'Stay with me at my house...'
He leans back with the smallest glimpse of a smile on his lips at the reflection, and the hint of a sigh at the memory of his mother’s face. He closes his eyes again for the last time that night, folding his hands in his lap, fingers around his wrist chafing back and forth for warmth. And his hands go limp, closing together and stopping all movement, fingers entwined.
In the morning, the light travels over his eyelid, inching to take over his whole body. Abruptly, he wakes with a jerk - the compartment is filled with this blinding, warm sunlight, he stretches his fingers, fingertips pulling out, as if reaching for something. The light blinds everything; the seat across from him is a blur. The train goes under a tunnel, blacking out everything; he closes his eyes to adjust, opening them to see that someone was sitting directly across from him. Her head rests against the glass of the window as his had before. Her red hair coiled down to her shoulders, brushing the buttons of her dress. The tunnel ends, bringing them back into the sunlight.
His eyes glimpse out at the view, blurs of green grass, tress with vibrant reds, yellows, orange, houses with brick and ivy growing erratically. The blue sky has wisps of yellow, gray, blue clouds, the sun peeking less prominently behind the clouds. He looks over at her, eyes blinking rapidly to the change of light. She gives a jerk of her body, moving to a more comfortable spot against the glass, her ear brushing against the translucent sky. Her hands cradling her head against the still glass. A black, leather notebook sits on her lap.
He touches the cover, feeling the crest which is embedded on top. He closes his eyes, remembering. His memories move to his father’s open door of his study, he walks hesitantly to the door, inching it open so he can creep inside. He finds no one there, just rows of books, textbooks, notebooks…scattered on chairs and tables; Books in stacks on soft chairs by the fireplace, slipped in tiny spaces between walls and desks. The book self cramped to capacity, with the books stuck so tightly, bound forever in the wood, and then stacked on top like a tower; paper covering every inch of the desks, and a smell of mahogany, old parchment. The window’s have a dirty film, casting a musty light. He remembers shivering at the cold, fireplace long extinguished.
Then, a small voice breaks into his consciousness. Opening his eyes rapidly, he searches for the source. A tiny voice, the smallest of whispers, but ripping through his reverie in an instant, a murmur of
“Where have you been?”
It is an amused, curious voice, from the girl sitting across from him.
“You haven’t been asleep. I saw the tinge of a smile.”
She points across to his mouth, closing the space…but still within inches of touching.
He adjusts in his seat, moving further away from her as the space allows. He clears his throat with uncertainty, creating an echo in the silence.
She just looks at him with softness, patience.
“My memories,” he breathes.
She smiles at him, apparently assured, closing her eyes again and sighing contentedly.