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It’s been two years since Ranpo died.
It’s been two years since Poe didn’t rest.
At first, the pain was pungent. The type of pain that makes you want to disappear. Makes you want to die as fast as possible. Edgar couldn’t think well, moved by the grief, he would spend his days writing, barely eating and barely sleeping.
After it, the pain didn’t dissipate, but with it came the rage. He hated everything. Hated his house and how everything remembered him of Ranpo. Hated how some of his clothes still have Ranpo’s scent. Hated his own miserable reflection. Hated the silence. Hated how, no matter what he did, the ghost of his beloved didn’t go away.
Karl was his only confidant. The little raccoon would often bring him his own toys, expecting at least some happiness from his owner. But he knew that Karl was also grieving, he was eating less and would spend the whole night wandering through the house, looking for the person missing on the bed.
Some nights, in the quiet of the dawn, he would listen to laughter echoing through the house. He would listen to the paper of a snack being torn. But when he would stop everything to listen to these soft sounds, only the quiet welcomed him.
He was now lying in bed, with only the faint sound of the wind outside.
He dreamed with Ranpo, again.
Poe wanted to cry. He wanted to destroy everything that reminded him of his lost love. One day, he even thought that he regretted having known Ranpo. But that was only a cheap lie, one of the several lies he told himself. That everything will be okay. That it will pass.
It will pass.
A common knowledge. Everything in life passes, doesn’t matter what.
He didn’t feel like it would pass, though.
Poe sighed. Another morning, another day.
Another day without Ranpo.