[multiversal]
The night is cool and oddly in shadow, the moon but a sliver peeking out now and then from behind thin clouds. Rachel walks her usual route from the train station to her apartment building, mind half engaged in propelling her tired body toward home, half lost in random thoughts and daydreaming.
Tonight, though, there’s something different, some motion on the pavement up ahead catching her attention. Ever wary of running into strangers after dark, she makes note of where the street lamps are--just in case she needs to defend herself--and she slows, taking in the scene before her. There’s a man loading things into a small cart, and there are a stack of books and a pretty stained-glass lamp, among other things, on the sidewalk. It’s a really pretty lamp, all greens and purples, the glass inlays meant to look like flowers.
She looks up just as the young man does, their eyes meeting, and she offers a polite smile and a hello because that’s what she does. She moves to pass around the things on the sidewalk, sparing another glance down at the lamp, and the man speaks. "Hey. You need some stuff for your place, miss?"
"Excuse me?"
He gestures at his collection. "I’m cleaning out the last of my late aunt’s apartment. I got no use for any of this stuff. You want it? Less for me to haul away."
She pauses, chewing her lip. That lamp is gorgeous. And books--she could never say no to books. These look like they’re old and well-loved, leather-bound. "Yeah, okay," she says, digging around in her bag. "How much for the lamp and the books?"
"You can have ‘em."
"No, no, I can’t just--"
He holds up his hands. "I insist. I’m just happy I don’t have to pack them up. Listen, I got more books--" He moves a few things in the cart, hauling out a cardboard box that’s seen better days and may not see this one’s end. He pulls a few things out of the top, tossing them aside to reveal some more books, and he adds the ones from the sidewalk to the box. "You can have ‘em all, with my gratitude for not having to drag these heavy books and that delicate lamp to the other side of the city."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive. Hell, I’ll even carry ‘em to your place, where do you live?" She hesitates, and he laughs. "I ain’t a creep trying to get into your place, miss. Honest. I’ll leave the box at your door or even outside your building if it makes you feel better. Just show me where."
He takes the box, she takes the lamp, and she lets him follow her as far as her apartment door. Another rebuffed offer to pay for what she’s taken, and the young man is gone, heading back out to his cart. Rachel waits until she’s sure he’s not inside anymore to unlock her door.
She gets the lamp inside without incident, but she can’t lift the box very well. She grabs one side and drags it over the threshold, where it promptly comes apart, its contents scattering. She picks up the ones blocking the door’s path, so she can close and lock it behind her, and she glances at them idly as she moves to set them on a shelf. There’s a book of poetry by someone whose name she doesn’t recognize, and what looks like a book of folklore from India. The last one’s leather cover bears no markings; she flips through it and sees not printed pages but lined pages filled with feminine handwriting. A quick scan reveals the events and musings of a day.
Oh, no. This isn’t a book, it’s a diary. It probably belonged to that man’s late aunt, he’ll want this back.
She hurries outside, the diary in hand, but when she hits the street he’s nowhere in sight. She’s surprised he got everything packed up and got out of here so fast. She didn’t ask his name, nor does she have any idea which of these apartment buildings he might have come out of. And inspecting the insides of the covers and the first few pages as she climbs the stairs back up to her place doesn’t help--there’s no name, no identifying information.
Damn.
Rachel tosses the diary onto the kitchen counter as she reaches for a glass to fill from the tap. It flips open to a random page. She resists looking at first, because this is private. She doesn’t want to pry in someone else’s life. But curiosity gets the better of her, and she picks the book up again as she drinks from her glass.
This new mark against me is nearly too much to bear. Why? Why me? Wasn’t it enough that I was the fatherless girl, the funny-looking girl with all the red hair, the girl who just doesn’t fit in? Why this too? It’s not fair. I just want to be like everyone else.
Rachel stares down at the page, her breath catching in her throat. The words, the sentiment, they’re all too familiar. That was her, too, once upon a time. How sad that that was someone else, too, that they had this in common.
She can’t help wondering what else they might have had in common.
It’s wrong to pry, she knows, but she takes the diary with her to read in bed, anyway.
Tonight, though, there’s something different, some motion on the pavement up ahead catching her attention. Ever wary of running into strangers after dark, she makes note of where the street lamps are--just in case she needs to defend herself--and she slows, taking in the scene before her. There’s a man loading things into a small cart, and there are a stack of books and a pretty stained-glass lamp, among other things, on the sidewalk. It’s a really pretty lamp, all greens and purples, the glass inlays meant to look like flowers.
She looks up just as the young man does, their eyes meeting, and she offers a polite smile and a hello because that’s what she does. She moves to pass around the things on the sidewalk, sparing another glance down at the lamp, and the man speaks. "Hey. You need some stuff for your place, miss?"
"Excuse me?"
He gestures at his collection. "I’m cleaning out the last of my late aunt’s apartment. I got no use for any of this stuff. You want it? Less for me to haul away."
She pauses, chewing her lip. That lamp is gorgeous. And books--she could never say no to books. These look like they’re old and well-loved, leather-bound. "Yeah, okay," she says, digging around in her bag. "How much for the lamp and the books?"
"You can have ‘em."
"No, no, I can’t just--"
He holds up his hands. "I insist. I’m just happy I don’t have to pack them up. Listen, I got more books--" He moves a few things in the cart, hauling out a cardboard box that’s seen better days and may not see this one’s end. He pulls a few things out of the top, tossing them aside to reveal some more books, and he adds the ones from the sidewalk to the box. "You can have ‘em all, with my gratitude for not having to drag these heavy books and that delicate lamp to the other side of the city."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive. Hell, I’ll even carry ‘em to your place, where do you live?" She hesitates, and he laughs. "I ain’t a creep trying to get into your place, miss. Honest. I’ll leave the box at your door or even outside your building if it makes you feel better. Just show me where."
He takes the box, she takes the lamp, and she lets him follow her as far as her apartment door. Another rebuffed offer to pay for what she’s taken, and the young man is gone, heading back out to his cart. Rachel waits until she’s sure he’s not inside anymore to unlock her door.
She gets the lamp inside without incident, but she can’t lift the box very well. She grabs one side and drags it over the threshold, where it promptly comes apart, its contents scattering. She picks up the ones blocking the door’s path, so she can close and lock it behind her, and she glances at them idly as she moves to set them on a shelf. There’s a book of poetry by someone whose name she doesn’t recognize, and what looks like a book of folklore from India. The last one’s leather cover bears no markings; she flips through it and sees not printed pages but lined pages filled with feminine handwriting. A quick scan reveals the events and musings of a day.
Oh, no. This isn’t a book, it’s a diary. It probably belonged to that man’s late aunt, he’ll want this back.
She hurries outside, the diary in hand, but when she hits the street he’s nowhere in sight. She’s surprised he got everything packed up and got out of here so fast. She didn’t ask his name, nor does she have any idea which of these apartment buildings he might have come out of. And inspecting the insides of the covers and the first few pages as she climbs the stairs back up to her place doesn’t help--there’s no name, no identifying information.
Damn.
Rachel tosses the diary onto the kitchen counter as she reaches for a glass to fill from the tap. It flips open to a random page. She resists looking at first, because this is private. She doesn’t want to pry in someone else’s life. But curiosity gets the better of her, and she picks the book up again as she drinks from her glass.
This new mark against me is nearly too much to bear. Why? Why me? Wasn’t it enough that I was the fatherless girl, the funny-looking girl with all the red hair, the girl who just doesn’t fit in? Why this too? It’s not fair. I just want to be like everyone else.
Rachel stares down at the page, her breath catching in her throat. The words, the sentiment, they’re all too familiar. That was her, too, once upon a time. How sad that that was someone else, too, that they had this in common.
She can’t help wondering what else they might have had in common.
It’s wrong to pry, she knows, but she takes the diary with her to read in bed, anyway.