𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐉𝐄𝐂𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑⁰¹ʰᵉᵐᵐⁱⁿᵍˢ✓

⁷⁸ember hope

luke

I observe her still figure, frozen as though the morning and mourning had finally set in, cold and deep in her chest, refusing to thaw as the afternoon came. Maybe what was left of the hope she had the last few days burnt out, perhaps it was always just an ember.

Wherever it is, it's not here. Not with her.

Looking at her, it seems like some part of her was lowered down as well, side-by-side with her dad and what tears fell on the dug-out hole. She herself looks almost as pale as the gloom in the sky, or the grey of the casket. Whichever you pick to be preferred, it doesn't get any better.

She didn't say much the past week. The best anyone gets from her are short answers. But I didn't bother prying in and asking her to give more. She needs the space to process and think, and I can only imagine how hard it is.

She didn't cry as much as her mother or siblings during the service, perfectly stone-cold face all throughout, even as she greeted the other attendants. As though professionally, she shook their hand, exchanged some things in her mother tongue (condolences, perhaps), and remained doll-like on her seat.

Sometimes, I wondered if she'd been replaced but an actual doll since Clem herself couldn't bear to be here. But she loved him too much not to.

A pastor came, recited something in French for a few minutes, everyone threw in white roses into the hole, and watched as the casket was lowered. Down, down, and even deeper, the wait an agonising thing within itself amongst the actual service.

Marlowe stood at the front for a few minutes and spoke half in English, an appreciated attempt so that I could understand more, and recited a poem that Nathaniel had written.

And it ended after a few minutes of silence. I, confused with what was happening, still somehow understood.

Maybe it was the shock, the aftermath of emotions she and everyone else had after realising they were one person short — and maybe to Clem, her mom, and her siblings — one puzzle piece of themselves lost.

The ride to their house was as silent as I'd anticipated it to be. With Ollie, Maddie, Clem, and I all squished in the back seat, I'm sure they would've found something to talk about if it was just any other day. I could practically hear Maddie and Ollie arguing over the space they both shared. But there was nothing.

After half an hour of watching Clem chip away her nail polish, we arrived at their apartment. They all moved quietly and almost robotically out and into the building, Marlowe only stopping to receive some condolences from some neighbours.

They all seemed very sympathetic towards the families, offering the siblings a concerned look. Though I didn't understand half of what they were telling them, I got what I needed with their back pats, pouts, and sorry eyes.

From the looks of Clem's and her siblings' faces, they didn't want to be there for it.

Clem had asked if she could take some shirts from her dad's closet since we'd be departing for LA in two days and Marlowe had allowed it — so now, I'm sitting in their bedroom, Clem squatted on the floor, and reading through old writing projects Nathaniel had kept in his shelves.

The finished ones are the children's stories, all dated from years and years before, probably when Clem, Ev, Ollie, and Maddie were still kids. The rest of more mature plots seem to be stuck in certain areas, which is where they'd end, leaving you to want more from it.

"Hey, what do you think?" I hear Clem's voice, raw and soft in the silence.

I turn to her, seeing her hold up a white shirt with vines embroidered on the front.

"Is that his?" I kneel down beside her and go through the shirts she'd put on a neat pile. "Looks cute on you,"

She bobs her head in satisfaction and folds it on her lap before grabbing another shirt from the closet, letting it unveil in front of her.

Navy blue with striped white collars, I can imagine Clem wearing it and looking much smaller than she actually is.

She squints at the front pocket and shoves her hand inside, brows furrowed in confusion as she takes out a handkerchief, her expression changing wholly as she stares at it, her thumb once again the victim to her polish scratching.

Wide eyes, gape mouth, I peer over to see why it must be so interesting.

There, dainty on her hands, the handkerchief with a blood stain. It's faint, as though there was some attempt at washing it off, but it's there.

Something in my chest drops at the sight of it. We both know the secret but it's a dangerous thing to whisper.

Though, it's not as much a secret as it is an unsaid truth. It's bitter. Nobody likes bitter things.

I put my hand over hers and block her sight from the handkerchief, turning her face to me. "Hey," I say gently. "He's okay now,"

She reads my eyes for a few seconds, left and right as if looking for any sign of ingenuity. But there is none. So she looks down at our hands and nods, her bottom lip jutting out in a pout as she takes the handkerchief and delicately rests it on the bed.

"Let's go," She whispers, hanging shoulders supporting her heavy head. "I'm tired,"

I give a nod and take the pile of clothes she'd chosen into my arms. There must only be a dozen but it feels heavier, knowing whose they were from, who had worn them, and how great he was during the short time I'd known him.

Ember hope. That's all there is.