Lance kept his cold, numbed knuckles as close to the fire as he possibly could. As the fire's light soaked the walls of the dark living room in warmth- splashing the naked white paint in flickering orange- he stared not at the ornate tapestries or dark wood furniture that laid idle behind him, but into the entrancing dance of the orange flames within the fireplace, cracking and hungrily grabbing at the air. There was a certain art, so he thought, as his hands lifelessly extended towards the plume of fire- to finding that perfect in-between- that perfect balance in which he might find himself close enough to something as to reap its benefits and admire its beauty; but yet, keep far enough as to keep from burns. His hands neared the fire.

A young man's voice called from behind, somewhere in the darkness of the spacious room. Lance looked up from the fireplace and drew back his hands

"Master Sergeant," the voice said, not coldly, but not with particular warmth, either. Lance gave him his attention, but kept his back to the man and the rest of the dark house. "The Royal Administration wishes to know of your attendance regarding the event tomorrow evening."

"I decline their invitation," he said, barely audible. The room was vacant of any sound aside the tame purr of the fire. Lance's eyes wandered further in the flames. "I respectfully decline their invitation."

The man behind hesitated. Lance turned around.

Standing in the door frame entering the living room was a lanky, long statured man dressed up to the neck in the bright red uniform up the Royal Army. His curly orange hair remained uncovered as he gripped his hat tightly.

"Grab a chair, Arthur," Lance said, turning back to the fire. "I could use the company."

"I'm afraid I'll have to be going soon, Master Sergeant," the soldier said, stiff as the collar to his uniform. "Would you like me to turn on the lights? Galaluna can get quite dark in the winter time."

"No," he said. He quickly added a, "Thank you." Lance's voice was cold. He tried to urge himself not to stick his hands too close to the crackling fire. The soldier stared nervously at his back.

"So, I'm to inform the administration you will not be attending the wedding tomorrow evening?"

Lance took a moment. "Correct."

"Would you like me to fetch more wood for your fire, sir?"

"No."

Arthur tensed. "I was under the impression you were acquainted with the bride during your missions off planet."

Lance almost turned around, he still half faced the fire. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"It's just- sir, I would assume you'd be attending the wedding because of your time spend with the bride-"

"-that will be all, Arthur."

The sound of the fire drifted through the air. Warm orange light faintly splashed against Arthur's face, lighting his neatly combed orange curls.

Lance's old friend stood idle for a moment. He quickly shoved his cap over his head, saluted, and turned around. Lance could hear the door open from down the hall as it let in sounds of the storm outside, let out the timid little man, and then closed to usher in silence yet again. The fire hissed for attention.

He sighed, and stared at the flames a moment longer before getting up heading to the door. He kicked on a pair of old boots and slung a heavy coat over his shoulders. The turned the handle to the heavy door, and it creaked open and let in a fast gust of wind from a cold rainstorm.

"Arthur, wait," he said, stepping out into the lonely dark. He walked outside to the front drive of his estate under a vast blanket of dark, looming clouds. It was roar of the rain hitting the cement was all encompassing, and was the only audible thing among the grey colors of the empty estate.

The barrage of rain shot against the pavement of the long front drive like bullets, exploding as they hit the shiny wet ground. As Lance walked out further into the dark gardens, he became more and more drenched with every step of his soggy boots. He stopped. His guest had already left.

Lance stood in the rain. The sound of the fire was replaced with the howl of the wind, pushing heavy sheets of crystal droplets from left to right as they raced towards the ground. Soaking, sulking, he stayed until he decided it was time to turn around and head back inside.

Five years, it had been since his return to Galaluna. Around four, since he had talked to her.

He walked back, eager to get out of the rain and back to his fire.

The front door creaked open, and water dripped off of the tails of Lance's coat and pooled all over the floor of the house. The puddles formed a trail from the door all the way back to the living room, and Lance sat himself back down in front of the fire, the airy cushion of the chair he was sitting on prior now becoming heavy with water.

He stared longingly at a photograph rested on the mantle- it was a picture of a more somber, bittersweet nature. The photograph felt warm, although it did not physically emanate it like the fire did. The picture was taken in front of the old Lunis house on Earth. There were bright greens of the grass, and bright whites from the sun soaked walls of the suburban household. Before it, were three figures. Lance, Newton,

and Ilana.

Lance was back on Earth. Only in memory, not in person.

The world was bright, and the sun shown on the small terrestrial planet. The scene was full of bright greens and whites from the sleepy suburban neighborhood back in Sherman. The wind blew and gently tugged at the clothe shirts, traditional to the planet, which rested on both Lance's and Ilana's shoulders.

The two Galalunians, teenagers then, leaned back against the thick trunk of a tree out in the front yard. The grass around then was still kept and neat, as if it were done by a robot. It was done by a robot.

"Can we talk?" Ilana asked. The birds sang, and a car engine in the distance groaned to life.

Lance didn't respond right away.

The bright afternoon sun above them radiated blinding heat and baked the black asphalt. A wave of silence washed over them. The birds stopped singing, the wind died down. The leaves projecting shade on them were as still as a photograph. Not a leaf stirred, nor a voice was heard. The neighborhood became ghostly. There was a weight, a certain gravity to those few moments which made them heavier than any else. Time seemed to stretch.

"Yeah," he said, with a deep, slow breath. "Yeah, I'd like that."

The birds seemed to sing again, the wind blew into the bright sails of giant white clouds, and the tree which acted as a shelter of shade swayed in the breeze.