The "science" in this fic is softer than melted syrup. This is why I can't science. How do I science?

How do I English?

Roscoe rummaged through his closet, trying to find his shovel. He cursed himself for not being as tidy as some of the other villagers, some of which seemed to think of nothing but cleaning. He supposed having that trait would be useful right now, when he needed to clear his mind particularly badly. Being able to lose himself in the act of cleaning for hours on end, perhaps even for the whole day, would help him forget that today marked the fifth anniversary of his best friend's mysterious departure. His hooves did most of the searching, whilst his mind chose to linger on that thought. Five years. Has it been that long already? Most of his closet contained gifts given to him by her, which made it all the more difficult to forget that his life was now missing something precious. On a normal basis, the thought didn't bother him. Though he felt a bit guilty to admit it to himself, he had reached a point where he barely ever thought about her and, at times, even forgot that she ever existed at all. Today, however, was not one of those days.

"Found you." He muttered to his shovel. Now that she was no longer around, the fossils in the ground went undiscovered, leaving him with something to do. He had always adored fossils. She had always been willing to give hers to him, even sending them in her letters. He sighed. It's only for today. Tomorrow will be any other day. You can ignore her memory tomorrow. He stepped outside into the bright morning sunlight, feeling Spring's warmth on his short fur. They had both agreed that Spring was their favorite season, though he didn't mention it as much as she did. She loved to write about Spring. She would ramble on and on about it in her letters. About how it was a season for new beginnings. He sighed. How ironic that, for him, Spring had become a season of endings. An ending to his friendship with her, an ending to closeness, and an ending to the town's beauty, since everyone was too lazy to just pull the weeds themselves. Or, perhaps, they were just holding out the hope that their human friend would return someday and that she would want something to do once she got back. He dug his shovel into the earth, pulling up a fossil. Maybe it's time I just went ahead and pulled them up myself.

"Lucy."

"Hmm?"

"Can I play your old Wild World file?"

Lucy's mouth twisted upwards and her eyes went wide. "You actually dug that thing up? I haven't played that in years."

"So, is that a 'yes'?"

"Uh, yeah. Sure. What, was Mom too cheap to buy you New Leaf?"

There was a short pause on the other end of the line.

"No. I just. . .well, it was yours, you know? It's kinda like a part of you is in the game." Another pause. "I miss you."

"I miss you, too." Lucy let out a puff of air. "Sometimes I wanna visit. Adulthood isn't always fun, you know?"

"You're hardly an adult."

"I'm enough of one, thank you. Anyway, you can have it. You can erase my file if you like."

"Nah. I'll just make a new one. Thanks, Lucy."

"No prob."

"Love you."

"Love you, too."

"Bye."

"'Kay, bye."

click.

A cab pulled into the town. The same cab that had brought with it his friend all those years ago. Roscoe watched as a young boy stepped out of it, and he felt a wave of nostalgia sweep over him. The boy had the same eyes as she had. Same shape. Same shade of blue. His cheeks even had that same rosy color that hers had. It was almost like seeing her all over again, despite the gender difference. The boy didn't bother to talk to him, instead choosing to walk straight to Nookway, presumably to seek employment. He remembered the days when Lucy had been Tom's employee, back when the shop was still known as Nook's Cranny. He had been upset with her for delivering his package late, though looking back now, she hadn't really taken that long. The boy came out of the store, wearing the same uniform she had. He felt a knot in his throat. It was bad enough that this new, nearly identical face was already reminding him of her, but today of all days? It was becoming a bit too much for him to take. He needed to clear his head. Needed to stop thinking about the past, at least for a few minutes. He needed coffee.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0

"Here you go."

"Thanks, Brewster." He took a sip, letting the dark liquid burn his tongue and the inside of his mouth. The warmth of the drink spread throughout his entire body, filling every cell with energy. He watched as the quiet barista cleaned the inside of a small china cup. He seemed so content, as if he needed nothing more than to serve coffee to his patrons and didn't have any other cares, unlike Roscoe. Maybe he doesn't notice that she's gone. Huh. Then again, maybe he's just taking her absence better than me.

"Do you ever miss her?" The questioned seemed odd to say out loud, with no previous lead in to it, but Roscoe had asked it regardless. The coffee pigeon didn't seemed fazed.

"Who?"

"Who do you think?"

". . .I suppose I do sometimes. . .we had gotten semi-close. . ."

"I figured. You don't serve sugar to everyone."

"How did you know about that?"

Roscoe smiled, feeling silly for remembering such a trivial detail. "She told me about it in one of her letters. She would do that. Tell me about her day, no matter how insignificant it was. She was so happy that you'd finally offered."

The pigeon said nothing.

"I miss her." he looked into his half-empty cup, his harsh, red eyes reflecting back at him faintly. "I wonder. . .did I drive her away? I know I can be a bit coarse sometimes."

". . .True."

"Well, you didn't have to agree with me!" The whites of his eyes went yellow for a moment, as they did when he became frustrated, but soon returned to their normal state. "Sorry. I'm just upset is all. We were closer than anyone else in this town. At least, I thought we were. I thought that I had stopped being so, well, grumpy towards her. I thought that was supposed to make things better." He took a large gulp, ignoring the burning in his throat. "Guess I thought wrong."

"Some things. . .can't be helped." Brewster's expression was hard to read, but something seemed a bit. . .different in his tone. It was hard to discern. Someone who hadn't known him for years probably wouldn't be able to hear it. For someone else, the miniscule difference would be nothing more than a simple pitch difference. This, however, was the stoic Brewster. That small difference spoke loud and clear to Roscoe—Brewster knew something.

"What does that mean?" Roscoe's curiosity was peaked. He didn't know why. Whatever it was, it was probably inconsequential.

". . ."

"Hey, are you listening?"

"Yes."

"Then answer me, would you?"

". . .I'm not supposed to say."

Roscoe raised an eyebrow at the pigeon. Now he wanted to know all the more what it was, whatever it was. "Come on, you can tell me! Is it a secret? Oh. . .you're afraid I'll start a rumor, aren't you?" He felt a twinge of guilt. I knew it. I knew that gossiping habit would come back to bite me someday.

"No. . .forget I said anything."

"Come on! You're not the type to keep secrets! Are you?"

". . ."

"Brewster, please." The horse wasn't used to begging. He hated it. "Come on. I'm already having a cruddy day. You know why. Can you cut me some slack and just tell me? I don't care what it is. I just wanna know! It's gonna bug me all day. Come on, man. I promise that, whatever it is, it won't leave this coffee shop."

". . ."

"Brewster!"

". . .You wouldn't be able to handle it."

That caught him off guard. He was used to being called "grandpa" or "awful" or the like, but being told he couldn't handle something? Being called weak? "I can handle whatever you throw at me."

A silence hung in the air, save for the gentle music that played softy around them. Brewster's glasses obscured his eyes, but Roscoe could tell that the pigeon was debating on whether or not to tell him. The words he spoke next were far heavier than Roscoe could have ever imagined. Once spoken, they would undo his entire perception of himself and the world around him. Three little words would alter his entire existence, perhaps forever.

". . .You're not real."