Work Text:
Today's spring. The wind is less of a biting chill as the sun makes its way through the clouds again, and more like tender lips against his skin. Many things begin to bloom again; leaves, greenery, people. Many don't, and they leave their ghosts in the quietest of places.
Sinclair shifts as they approach the ajar gate. The bus to here was already nerve-wracking enough.
“Do we really?”
“They dispatched us here,” Hong Lu turns to gaze at her side. “We simply can't refuse the mission, Sinclair.”
Sinclair sighs, and curses the Dieci Saints under the same breath.
Unrecognizable, charred remains of a house came into view. Unrecognizable is no matter, because there's an undeniable tremor in Sinclair's lip when they pass by the uncut hedges, when they step on the blackened cobble, when they weave through the nails. Hong Lu has half a mind to stop when Sinclair tugs her by the sleeve.
The look he shoots her only bleeds one syllable: wait.
It towers above them, marred: a large property. It's under the family name of Sinclair; home to polished smiles, innovative machinery, and traditional values. His home.
“This is where you lived.” Hong Lu starts, and her eyes rake over the courtyard rather than the manor. Between the stretch of nails are three graves—all empty—and they're tucked quietly by the left side of the yard. The grass is overgrown, and she almost finds it in herself to frown.
She faces Sinclair, glancing down at his white-knuckled grip.
“...At some point.” And that's all she's given.
There's a golden seal, untouched by the licks of flames from the months before. Sinclair's face twists, and Hong Lu catches it before he tears himself from her sleeve.
Sinclair begins marching toward the stringy remains of the front door.