Chapter Text
The cemetery was unusually quiet that morning. Sparrow stood before the grave, as wind softly blew the small bouquet of white lilies in his hands.
In front of him lies the grave of the Actress whom he admired so deeply, Lady Bella.
He exhaled a breath he didn't realize he was holding. “Madam, I came to give you flowers again today…”
He crouched down, carefully placing the flowers beneath her name, brushing away a few dead leaves. His hands lingered on the cold stone.
It had been a month since her passing, yet the young man couldn't bring himself to get over the death of his most cherished performer. Although they only shared the same theatre to work in, although they never had a special bond with the woman, he had always held her close to his heart.
Since the day he saw her perform, he felt it, something similar to a love at first sight, but maybe a lot more innocent. He remembered the first time he watched her act her best and it tingled his chest, inspiring him to do what she was doing. To act with all his heart, to love the role that was given. That was the feeling that the blond stuntman felt in the past, and that was what he thought she was doing. Yet now, staring at the cold tombstone in front of him, he became unsure if it were ever the case.
In the midst of getting lost in his own thoughts, he heard footsteps walking closer to his direction.
Soft. Measured. He didn't look up at first, people came and went here all the time. But when he did, he froze.
A woman stood a few paces away from where he remained still, dressed in mourning black, a veil pushed back to reveal dark red lips and sharp, watching eyes. She didn't speak. She didn't have to.
The figure that caught his eyes was a woman in her mid thirties. Dark brown hair, neatly styled in a bob that curled around her cheeks. Gray-ish blue eyes and upturned brows. A look hauntingly similar to the Actress the male was mourning for.
Before the stuntman's senses came back to him, his mouth spoke without him thinking, “...M-Madame Bella?”
The woman blinked once, slowly. Her expression showed very little changes, yet the blond felt chill creeping up his back.
‘Sparrow, you fool! Just how far are you willing to let your sorrow string your mind like this...?’ he cursed himself in his head. He knew that her death had occupied his mind relentlessly, but he never thought it would push him to the point of fooling himself into thinking the Lady came back to life by looking at someone with similar traits.
He took a half-step back. Hearing no reply from the other party, he stuttered, “No, I-I mean- sorry. I thought-” he hastily tried to excuse himself as shame slowly crawled into his poor little heart.
She raised a hand, stopping the young man from continuing his words. She interrogated, “You knew her?”
Her voice was crisp, refined. Sparrow didn't fail to catch the authoritative tone laced in her question. Contrasting the late Actress' melodic and sweet voice he once remembered.
Nevertheless, Sparrow nodded nervously, still caught in the eerie resemblance. “Yes. I-I worked with her. At the Golden Rose Theatre.”
She tilted her head, considering him. Her eyes travelled down to the bouquet of lilies he placed on top of the stone. “You were a fan?”
“I was a stuntman,” he replied, a little too quickly. “I'm sorry, I was just here to give her the bouquet…”
The air between them felt suffocating. She looked him up and down like one might inspect a broken watch. She seemed to have something in her mind, but the young man dared not to guess as he had already embarrassed himself before her. He even wondered if he had spoken too much and possibly annoyed the older woman.
The older woman remained silent as she strode closer to where he stood. The blond stepped aside for her to pay her visit to the deceased. After getting a closer look, he was certain that the woman was a relative of the Madam. Even though he never heard of the late Actress having a sister, the uncanny resemblances served as a clear sign.
Sparrow didn't stare for too long. He rubbed his elbow in discomfort as he scooted further from the woman. He couldn't tell if she was currently praying or paying her respect, so he didn't make a sound while, at the same time, waiting for the right moment to pardon himself.
As he was about to speak, the lady beat him to it.
“You said you've worked with my sister?” she asked for confirmation.
He nodded, “... Yes.”
“Were you… close with her?”
“I… wasn't,” Sparrow admitted, voice quiet. “At least… I'm sure if I was, the Madame didn't see it that way.”
A pause.
The brunette turned her attention to him only to find him looking downward. She heard his word trembled slightly at the end, yet the emotion she managed to catch in his meek voice wasn't something negative. Not to her deceased sister at least.
“... Do you come here often?”
“Huh?” he finally lifted his head. He could see the cold in her eyes remained. Not wanting to make her repeat herself, he quickly replied, “Once a week, every Friday.”
“Why so?” she continued.
“I… I haven't got to move on from her death…” Sparrow admitted with honesty.
It might not sound nice to know that her relative's admirer visited her grave once a week, but it was true that he had yet to find peace after Belladonna's passing. His admission would paint him as an obsessive fan who refused to let his love for his idol go, yet the man couldn't bring himself to care for his image. Maybe that was true, maybe not. Really, the male didn't even know anymore.
Truth to be told, this day in particular was supposed to be the last day he visited the grave. To be exact, he had vowed to himself that he'd stop last week, knowing well that holding onto this sentiment would send him spiraling down into depression. However, his legs ended up walking his body to the same place, bringing the same bouquet. So looking at their encounter seemed like a way for the universe to do him a favor, giving him reason to actually stop this repetitive act.
‘Maybe she'll curse me out… Tell me to leave and never come close to her sister's burial? That… doesn't sound too bad. That should help me move on, right?’ he thought with a saddening optimism. Right, this encounter should be the line where he finally stopped. A line he shouldn't cross.
“How dedicated.” he heard her comment.
Not knowing how to respond, he gave her an unsure nod.
“Well, I am quite intrigued by that said dedication. Have lunch with me.”
Another pause.
He blinked. “Pardon?”
“You admired my sister,” she said, as if explaining away the strangeness of her own request. “You worked beside her. I have questions.”
Before he could answer, the brunette was already turning her heels away, her black skirts sweeping like shadows against the stone path.
The blond's heterochromia eyes followed her figure, standing still as he tried to process what she had just said. His legs slowly moved him to tail behind her in the state of confusion, but not before he offered the grave a quick bow.
“W-Wait, Miss-” he called in a slightly hushed tone.
“If you insist on words, come. The dead deserve quiet.”
Sparrow's mouth was left agape without another word out of it. He pursed his lips and followed the older woman silently.
Really, he didn't have to follow her. She might have told him to, but nothing could force him to follow her. Despite that, he trailed behind her without much thought like a lost puppy.
There was something in her posture, the tilt of her head, that tugged at memories best left buried. She wasn't Belladonna, he was well aware of that, but something about her made him follow anyway.