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The sun rose behind the horizon. A scorching ball of hot magma, weighing down its warmth upon passerbies and shops, drying away the humid night and soggy trees.
He had bought a bouquet. Now, he was sitting down. Observing the world. Basking in the sunlight. Waiting for time to drift by.
In this life so far away, he used to run, bustle, dash about, scratch away at countless papers for countless hours. Anyone who would dare enter his workspace would be quickly and rudely shooed away, or assigned an errand he had no time to spare for. The minutes would tick away at rapid paces, escaping between the space of his fingers like flowing water. He could never catch up. He was never fast enough.
Now, the seconds slowly ticked by. The current had hushed. Life was awfully still. He was endelessly waiting.
Back then, all that ever interested him were equations and theories on a blackboard. The intricate spells, the precise calculations, the way reagents would interact with one another, the effects produced by a series of meticulous manipulations. He would never observe people walking by the way he did now, would never look up to the sky and marvel at how splendid of a day it was. Time had been of the essence. It still was, just not in the same way.
He had won prizes, countless of them. There was a time when praises would continuously come his way, blocking out all other achievements, granting him jealous stares, bitter comments and sacharine smiles. His ego was quite inflated back then. Not by the admiration, but by the pride he held for his own craft. Criticism would be waved away with the back of his hand, he would make no time for friendly talk, only to swiftly move away once acquaintances would morph into obstrutions. He wanted to revolutionize magic, peel away layers of flesh to gradually tear apart the heart of the matters and understand the senses behind it all— not make buddy-buddy with the neighbors. Alas, there was more data than he could go through in a hundred thousand lives.
In the end, here he was fifty years later, sitting on a bench, alone, confronted with the discouraging truth of his ignorance.
His fingers met the fragile flower petals, lightly pinching them between his index and thumb. Healthy and smooth, the color was a striking deep blue. Fresh dew fell in tiny droplets upon his skirt, dampening his clothes rapidly. Still, the old man didn't budge. He stared into the blue, like he stared into those eyes all those years ago. He couldn't quite remember his face. His features could have been sharp, but gentle. His eyes might have been downturned. His hands had been calloused, but incredibly warm, topped with a strong grip that could effortlessly lift his entire body off the ground if it so desired. Surely, he had been beautiful.
Espresso stood up from the bench with some effort. Grabbing his crooked cane with his bony fingers, he walked slow steps, back deeply slouched from years of neglecting his posture, to the nearby gates. Casually stepping inside the isolated area, noise quickly died down. Nothing but him and stones remained, ornate with the names of past companions and enemies alike.
Latte, who died four years ago in the comforts of her home, at a respectable age.
'Beloved teacher and friend, always in our hearts.'
Almond, who passed away countless years ago, leaving behind a legacy of hardwork and respect that his daughter carried out flawlessly.
'In loving memory of Almond, cherished father and colleague. Forever in our hearts.'
Clotted Cream,
'Accomplished Consul and adored friend, who made history.'
He passed by climbing plants and polished tombs, gravel flying in all directions as he dragged his feet further into the trees, deeper into the cemetery. A mighty statue holding a flag high, face tilted to the skies, emerged in the corner of his vision. He angled his face away, eyes meeting pristine marble instead. He needn't remember his tears. His broken smiles. Nor did he want to recall the way he would stare into the void, slowly coming to the realization that she wasn't here anymore. That she would never be again.
Marble became rocks, rough on the sides. Names passed by as he wobbled further away. Always further away. Too far to be seen. Too deep in to find the resolve to make the voyage through the trees, the overgrown grass, the thick roots rising from the ground then nestling back inside the earth. Dirt squished under his feet, pebbles rolled away with each swing of his cane. A branch scratched his arm, tearing off a piece of his cardigan, as it always did. Petals strewn about on the ground. He held them closer, heart sinking further down with each leaf escaping the stem.
His steps halted. There the stone was. Cracked, dirty, overgrown with moss and mushrooms. Single rays of light pierced the trees, resting their golden hues upon the engraved piece of rock. Bugs danced in the rare light, buzzing, turning, twirling, blissfully unaware of their own existence. Leaves rustled, and another petal fell from the bouquet.
He reached him.
Madeleine.
'May you rest in peace.'
His last bouquet lay upon dirt, rotten and brown, a single worm chewing away at whatever plant remained. Pushing it away, he got onto his creaky knees and made place for the newest one. The same as always. Blue laying upon dirt, ready to become an appetizing meal for bugs and animals alike once he would turn his back on his beloved. Espresso swiped away the moss, the mushrooms, the dirt off the headstone, knowing all too well they would climb back in no longer than a night.
Soon, he too would be overgrown with moss and mushrooms. He stared into the lazily engraved words.
Madeleine.
How he missed him. His eyes. His hands. His body resting against his own, heavy and warm. His bulky arms, the way they held him so close. Their hands intertwined. Their gazes locked into one another. The chirping of birds outside as they laughed the night away, counting stories of travels and childhood, gossiping about every other person for all and for nothing. He could still feel the rumbling of his chest under his clothes.
He was the only one who remembered.
Slowly, painstakingly, the old man got up from his kneel. Dirt now sullied the fabric of his clothes, falling in clumps on the ground, back where they belonged. He couldn't be bothered. His back cracked and popped, his joints squeaked and he loudly groaned, raspy voice overtaking the overwhelming quiet. His necklace jingled to the rhythm of the messy effort, matching golden rings clinking onto one another.
From behind a tree, someone quietly waved, shovel in hand and face hidden behind long hair. He waved back, then turned away. Her gaze lingered, until it didn't. The sounds of upturned dirt reached his ears as Espresso stepped back into the well-lit gravel, the marble and the statues.
He couldn't quite remember what events followed. Memories slowly wiped away from his mind as hours went by, and he was becoming nothing more than a jaded, wrinkly old man, who wouldn't be able to remember his own face in a matter of days, months or years, if he was lucky.
Yet, as the light morning breeze tousled his hair, he didn't care much. Nothing mattered, for the sky was a gorgeous blue. And blue was his favorite.