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To whom does the moonlight knight pray upon the desolate ground that once was untainted? Upon muddied waters like his own memories, tracing each end and letting the coldness sink into his heart.
Often it whispered, should the knight merely return to their rightful owner. Unfeeling, unalive, surely it would be of best behaviour.
One screamed on top of their lungs but was never granted a voice, never granted vision or true emotions. All but an echo of a person that once was, a kind and passionate knight who treasured the violin more than anything.
Or so he thought.
This is goodbye. I will come for you, not in flesh but in spirit.
How should one know what that truly meant? Or how fleeting the crescent moon was before it wanes, it wanes, it wanes…
Where does the moon go?
Should he become an evil spirit, should he choose the path of vengeance in confusion and rage, should he not become the haunted sorrow of the Lone Moon Castle? Instead, here he was. Gazing at the window upon a cold and dark night.
Wanting.
Hoping.
Yearning.
A figure filled with dreams of love and extravagant joys of having companions. Sought each person, each warmth, for any sign of where he belonged.
What a fool.
In one's right mind it was even a miracle for him to exist.
If one day he would not be perceived, his harmonies were not heard, would he truly exist and ever was recorded in books nor the heart of someone else.
When the cat purred upon being stroked by the headmistress, comfortable around the fireplace with carefully prepared food and yarn,
He wants it.
When the librarian came to visit the professor and told a story, he made him laugh. A smile he had never seen when faced with a cold and dangerous spirit,
He wants it.
When the painter sought the gem, an heirloom and fragment of his past, to have been studied and sought after so meticulously for such a long while,
He wants it.
And yet when the cold hand tried to touch another being, with his long fingers that passed through his lips with ease. He knew, he truly knew…
He cannot have it.
What is it? Surely it was something very important that could not be put into words. If he had truly needed it should he not know what keeps him all too rigidly rooted to the earth?
An oath he could not remember.
An affection long forgotten.
And now, gradually time does heal. Time wears him off like no other.
Even the ever so dutiful cat would have their resting days after years of accompanying the schoolmistress.
Even the professor's vision would decline and should he not retire from his position.
And now, the gem was gone. Exchanged for goods and services.
Things had changed. Should he not?
Please percieve me. Please percieve me.
The ghost pleaded.
Please percieve me. Please percieve me.
Unseen, unheard, unrecognizable.
Please, please, please…
"Antonio?"
The spirit lifted himself to the voice calling a name created to address himself.
"Antonio, do not fret. I am here." Even with his fading vision, the professor lifted his hands to be held. Should he not cling to the outstretched hand?
He cannot refuse.
"Antonio, do not fret. I am here." only managed to have a mimicry of the words spoken to him. He does not understand why or how. Or what should he have done better.
Are we talking about lost chances? Unforeseen future? The weight of a name and a legacy? No… no… it was much simpler than that now…
"Antonio, how have you been?" the professor asked.
"Antonio, how have you been?"
"Have you lost your sense of self? Should I tell you a story about yourself?"
"Have you lost your sense of self? Should I tell you a story about yourself?"
"Antonio…" the professor calmed the spirit. Once more, borrowing the old magic of the quill to give warmth to the broken-spirited. "Antonio is your name."
"Antonio is your name..."
"It's a wonderful name, isn't it?" The old man chuckled.
Ah yes, he told the spirit to keep the name. The name given as a sense of belonging, the name that was written inside the violin. Written by a sentimental violinist who cared much for their violin.
"Isn't it…?"
Echoing rhymes and passing down stories was a duty of the storyteller. There was no place for a former professor and a broken spirit now, weren't there?
He grew old and powerless now. Like an hourglass now filled with sand. The time that was given and borrowed could not return. Perhaps, some things cannot be saved after all.
"I will fade with you, Antonio. Does that lessen your fear of eventual demise?" The professor held the remnant of his old friend. He retained no shape nor glow, mere coldness and fragile petals.
"Fear of…"
"I'm sorry. I created you, I saw through your hopes, your wishes. It was something I cannot grant to you."
A memory flashed before them. A beautiful sunset view, hidden by the stacks of books to read and papers that needs to be graded.
"If you had a wish, what would it be, Antonio?"
"Your happiness."
"Pardon?"
"Yes…"
The ghost hovered to glance at the setting sun. Very soon it will be dark, and his spiritual form will glow, giving him a more distinctive shape. But for now, a figure under the sunlight, he seemed almost… natural. What he would look like as a living human.
"I want you to be happy.
Like the knight before me, and the knight after me."
And I would not want anything more.
Servais knew it was a lie. But it was a beautiful lie. Even if he had noticed all the attempts and signs of affection, gaining false hope will be the worst thing that could have happened.
Servais cupped the petals within his hand. An echo of a moment that used to be, a resounding of the past, the unprecedented present, and a wish for a future that never was.
"I am happy, Antonio." Another lie. "Please have yourself finally at ease."
For as long as one such as he lived, a shadow follows, a sound that creates an echo. For life is full of those little delights and miseries.
As they fell into deep slumber, a final question came to mind. Was it a tragic comedy or a happy tragedy?