the answer. To the thing he can still barely admit to himself, let alone anyone else.
He doesn’t want to tell them. But without it, the story’s incomplete. His legacy will be a puzzle with missing pieces, an off-brand imitation of himself, and he doesn’t know if that’s enough to keep him alive.
The recording goes smoothly, the lack of background noise making it possible to finish in a single take. Maybe he stutters a tiny bit, here and there, but he doesn’t like to edit this footage too much. It needs to be raw enough, real enough, for people to watch it and see exactly who he is. Just another person, someone who makes mistakes. Mistakes he can be forgiven for, right?
Jack would forgive him, even if he knew. Deep down, Wilbur doesn’t quite believe that himself, but he still clings to the thought. Even when things started going wrong, when his friends couldn’t look at him the same way anymore, there would always be a new video from Jack to help him pretend that nothing had changed.
Until even they lost their appeal. They were funny, sure, but that was all they were. He didn’t feel like he was getting to know Jack any better, or learning any more about what he was capable of. He had to think for a while to identify the problem, but once he had, it was staring him in the face whenever he watched.
It was the editing. The way it cut out the contemplative moments between sentences, the constant smothering of special effects, the snarky comments that disrupted the flow of the videos… The more he noticed it, the more he hated it, and the more certain he had become that he could do much better.
And this was where it had brought him. To a thread of hope, however thin and difficult to grasp. If he does a good job, if he does everything right, he could become Jack’s one and only editor. They could make wonderful things together, stories and experiences and ideas that no one else can. And maybe, one day, it’ll be enough, and they’ll all forgive him.
His phone lights up, a notification blinking on the screen. It’s risky to check it when the battery’s so low, but he has to see it. Any form of communication revives his soul with the potency of a magical elixir, even spam emails trying to sell suspicious vitamins.
He unlocks the device, and lets his eyes adjust to the bright light.
It’s not a spam email. It’s from Jack.
Right away, he brings the phone right up to his face, eyes fixed and determined not to miss a single letter.
Dearest W,
I bring good news. You got the job.
He doesn’t read the rest. Any more, and his heart might burst.
He got the job. He’s the editor now. The odds were against him from the start, but he didn’t give up, and now the sky’s the limit. Not the dark, clouded sky that hangs above him at this very moment- one that’s brilliant blue, and adorned with a shining sun.
He would love to keep looking at the email, burn each letter directly onto his retinas, but he’ll have to shut his phone off if he wants it to work tomorrow. Once he’s back in darkness, his eyes droop a little, and the slightly longer grass at the base of the hill is starting to look incredibly appealing.
Shaking his head a few times, he chases thoughts of sleep away. Not yet.
There’s a video to make.