6!Meet again !

Sylvie

As I stepped out of the elevator, I collided with a tall, broad figure. I looked up to see a face that made my heart skip a beat. It was a face from my past, a face that I thought I'd never see again.

I quickly regained my composure and pushed past him, trying to escape the sudden rush of emotions. But he was fast, and he reached out to grab my arm as I walked away.

"Hey, Sylvie, wait," he said, his voice low and urgent.

I flung his hand away, my eyes flashing with anger. "Stay away from me," I hissed, not looking back.

He didn't seem to take the hint, and he jogged alongside me, trying to catch up. "Sylvie, please, just listen to me," he said, his voice rising above the din of the hospital.

I quickened my pace, my heart pounding in my chest. I didn't want to talk to him, I didn't want to relive the past. I just wanted to get out of there, away from the memories and the pain.

But he kept pace with me, his eyes fixed on mine. "Sylvie, stop," he said, his voice firm. "We need to talk."

I didn't respond, just kept walking, my eyes fixed on the exit sign ahead. I could feel his eyes on me, could sense his desperation. But I wasn't going to give in. I wasn't going to let him get under my skin again.

Finally, I reached the hospital entrance and pushed through the doors, feeling the cool air hit me like a slap in the face. I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself down, trying to shake off the memories that lingered like a shadow.

But I knew I couldn't shake him off that easily. Not when he seemed so determined to talk to me.

After a moment of getting myself together, I decided to head to Dad's old house, a place where we had grown up in, before moving to our present place. I had chosen this place to hold the burial for Dad.

The sky was smeared with a wash of slate gray as I pulled my car into the gravel driveway of the house I hadn’t seen in over a year. The tires crunched beneath me slowly, the sound jarringly loud in the surrounding stillness. My fingers tightened around the steering wheel for a moment before I cut the engine. The air was thick with early spring dampness, fresh and clean, yet heavy with memories.

The house stood like a forgotten photograph: aged, faded, and untouched. The shutters were slightly askew, ivy curled around the porch rails, and the wind chimes my father had insisted on keeping up even through winters clinked faintly in the breeze. It was home, but also not.

I stepped out of the car, my black coat billowing gently around me. A suitcase thunked onto the ground as I pulled it from the trunk, its wheels dragging behind me like an anchor. Each step toward the front door carried a heaviness no suitcase could rival. It felt like a smashing iron pushing me down to crush me.

Inside, the air was still. Too still. The scent hit me the moment I crossed the threshold, aged wood, paper, and the subtle musk of my father’s cologne that lingered like a stubborn ghost. I paused in the foyer, staring at the row of hooks by the door. His hat still hung there, slightly crooked. I didn’t fix it.

In the living room, the chair was exactly where it had always been, facing the television, the footrest slightly askew. A folded blanket lay across the back, its fibers thinning, but clearly cared for. I reached out and touched it, the fabric cool under my fingers.

“I’m home,” I whispered. The room didn’t answer. It made the air in the room get worse.

Upstairs, everything was in its place. My old bedroom, untouched. The hallway creaked with every step. I entered my father’s room carefully, like walking into a sanctuary. The bed was made. The curtains were drawn. On the dresser sat a glass tray where he kept his wallet, watch, and wedding ring. I stared at them for a long while. Everything was just the way we had left them. Like a home where the tenants vanished without a trace.

The closet held a neat row of suits, earth tones, navy, a single tuxedo he never wore. My hand hovered before I finally chose the charcoal gray one. It was the suit he had worn to my graduation, and then to my mother’s funeral, ohh, how I miss mom. It felt appropriate. Final.

I folded it gently, reverently, placing it on the bed.

Back downstairs, the dining table was cluttered with paperwork. I pulled out a chair, sat down, and opened my notebook. My handwriting was smaller than usual, tight, controlled.

I added one more item to the list of numerous things I need to get done

Call Alice

My father’s neighbor, the one who always brought him homemade pies. She’d want to know.

As the sun dipped behind the trees, the house grew darker. I turned on a single lamp. I didn’t want too much light; it felt disrespectful somehow. I made tea but forgot to drink it, the mug cooling untouched beside me.

Finally, as night settled fully around the old house, I stood once more in the doorway of the living room. I looked at the chair. In silence. At everything he’d left behind. Staring straight into the darkness, old memories flooding like it was yesterday.

And for the first time since I saw my father dead, I allowed myself to cry. I hadn't had time to after seeing Logan. Not the sharp, wailing grief I feared, but a quiet, breathless weeping. Tears rolled down without protest, without drama, pooling at the corners of my mouth before I wiped them away.

“Okay, Dad,” I said softly. “I’ll take care of it. I promise.”

And at that moment, the house didn’t feel quite as cold. It was like a warm breeze passed. It made the house feel more peaceful and quiet.

Maryanne and Emily will be arriving tomorrow, I fear the storm they would bring to this house. Maryanne had been furious when I sent a message to her, telling her this would be where the burial would hold and where Dad would be laid to rest. 

She didn't have much choice either as she didn't want to associate herself with the ceremony. Funny how, I won't be surprised if she takes all the praises for it. She was a Lunatic who gave birth to a junior Lunatic. Both mother and daughter are very….. nevermind, I put them in God's hands.

I needed to do a lot of things before their arrival, I don't want them having to boss me around. I hope they arrive very late, so I can get them done.

I walked into my Dad's room and laid on the bed. Not caring about the consequences of me inhaling the dust from the bedsheets. All I needed right now was something to make me feel closer to my Dad.