Page 39 of A Ballad of Phantoms and Hope
Birds swoop through the sunset above. The noisy streets grow louder as night falls and the bridge lamps turn on.
Still, I wait.
I decide to sit on the bench where we met, with rosebushes on each side. The crimson flowers are beautiful, somber, and wilting with the seasonal change. I pluck one and lean back. The thorns are sharp but draw no blood from my forefinger. There is no pain, and after a few seconds, the bloodless wound is gone. My eyes narrow at the spot that should’ve bled. How strange it is to miss the sensation of something as simple as a prick of a rose.
After some time, movement by the opera house draws my attention. I follow the figure with my eyes and am certain it is Ophelia when I catch sight of her long cream dress laden with lace and sewn flower patterns. I’ve not known anyone to wear such dresses, except her. It’s another thing that makes me covet her.
She’s walking my way.
I grin, hoping to take her by as much surprise as she took me.
She walks slowly, alone, her feet bare. Her eyes appear weary, with dark circles beneath them. She’s humming a song I can’t quite hear, but as she gets closer to the bench, her gaze lifts and meets mine.
Shock physically rolls through her: eyes wide, shoulders straightened, hands clasped together.
“Hello, Ophelia,” I say as smoothly as I can. The rose twists between my fingers as I spin it. My nerves won’t allow me a moment’s reprieve in her presence.
Her throat bobs and she stutters, “L-Lanston. What are you—” she stops, remembering her surprise visit to Harlow, I’m sure, due to the wicked smile I throw her to help jog her memory.
She lets her shoulders drop and laughs. “Don’t tell me you waited all day as I had.”
She waited all day for me?My cheeks warm and that light sensation pools inside my chest, betraying the rage I want to hold onto.
“Unfortunately,” I mutter, scrunching my eyebrows.
Ophelia takes a long breath and tucks her dress against her legs before sitting next to me. Her floral scent is overwhelming and makes me glad I came.
“You look like shit,” she says, and it instantly kills all my warm thoughts.
I scowl. “Yeah? Well, you look—” I pause, thinking critically. She raises an uninterested brow. But there’s so much there. The anguish that makes her mouth twitch, the darkness in the hollows of her eyes, the pale color of her usual rosy lips. “You look… really fucking tired.”
Her smile spreads fast and her laugh soon follows, pulling mine out as well. We laugh together for a moment and it’s the best I’ve felt since I held her in my arms the night she left. Ophelia’s presence alone speaks to me. Her laugh is a sound I cherish.
Silence drapes over us like a blanket of stars and broken promises. I observe her in the bleak October light that dims as the sun descends behind the city. Her wavy hair is as alluring as always. Her eyes are filled with less hope, though. The fire she carried in her bones has faded and she sits with a somber slump in her shoulders.
“Why did you leave, Ophelia?”
My voice is the only sound save the soft caws of distant crows.
Her lower lip firms and she dips her chin, unwilling to meet my eyes. It’s evident that her heart aches too, but I cannot understand why she is resisting me.
Finally, resolutely, she meets my gaze, her eyes rimmed with dreary reddened skin. She really does look very tired—of everything, perhaps.
“Lanston… I’m not a good person.” I shake my head in denial, but she gives me a pleading look that stops my motion. “People like me don’t have good things to look forward to on the other side… we don’t get to go where people like you do.” Her hands tremble and meet in her lap, firming as she interlaces her fingers.
“Ophelia.” Her name is like silk on my lips—a plea.
Does she think something bad awaits her once she passes? How could she believe in such a thing? My chest is sore and I yearn to embrace her, to tell her sweet things, to take away all her pain.
She blinks slowly and then straightens her posture. “You deserve better.”
I shake my head. “You are more than you know, more than you’ll let yourself consider. What have you done that’s so bad, my rose?”
Her throat bobs slightly and her small fists tighten in her lap.
“Can I ask you something?” she asks brazenly.
“Of course.”
