Cadence

Post-series experiment, FWWM included. Huge spoilers.

Curtains closed. The music plays on. Perpetual motion.

He ends his path in the chair it started from. Different room, maybe, masked by the same looks. He cannot be certain – as if anything were certain in this place, music aside.

He know for sure he is tired of chasing himself. More than enough to him. He clings to that, and sits down.

"No, Albert. You don't- no. If you just – If you were – for God's sake, Albert, yelling at me won't change ANYTHING!"

She sits as well, once more. Did she ever leave? Did they?

Her figure is steady, right across from his. She has the smile of a crackling fireplace. A timeless sight.

It truly feels like they never left.

"You are seeing me again? Now?"

Her smile stretches on, to answer in her stead. Now means nothing. Now is red, black and white.

The music loops around his wrists like twine.

"Do you realize what this means? Do you?"
"I don't. And I can't see how you would."
"Mark my words, Harry Truman, you won't hear them often. You have a point."

Not that she needs to say anything.

He figures it out fast, whether he likes it or not. Now, tomorrow, twenty-five years.

Words with no sound, nor full of a consistence. Words she no longer has a reason to speak.

The weight of her smile becomes unbearable.

"Gordon has got our back, Harry. The entire department chose to do their damnedest. They are backing up our plan in full."
"Good. Here's to hoping we track him down this time."
Silence.
"He can't run forever, can he?"
Silence.

He drifts from room to room.

Split seconds of nightmares, flickering lights, darkness. Not much else to be found. When he crawls back in fear, he meets empty spaces.

He still gets lost, and wonders if that will change. He has much time ahead to work on it.

Then, remembrance. A bad taste, like bitter, pitch-black muck.

There is no time in this place. There is only waiting.

And waiting.

"What do you plan on doing, then? Two decades spent on this, and you are through with hoping now?"
He shouldn't speak. What is left of those eyes barely needs a sentence, a touch, to break down.
"Who told you there was any hope to begin with?"

He comes back to a smooth dress he has never seen. Soft curls, soft tears.

No way to tell which face of her self this might be. The first, possibly. There is longing, a crawling sense of loss.

Careful fingers land on her shoulder. He feels the need to answer words not hers – maybe not even real.

"There is always hope."

His voice falls through her hair in golden rings. When she looks at him, her eyes are wet.

As if something were cutting through the void of time.

Breath gone, cut off. Seconds of silence.
"I just know, Harry. I… just know."

It is for her that he rejoices.

It is all for her, or so it seems. The white beacon of change, the feathers. The way those lucent pearls roll down her face.

He never lost the loving light in his gaze. On her fate, whatever it may be, he wants to shine as well.

The waves of jazz give way to blissful silence. If he tries hard enough, he can hear whispers from the outside. To his ears, they are cries for help. Or comfort. Or his name.

He waits for the angel to be gone. After that, with care, he moves towards the old way in.

The music plays on. The motion softens.

Curtains open.