Brothers parted by a canal. A bridge which connects them only displays a shared nature.
One with rotting vines atop villages with blue lights. Large portions of a budget going to a military brushed under the rug.
Another with pipes clouding a thick air of toxins. Condensation leaks on windows with different colors, but different families scrub them under hope, so close.
Meanwhile, a tall, broad-shouldered man in a gray-lined suit with a withered rose in his breast pocket walks. He remains silent with pitch-black eyes and a fedora.
142 . . . 143 . . . and—
144.
He knocked twice on the metal door from below, refusing to raise his hand to knock.
Knock . . . knock.
Waiting patiently, he adjusted the black-withered rose as he placed his arms behind his back.
He felt something watching. Then, something glinted upward . . .
He looked, but nothing was there.
From behind the door, light and careful footsteps traveled to answer.
"Hello?" she asked. A pale woman with hollow eyes, pulled back. A shell of former beauty.
"Amira Bakir. I have been sent on watch for you . . ." The man softly spoke.
Confused, "What—"
Then, the watcher barged in. He sat down on the couch softly, making no noise for the courtesy of the woman's child—and the neighbors.
Weakly, the woman marched toward the man sitting on the other couch. "What is the meaning of this?" she whispered.
"It is under my obligation that I keep watch on you. I am a bearer." he stated.
The woman calmed. She sat gently on her red couch. A window at the end of the small apartment shone brightly in red-oranges of dawn's arrival.
"Did Mashia send you?" she laughed, then coughed. "Ahh, always a good guy."
"I have no idea who that is," the man objected.
Her eyes widened. She noticed the black rose and clenched her jaw. Rubbing her eyes, she smiled. "So . . . what are you going to do?"
"I'm here to make sure everything goes smoothly."
"Oh, I get it."
"Now, on most important matters—would you like to discuss more important business?"
". . . Like?"
"Kadir . . ."
. . .
The large window dimmed. Any sounds of weak air-conditioning drowned in silence.
"He was your husband, correct?" he uttered.
"Y-yes . . . what about it?" She looked around in distress, wishing to hold his hand just one more time.
"It's quite unfortunate, and we've noticed there's been a decline in your daily rents for this complex since."
She stared blankly at him with a frown.
She felt her husband's hand again, smiled brightly, only to look down and see she was clenching the sofa.
Her smile faded once again in the face of shameless people.
"Which is why we've come to help you, not give you trouble. You are in enough despair as is. There shall be no more," he stated.
She looked up, her heartbeat like drums, her eyes red beneath thick eyelashes.
"Relax, it's okay," he said.
Kadir said that to me before. Whenever I'd make a mistake, drop something, say something—he'd always tell me it was okay . . .
The woman smiled in epiphany as the man snapped his fingers. She left the trance, attentive again.
"We notice your declining health, your fall into agony, and we are here to comply . . . it's been indexed, approved, noted, and I'm here to see it transpire."
Frowning, she looked at the man, paused, then looked again.
A bright smile lit on her face.
I see you. Kadir . . . you were okay after all. I knew Mashia was a fool.
She blinked multiple times, and for a moment his jaw was stronger, his hair turned brown, and his smile was familiar. She knew that smile.
"I-I'll do whatever you say, Kadir . . ." she muttered weakly, chapped lips and wrinkles forming deeply.
Kadir spoke: "Do you want our daughter to see you starve, Amira? If you really love us, you'll do what's right, dear."
Kadir reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a sharp black rose. He gently laid it on the table with delicate hands and a demeanor that reminded her of his grace.
. . .
Soft silence emanated as the rose clinked on a glass table between the red couches.
"Embrace it, darling," he said with a look of yearning.
It's you, Kadir . . .
"I'll do anything for you, my love!" she cheered. Some color popped back into her dull flesh.
Kadir leaned in. "I notice some wrinkles on your neck. You should rub the rose there—it will help regain your beauty."
"Oh, yes dear." She grinned deeply.
She grabbed it. The rose was rather heavy, but she was still delighted. To hear that voice again. To feel his presence again.
Instantly, she rubbed the rose around her neck graciously. She laughed as she regained her beauty. "Haha! I love you, Kadir!"
She cheered, scrubbing the rose violently across her neck.
"Anything for you, my dear!"
Vigorously, she felt all her sadness leak out of her body. Every ounce of despair drained as she dug harder with it.
"Hahahaha!" she laughed, then—
She rubbed harder, giggling through tears.
"Am I beautiful, Kadir—am I beautiful now?" The petals drank deep, blooming red now.
Her lips cracked as she cackled.
"I knew you'd come back, dear! I prayed, and prayed!" She pressed the rose harder, binding it to her very speech, as petals shattered like glass.
With a raspy voice she said, "Do I look like her again, Kadir? Do I—"
. . .
Amira was exhausted. The black rose dripped.
Kadir watched, his face becoming the watcher.
Clarifying itself, he took off his fedora, then peeled away a lattice of blinking blue light from his temple, with threads snapping soundlessly.
The man took a handkerchief from behind where the red rose sat and wiped it clean. He stood up, grabbed the ecstatic woman, and dragged her to meet her only love.
"The couch did half of it for me," he whispered.
. . .
He glided out, shoulders firm, posture unbroken—like grief had been tuned into discipline.
"It's okay, Amira. You did good," the watcher murmured.
She smiled, her eyes still wide open, with a smile that would never drop.
Walking through the hall, holding her with one arm, he grabbed another box-shaped trinket from his pocket with a blue button on top.
He pressed it.
From below, a team of men in suits rushed through the stairs to the scene. The watcher walked down the stairs as nobody paid attention to him.
The stairs were now shrouded in dirt and grime. Forget joy or liveliness; it was only a jaded first response.
Reaching the first floor, he set her aside like a doll. He sighed, flipped open a notebook flooded with tally marks, and added another. Standing there firm, waiting for instruction, he looked like he never blinked.
Heavy footsteps clanked on the metal-stone floorboards etched with dirt between crevices and cracks in the tiles on sidewalks.
A shorter man, with a laid-back walk, grinning hideously with such confidence. A blue incisor for a tooth peeked out from his full lips. He had pale skin, jet-black side part, and an upturned nose, like a fox.
"She sang lullabies on the way down, eh? Like a hummingbird that lost its voice. Beautiful," He said.
The watcher stood, nodded swiftly—as if he saw his reflection. A reflection only showing his insides.
Not a sound of respiration—or life, for that matter—came from him. Like a hollow shell, left with only rules written in it.
"Let's see if they're doing their job," the man smiled devilishly, pointing to go up the stairs once more.
"Yes, Yulou," Watcher murmured.
Striding up the stairs, they reached the ruined garden focused on three young flowers—two withered already.
"Tell me, Watcher."
"Hm?"
"When a flower withers, what do you do?"
". . ."
"You plant another. Apologies, I forget you aren't much of a talker."
Yulou looked up at the doorframe to the garden and smiled at something that blinked lightly. Tightly, he smiled at it.
Entering, a mural with staring dead eyes following, he scoffed.
Watcher walked heavily but gently, while Yulou showed no courtesy and stomped vigorously.
Over a dozen people were silently scuffling throughout the living room. They finally noticed the man.
"Head Bearer Yulou!" they cheered in unison.
However, another voice from a doctor arose: "Fourth Lantern!"
. . .
Silence.
The man immediately regretted it.
Everyone else looked at him, and closed their eyes.
Then—
Yulou laughed.
"Ahh, what a name! Been years since I heard that one."
They smiled nervously, gradually, laughter arose.
The room brightened as Yulou watched with a hard-staring gaze.
Machinery, footsteps, and conversation, lingered throughout the apartments.
All the men laughed as they planted certain gadgets hidden, and removed all traces of anybody else.
Suddenly, a marching step.
Everyone stopped what they were doing.
Yulou cleared his throat. Even the air went silent.
Eyes imprinted into the souls of every man that dared to look.
"We are not here to laugh. We are here to work. Now, do you roses forget there is a little girl here?"
. . .
The home became warmer, gaining back its color.
Later, Yulou opened the door of the only small flower remaining, still blooming brightly.
He turned on the lamp in her room, filled to the brim with figures, blocks, and all sorts of devices laid about. The girl's bed lay neat with her under the covers.
Yulou walked slowly toward her, dodging every obstacle on the ground, and tapped her lightly. She turned over, rubbing her eyes.
"Good morning, sweetheart . . ." Yulou smiled with long lips.
The girl widened her eyes. "You're not my mommy. Where is she?" she whispered innocently.
"She's a little sick. My friends are helping her," he smiled.
The girl frowned. "I'm hungry. Can my mommy make food?" she asked.
"No."
. . .
"Matter of fact, why don't I make something for you? We can be friends."
"Okay, mister. As long as you're nice." She yawned.
"I am the nicest there is." Yulou laughed.
"Whats your name mister?" She asked.
"Fox . . . what's yours?"
"Nora. Nice to meet you, mister Fox!"
"Well Nora, C'mon, your mommy will come back soon."
She smiled and held his hand as they got up and walked out of the room—only to see the house empty. Not a laugh a footstep, nor a twist of metal.
There was nobody, except for Watcher.
"Big man," the tired girl said as Yulou guided her to the kitchen next to the living room.
"Yes . . . big man. Would you like something to eat?" He opened the refrigerator.
"There's eggs," he said.
The girl nodded quickly.
Luminant, the morning's cry shone through the window with a yellow hue, beams illuminating the red couch.
The naive girl noticed the couch, "Is the couch dirty?"
"Not at all. Its cleaner than ever." Yulou responded.
Watcher closed his eyes, pushed his fedora downward, and tightly held his hands together. Yulou stared at the light, embracing it.
"Ahh, the only light we truly get. What a spectacle. I always miss it."
He prepared scrambled eggs. Salt lingered in the thin air, smoke hailed, and he lathered the egg in honey as he surgically cut it up. Serving the girl with a small fork and plate, he laughed.
"Thank you!" the girl cheered. Looking down to grab the fork, she noticed the bits of egg were pieced to shape a rose.
However, as it went down to the core, it was evidently burnt. A crisp incinerated carefully.
She took a bite. A mixture of honey, egg, and care flooded her mouth—a taste that had her shed a childish tear.
"I love it, Mister!" she said while chewing happily.
Yulou chuckled. "Hah. I'm glad. So . . . how much do you love your mommy?"
"More than everything! Daddy's a close second." she said, smearing honey around her mouth.
"You should. And I think she loves you more than you know."
"Really?"
The man scoffed. "Yes . . . really."
Maybe one day she can be happy. But I'm much happier in the way she will be.
. . .
Once cherished, the girl went to her room, and the morning's bright beam of light died down, while Watcher and Yulou walked down the hallway.
Yulou whistled lightly, swaying his arms in the air.
The other apartments paid no attention to it, they were just glad.
Watcher cleared his throat. "What do we do all this for, Sir?"
Yulou looked up, his black eyes consuming any affirmation. "What do you think is necessary for one to achieve what others don't?"
". . ."
Grinning, Yulou answered. "Doing the things no ordinary man wants to do."
The wired hall shriveled in the sight of him, and his voice with heavy bass.
"Everyone you admire, everyone you envy—their hands are red. They just wear better gloves. I simply chose not to hide the stains."
Watcher nodded.
They walked down the stairs again, slowly this time.
The stairs were clean again.
Children's laughter shrouded the halls, and petals were falling from the ceiling.
Dimming, the morning light fell.
. . .
A white-haired man holds a book in a library, with a rose as a bookmark.
When he opened it, the petals of the rose started floating away.
He sighed, only to feel a pressure.
Wake up.
A collage of books fell.
Wake up, Mercury.
Suddenly, the entire library collapsed, and the rose's petals gently fell with it.
Until—
Snap!
"You should've slept earlier," a blurred Lisan said.
Mercury rubbed his eyes and got up out of bed. "You didn't have to yell, y'know. I had an amazing dream in a library."
The golden-eyed man with tiger-like hair chuckled. "A library . . . you?"
"Yeah yeah, say all you want. I never had time to read much, so I wrote my own on voyage." Mercury scoffed.
Turning backward, he noticed the light was not there.
"Lisan. When was the lightfall of Zi Jin Cheng?"
"About an hour ago."
"We missed it! I swore to myself to check on Amira at that moment. Let's go."
Mercury grabbed the bag by his bed and rushed out.
"Wait for me. Ill be there." Lisan said as Mercury left.
Gracefully, the priest marched carefully across the red carpet as he held his healed hands together in prayer.
"For our Zaleth, prosper our lives—for we do not deserve it, but we purify in your gift," he whispered.
Softly, Lisan reached to a door and opened it, for it was unlocked . . .
He opened it to see—
The receptionist woman. She was kneeling, praying, with glowing blue eyes.
She echoed robotically: "Father . . ."
"You left the door unlocked for me."
"Yes, Father. I understand. I want to be a normal girl. I want to walk forgiven . . ."
"I'm glad you made up your mind . . . you are forgiven, my daughter."
The receptionist looked at the man.
"What is your name?" Lisan asked.
"I-I don't have one."
"Then we shall give you one. How does Sara sound?"
"It's beautiful, Father. I've been waiting for one." She trembled, but let her tension go at ease.
Silence stretched wide between them.
"Very well. From now on, you decide what you are."
What does Father mean by that?
"Remember it. Now, shall we go?"
Ecstatic, Sara jumped up from her knees and nodded as they both left—a replicant and a priest, walking across the dreadful hall with new eyes.
"Do you see what became of you here now?"
"I see. I was birthed here, ordered here, that's all."
She's aware, but not a Mercury.
Sara and Lisan laughed as they descended. Behind them, the door gaped open. . .
She wanted to turn back to the easy way. The comfortable way. But, suffering builds connection.
It never fails. . . .