was a bad habit. Mama always told him not to do that. It hurt when he pressed on it, but he was pressing on it anyway.
They’d moved up from the bar to the apartment above, both for comfort and for privacy. Now they were seated in the front room, Haiku in one chair, jCharles in another, with Wren across from them on the worn leather couch. Wren couldn’t quite bring himself to raise his eyes to Haiku; the scene was too strange. It’d been well over a year since he’d sat in the same place, and jCharles had sat in the same spot he was in now, and Three had been there, where Haiku was now sitting. Seeing the reality somehow made the memory more real, more immediate; like maybe if Wren didn’t look up, that really would be Three sitting there.
“You don’t have to do this, Wren,” jCharles said.
Wren nodded, but didn’t look up. It was foolish, and he knew it was foolish, but almost believing Three was there was almost enough to give him courage. Three had called him a soldier once. So many memories of the man rushed and swirled through his mind. Some moments were indistinct, more impression than image. Others were so clear, remembering was nearly the same as experiencing. Except for Three’s face. Over time Three’s face had become indistinct in Wren’s mind, and noticing it now frightened him. Was he forgetting Three? How could he ever do so?
“I know much of his past already,” Haiku said, gently reassuring. “Most from having lived it alongside him. Some, I’ve discovered through searching. But not this chapter of his life. If you could help me record it, it would honor both the man and his House.”
Wren glanced up at Haiku, sitting across from him. The man was sitting quietly, his big book open on his lap, pen in hand. His expression was warm and kind, expectant without any trace of impatience or annoyance. Waiting. And looked like he would wait, without complaint, for however long it took. Wren couldn’t remember if he’d ever seen someone use an actual pen before.
Tell his story. To honor Three and his House. Wren could do that. A deep breath. Then he let his mind go back, back to a time he’d refused to allow himself to remember for a long time. And having given himself permission, the memory came back, acutely vivid. The bar, the people, the smell. Mama’s hand, hard and cold and trembling, squeezing his. The fear.
“He was just sitting there,” Wren said, at last. “When we first came in. In the front corner of the place, behind the door. Mama didn’t notice him, but I did. Because he was there, but it felt like he shouldn’t have been. That was when we met him. That was when I met Three.”
Now that the door of his mind was open, Wren couldn’t stop the flood of images. Three, sitting at that table, staring down at the drink on it, refusing to look up at Mama or down at him. Three, pulling him away from Mama while she lay dying, leaving her behind in order to save him. Three, lying in Mama’s arms as the last of his life seeped away.
“And that’s when he began to help you?” Haiku said, a gentle prompt.
Wren shook his head, more to clear it than in answer. “No. That was later.”
He continued for a few moments, telling as much of that first encounter as he could recall, surprising himself at just how very much that was. Things he hadn’t realized he’d noticed came to him, things that hadn’t seemed important at the time that gained new significance in looking back upon them. But as clearly and fully as those first images returned to him, something inside revolted against him and Wren suddenly found it difficult to proceed. The rush was too much, the memories overwhelming. Having fought to keep that part of his life distant and locked away, once freed they came like the ocean to a sinking ship, impossible to resist.
His face flushed hot then suddenly cold, and his heart raced as hard as if he’d been running as fast as he could for a mile. jCharles sat forward, like he
They’d moved up from the bar to the apartment above, both for comfort and for privacy. Now they were seated in the front room, Haiku in one chair, jCharles in another, with Wren across from them on the worn leather couch. Wren couldn’t quite bring himself to raise his eyes to Haiku; the scene was too strange. It’d been well over a year since he’d sat in the same place, and jCharles had sat in the same spot he was in now, and Three had been there, where Haiku was now sitting. Seeing the reality somehow made the memory more real, more immediate; like maybe if Wren didn’t look up, that really would be Three sitting there.
“You don’t have to do this, Wren,” jCharles said.
Wren nodded, but didn’t look up. It was foolish, and he knew it was foolish, but almost believing Three was there was almost enough to give him courage. Three had called him a soldier once. So many memories of the man rushed and swirled through his mind. Some moments were indistinct, more impression than image. Others were so clear, remembering was nearly the same as experiencing. Except for Three’s face. Over time Three’s face had become indistinct in Wren’s mind, and noticing it now frightened him. Was he forgetting Three? How could he ever do so?
“I know much of his past already,” Haiku said, gently reassuring. “Most from having lived it alongside him. Some, I’ve discovered through searching. But not this chapter of his life. If you could help me record it, it would honor both the man and his House.”
Wren glanced up at Haiku, sitting across from him. The man was sitting quietly, his big book open on his lap, pen in hand. His expression was warm and kind, expectant without any trace of impatience or annoyance. Waiting. And looked like he would wait, without complaint, for however long it took. Wren couldn’t remember if he’d ever seen someone use an actual pen before.
Tell his story. To honor Three and his House. Wren could do that. A deep breath. Then he let his mind go back, back to a time he’d refused to allow himself to remember for a long time. And having given himself permission, the memory came back, acutely vivid. The bar, the people, the smell. Mama’s hand, hard and cold and trembling, squeezing his. The fear.
“He was just sitting there,” Wren said, at last. “When we first came in. In the front corner of the place, behind the door. Mama didn’t notice him, but I did. Because he was there, but it felt like he shouldn’t have been. That was when we met him. That was when I met Three.”
Now that the door of his mind was open, Wren couldn’t stop the flood of images. Three, sitting at that table, staring down at the drink on it, refusing to look up at Mama or down at him. Three, pulling him away from Mama while she lay dying, leaving her behind in order to save him. Three, lying in Mama’s arms as the last of his life seeped away.
“And that’s when he began to help you?” Haiku said, a gentle prompt.
Wren shook his head, more to clear it than in answer. “No. That was later.”
He continued for a few moments, telling as much of that first encounter as he could recall, surprising himself at just how very much that was. Things he hadn’t realized he’d noticed came to him, things that hadn’t seemed important at the time that gained new significance in looking back upon them. But as clearly and fully as those first images returned to him, something inside revolted against him and Wren suddenly found it difficult to proceed. The rush was too much, the memories overwhelming. Having fought to keep that part of his life distant and locked away, once freed they came like the ocean to a sinking ship, impossible to resist.
His face flushed hot then suddenly cold, and his heart raced as hard as if he’d been running as fast as he could for a mile. jCharles sat forward, like he
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