Repeated Reunions
She remembers flowers. Nice little moments, stolen away in the time and space that was called Milliway's. She remembers that it was late summer, or was it?, and that her time was brief and that every moment was filled with something sad and happy, heart breaking and wonderful, all at once. It was such a cruel balance. Perhaps it still is. In fact, its likely.
She breathes in the scent of warm wood and an ever present essence of malt liquor, running her hand over the counter top at the centerpiece of the room. There are traces of a fragrant fire burning, too. She doesn't look bewildered or lost or intrigued, like a newcomer would. Its something like nostalgia. There are stairs somewhere to the side, and they go up. As soon as she wonders if she still has a room, she knows she does because her own little key with its yellow ribbon is waiting at the end of the table. It rests atop a note, the handwriting neat and familiar. Distinctive. Just like hand written notes should be.
It was the last note she received before she went out, almost as if on a whim, like a creature of impulse. It wouldn't be the first time.
Her warm amber eyes read over the ebony script again, remembering, sitting down before the place where it had been left with the Bar. She wonders where he is now, if he is back, or if he has made it. If she prayed she would, but she only hopes that he did. To that very important time period. But she knows that one can never hope too much anymore, too.
The letter... such sweet words. She didn't leave a thing. Except, maybe, the things that Milliway's has kept for her. She's glad the place has kept the letter, too. She has no idea where it might have gone should she attempt to bring it back.
The letter is folded to its original state and she holds it as she leans forward, elbows on the counter top with her forehead against her wrists. A deep inhale of that scented air, and she just... sighs.
[Tag: Lucrecia Crescent]
She breathes in the scent of warm wood and an ever present essence of malt liquor, running her hand over the counter top at the centerpiece of the room. There are traces of a fragrant fire burning, too. She doesn't look bewildered or lost or intrigued, like a newcomer would. Its something like nostalgia. There are stairs somewhere to the side, and they go up. As soon as she wonders if she still has a room, she knows she does because her own little key with its yellow ribbon is waiting at the end of the table. It rests atop a note, the handwriting neat and familiar. Distinctive. Just like hand written notes should be.
It was the last note she received before she went out, almost as if on a whim, like a creature of impulse. It wouldn't be the first time.
Her warm amber eyes read over the ebony script again, remembering, sitting down before the place where it had been left with the Bar. She wonders where he is now, if he is back, or if he has made it. If she prayed she would, but she only hopes that he did. To that very important time period. But she knows that one can never hope too much anymore, too.
The letter... such sweet words. She didn't leave a thing. Except, maybe, the things that Milliway's has kept for her. She's glad the place has kept the letter, too. She has no idea where it might have gone should she attempt to bring it back.
The letter is folded to its original state and she holds it as she leans forward, elbows on the counter top with her forehead against her wrists. A deep inhale of that scented air, and she just... sighs.
[Tag: Lucrecia Crescent]