Work Text:
By the age of 17, Nobody Owens had seen most of the world. From gleaming beaches to the most crowded passageways, his foot had once stridden on every pavement. Now, the same foot rested on the paled flooring of the grumbling shuttle.
“Shuttle at Stop C to Hastings from Heathrow airport is now arriving at the station.”
The young man raised his head, clenched his leather suitcase, and adjusted his posture to prepare for the exit. Once the bus swung and halted, he followed the queue of passengers out of the door.
The road to his cottage was neither long nor short; he enjoyed every bit of it. Spring blossomed on the sides of the road, on the once emptied trees, on flowers nurtured by bees. Bod’s gaze danced around the town, capturing its beauty with the whole of his heart.
Then, the view changed. A stone wall stood at the corner, weathered away. Attached to it, covered with patches of yellow and brown, an iron gate creaked.
A rusted lock loosely hung upon the gate as it swung back and forth like a ship without a rudder. Bod approached the creaking gate, head slightly tilted, and eyebrows scrunched down.
Why is the gate of the Graveyard open? Shouldn’t someone always be here to keep it locked?
He nudged the gate forward. The young man, either with concern or curiosity (or both), settled his gaze into the yard as he created an entrance for himself. Then, from the bottom of his foot to the tip of his head, he emerged into the ancient ground once again.
Bod trotted uphill, fumbling through his memory to match the scenes in his eyes.
Prosperous earth had not been a part of the Graveyard for as long as he could remember; and it was still not. Headstones of The Dead, the small and crumbling church, all stood where they should as he dug through his memory.
He turned the corner to the little grey building. As his gaze wandered forward, something different caught his attention.
A person.
In front of the church, someone rested on the worn-out bench.
Someone… familiar.
Bod sped up his paces as he approached the long-haired figure.
“Hullo, uh, excuse me --”
His voice balked the second that her head turned to face him.
Memories flushed and rushed before his bare eyes.
Patches of colours and shapes and patterns stitched together, piece by piece, became an amusing embroidery that had once shaken his heart.
It was the girl.
Scarlett.
“Yes sir?”
She broke the abrupt silence, half-folding the book that she studied.
Their eyes met each other.
Her brilliant blue eyes sparkled, like a calm lake disturbed by a falling pebble, creating ripples of gleam.
His gaze melted in hers.
He wanted to hug her, to talk to her, to ask how her life had been.
But he couldn’t.
Her memories of him had been erased. That day. By Silas.
He couldn’t do anything.
Bod’s sight darkened, clouded with the thought.
On the bench, the girl, although with knitted eyebrows, still owned an upturned tone.
“I…have seen you before,” head tilted, the girl faltered.
Interrupted by the voice, His thoughts snapped into emptiness.
For a moment, all he could do was stutter, like a child learning to speak. Then, within him, he had nothing left except for warmth.
“Well, I’m Nobody Owens,” Bod’s eyes crinkled, “nice to meet you.”
The girl beamed, warm as the sun. “I’m Scarlett Perkins. Nice to meet you too!”
In the corner of Bod’s gaze, a delicate, white petal danced with the spring’s breeze.