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melancholy things always made for great fiction.
“Chaos is disorder, but if something is already in chaos, then its disorder is order.”
“Servitude is the best way for the unfortunate to rise in their station and procure good wages for themselves and their families.”
The windows had returned, letting in violet, orange, and red sun rays. They fell over chairs and sofas, a dark fireplace, a scenic portrait on the wall, and an empty corner that might have once borne a pianoforte or a harp. Seemed the right size. As Merritt watched, those smoky curls reformed themselves in the corner, muting the sunset. The ceiling warped like it was being stretched by a torrent of rain water. The carpet ruffled like the fur of a threatened cat.
“I’ve been lonely for a long time. Sure, I’ve had friends, colleagues, so I’m not isolated. But I still feel it. It’s the deep, lasting kind of loneliness. The hollow kind that settles in your bones.”
But sparks led to embers led to flames, so it had to be snuffed now, before her heart again crumbled to ash.
Anxieties. Unreasonable thoughts.
But Hulda was like picking up a book with no description, fanfare, or title and discovering it got better and better with each page turned. He wanted to know how her story would read. He wanted to reach the denouement, the end. And he wanted to see if she had a sequel.
“Have you ever wondered,” he followed up without missing a beat, “if we’re all characters in another’s book? If all of our actions, whims, thoughts, and desires are being controlled by some omniscient author?”
Being useful made her feel good about herself, regardless of all the nonsense and trepidation going on in her life.
Hers was a story he didn’t want to end. But how many pages would she let him turn? What was her ending—their ending—going to be like?
