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there’s a soft, warm breeze outside. it rustles the fresh leaves of deciduous trees—a subtle harmony to the pleasant birdsong. the birds have recovered from the long winter and now search for mates, building homes to raise their future chicks. overhead, the sun shares its gentle warmth with those there to feel it.
spring is here.
here, specifically. in the bustling city of new eridu, there is no evidence of wildlife starting anew. large buildings blot out the sun’s heat (though when summer comes, the humidity will linger). the commotion of daily life will drown out nature’s song and the city lights will shine brighter than the stars. in humanity’s last haven, however, few people find themselves missing the wilderness. when life outside promises danger at every turn, the stars become an afterthought.
ironically enough, here is where it remains.
rows of tombstones are the only evidence of human interference with the area. there are only a few rows—a private graveyard for a prestigious family (too good to lie among commoners, even in death). they sit in the shade, slightly weathered with time, though not bleached from the sunlight. there’s one that looks better than the others, clean of moss and mold. shockingly, or perhaps not, it isn’t the biggest one, with the family name carved in bold letters and a longer epitaph underneath.
“it’s been awhile.”
a blond man stands before a small tombstone, more weathered and aged than the others, but better-kept. he’s the only one that’s been here for a long time, the graveyard kept as far from the house as possible while still lying in the grounds. hugo remembers it being called “a reminder of failures.” a place where the weak wound up, decaying alone. he wonders if the man currently in the mansion thinks of it the same way. if he even thinks of it at all.
“i’m sorry i haven’t come by recently.” there’s a slight smile on his lips as he speaks, voice softer than he’s allowed it to be as of late. “i’ve been… busy. i’m sure you know, my work has never been easy. but, i suppose i owe this to you. my goodbye.”
he remembers the first time he’d come here. father hadn’t wanted to give her a tombstone at all, but he had, and he had brought him here to see it. “look,” he’d said (in that tone you could never disobey). “you built this with your own two hands. keep this up, and one day, you’ll be in my position.”
hugo had been too young, too petrified at the time to deny it. he might have snapped back had he not been staring at what remained of her, hands shaking. silence had lingered between them for a moment before his father rested a heavy hand on his shoulder—not to comfort, but to warn. when he met his gaze, it was like the sharp edge of a knife.
“you will see plenty more in your lifetime, hugo. dwell on it, and you will lose more than a sibling.”
hugo’s expression falls.
he laughs a little, though there’s no joy behind it. “this will be the last time,” he mutters. “i’m… sorry. i wish i had brought you more flowers recently. these are all dead now, aren’t they?” a dead bouquet of flowers rests in a stone vase to the side. hugo kneels down to remove them and they wither in his grasp. once a beautiful yellow, the petals have long wilted and turned brown. in their place, he sets a new bouquet—one with branches full of small, delicate, pink flowers.
“you’re in luck.” a melancholy smile lingers on his lips. “your favorite, aren’t they? they’re in season. i was too late to get any from orchidea last year. she said they only bloom for two weeks in the best condition, and the best conditions are rarely available.” he stands again, combing his free hand through his hair. “the cherry blossoms on the grounds are still beautiful. you would love to see them.”
there had been laughter between the two of them. she had quietly pulled him out of bed and into their backyard. they had risked major punishment at the time, but it was their only breath of freedom. most nights were still watched over by their father’s careful gaze. this time, they were truly free.
she’d taken him to the tree and laid on the grass among fallen petals. “isn’t it pretty?” she whispered, and he nodded. “if only we could come here during the day.”
“you can see the blossoms from the pavilion.”
there had been an emotion in her smile that he was unable to decipher at the time. looking back, he thinks it was bitterness. “yes… but that isn’t the same as lying with them.”
he’d let silence fall between them, too anxious about being caught at the time. her voice was the only thing that snapped him from his thoughts. “hugo, you don’t need to worry. he’s asleep and so are the others. let yourself be happy.”
… and he had.
(she was wrong. their brother had woken up and gone to tell father. he doesn’t remember what happened, but he remembered being unable to feel his arms for weeks. yet, those petals lingered with him.)
“i-”
he sighs heavily and shuts his eyes. “i’m sorry. i shouldn’t have come here just to tell you i won’t come back. i wish i could stay, i just-”
just what? can’t? they both know he could never.
a breath in.
“... i’m going to end this.”
he opens his eyes and stares at the name engraved on the headstone. traces over the letters with his gaze. memorizes it. there’s not even a date on it—just the name of a “failure.” he engrains it in his head so he can’t forget it like he’s forgotten her face; her voice; her smile. he wants it to replace his face; his voice, in his memory.
“no matter what it takes. if death is the price i’ll have to pay? so be it.”
two birds with one stone. at least he’ll be able to rest knowing they’ll suffer the same way he had. a pitiful excuse for blood family, driven by greed and power. too cocky for his own good and blinded by his status. if only he could see his face during his fall. he supposes he’ll see him in hell.
… a pathetic excuse for a friend, stubborn and close-minded. or perhaps too good for him. with a heart made to love instead of hate—hands made to protect instead of destroy. hugo has always wondered if she would have gotten along with him. he wonders if she would have shared his ideals, his priorities, his disappointment. too good for him.
he thinks of sharp red eyes, bright and curious about the world. soft lilac hair, well taken care of. a gentle voice, wronged by the world, yet still kind.
he hopes his old partner will be a better caretaker than he was.
“you won’t approve of my methods,” hugo mutters. “but i’m only doing what must be done. playing the role i’ve been given.”
his grip on the stems of the dead bouquet tightens. they’re falling apart, what petals remain falling to the floor. always destructive. always a fool.
the birds are singing overhead
“don’t worry, serena.”
winter is over.
“it’ll all be over soon.”