Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

November, 1994

Introspection.

The refuge of saints.

The ruin of sinners.

And in the wee hours, when it's so late it's early and so early it's late, sleepless minds tend to wander. Sometimes all it takes is a single thought, ordinary, innocuous, and everything spirals from there. Other times it's a sort of waking dream, a montage of splintered memories. Every time he's left endlessly contemplating his tumultuous life, questioning every moment of decision or indecision, questioning everything. A morass of desperate fury and regret, in which every tangled thread inevitably leads to a single point, a single epoch: the last month.

A month since he extinguished the fading light in his life.

A month since he drifted through the forlorn streets of Silent Hill and saw the face of hell.

A month since he met Angela.

Everything is still so raw, so vivid, from the moment their paths crossed in that foggy graveyard. He remembers how close she came to throwing it all away… the look in her eyes: weary, lost, and so afraid. He remembers the stairway, the abject despair as the fires of hell raged around her. And he remembers taking her hand, cold and quivering as the shadows of that town faded behind them.

Deserved or undeserved, they escaped.

Worthy or unworthy, they survived.

He opened his home up to her, and she was free to come and go as she pleased. No questions. No obligations. A reasonable courtesy. They're both outsiders steeped in the savagery of sin, after all. They both have blood on their hands. Yet despite her harrowing anxiety, despite her frequent bouts of paranoia and anger—despite everything—she stayed, and a tenuous sort of bond formed.

But then she ran away.

Three days ago.

And the moment has been replaying ever since.

A fugue of heated words and bitter accusations. He's still uncertain of the catalyst, still struggling to piece everything together, but he knows he did something… something that upset her… something that left her overwhelmed. He can't shake the thoughts of that derelict apartment complex: Blue Creek. Of the knife. Of her despondency as she beheld her reflection in bloodstained steel. He took that knife. Hurled it into Toluca Lake. As if that would erase every sordid thing it symbolized—wash away the filth of the past.

What a stupid notion.

He sways to and fro, teetering between reality and unreality. Tired. So tired. He recalls all the nights he's lain awake, praying for sleep and dreams of the sea and the sky.

Now, he only prays safety finds her well.

A saucepan lies on the stove—a medley of chicken and vegetables swirls in a creamy broth. Something Mary used to make on cold and quiet nights. A little reminder of cozier times. He spent the evening before last chopping the ingredients and cooking the soup, only to lose himself in a mind-numbing cycle of refrigerating and reheating. A great deal of effort to expend on something that'll certainly go uneaten, but doing something is better than doing nothing…

…isn't it?

Steam rises. The surface bubbles.

Reduce heat. Stir.

Deep down, he knows this is a futile endeavor. A waste of time and a waste of resources. So what, other than the fear of inertia, compels him? Perhaps it's the illusion of control it provides—an alluring fantasy. As though this dreary busywork is making a difference. It's an awfully difficult thing…

…facing the reality of your own helplessness.

He scratches his cheek. A layer of stubble scrapes against his fingertips—natural rust. Three days since he's shaved. Three days since he's put any effort into his appearance. Three days since Angela…

And he can't help but wonder, was he ever equipped to help her?

She needs someone strong in her life—someone dependable. Not a miserable wretch still hopelessly grappling with his own demons. And what of Laura? Amid the storm of confusion and doubt, one persistent question resounds: How long? How long until she runs away, too? How long until everything falls apart and he's left as broken as he was in Silent Hill?

What did you think would happen?

Was he just trying to play the hero? Swoop in and rescue the little orphan girl and the deeply troubled runaway? Or was this all done to allay his guilt—atone for his sins? Interfering with the lives of others in a desperate search for absolution…

He asks himself, is he truly that selfish?

And he answers: No.

Perhaps he's a little selfish. Perhaps he's more than a little selfish. But this isn't just guilt. This isn't just ego.

He's witnessed Angela in those rare moments when she's let her guard down. Moments when she's allowed herself to open up—allowed herself to live. He's seen her soft smiles and heard her quiet laughter. Been granted glimpses of a shy, sensitive young woman, insightful and compassionate but mercilessly beaten down by the world. If he can make some sort of positive impact… help preserve the faint traces of happiness she's held onto… it'll be worth all the turbulent days and sleepless nights.

And Laura… As precious as she was to Mary, that's far from the only reason he took her in. She's a bright and remarkably strong-willed girl. Only eight years old, but she's already lost so much. He wants to do whatever possible to ensure she has a normal childhood, to provide the care and security she so richly deserves. Whenever he knows she and Angela are safe, he knows he's doing something right. Whenever he sees their elusive and fleeting signs of joy, if only for a moment, he feels he isn't worthless…

…feels he has a reason to exist.

The tap drips. Drip. Drip. Drip. He drums his fingers on the counter, looks to the left, looks to the right. A glass lies an arm's length away, lustrous as it overflows with amber liquid. A blink, and it's empty. A mirage. A temptation. He rarely drank in the early years of his adulthood. Never had much of a taste for beer… wine… whiskey…

But after Mary fell ill, taste no longer mattered.

Alcohol became a crutch, his way of coping with the senseless cruelty of the world—seduced by promises of numbness and escape like countless others. But not…not anymore… He poured out every can, every bottle. Watched all that poison slowly spiral away.

You don't own me.

He takes the glass then fills it with water, throwing his head back and letting it rapidly cascade, cold and flavorless as it rolls down his throat.

A sudden pause. A ripple on the surface.

Static roars as the kitchen violently shakes.

And again he sees them: flashes of a forsaken town. Desolate spaces consumed by mold and rot. Pulsating figures stalking in the shadows—twisted constructs of decaying flesh. A woman in red—a phantom, a figment—fading in the fog. An executioner… two executioners.

Burning eyes. Trembling hands.

Something slips from his grasp. Crrrsssshhh! It shatters.

And water flows. So much water.

He left Silent Hill, but Silent Hill never left him.

He clutches his chest and breathes in frantic desperation. Shards of glass lie scattered on the kitchen tile, floating in a shallow puddle. He sees the totality of his fragmented reflection—a mosaic of anemic faces, spectral in the fluorescent light.

"…Sh-Shit…"

Everything spins as he lurches to the broom, convulsing, hyperventilating. He fumbles for the handle then grips it in his tremulous fingers, half-dead as he sweeps up and discards the shattered remnants.

His legs are numb. His feet are wet.

He turns on the faucet then runs his hands under the tepid water. Shhhhhhhhh. The steady drone drowns out his thoughts—drowns out everything—but it only lasts so long. He grabs a small towel lying by the sink, lets its worn material envelop his anxious hands. Warm. Familiar. The touch of an old friend.

He remains like that for an indeterminate time, hearing little but the kitchen's ambient sounds: the bubbling of soup, the whir of the electric stove, the hum of the refrigerator… then something else. Faint. Rhythmic. A distant tap-tap-tapping. And perhaps it's only his imagination, the product of an overwrought mind…

…but it's something he can't afford to dismiss.

He covers the soup, switches off the stove, then sprints out of the kitchen, driven by nothing but instinct and a faint flicker of hope. Irrepressible feet carry him closer to the door, closer to the truth.

He grasps the knob. It's cold. So cold.

An unsteady twist. The door slowly creaks open.

And the likeness of a ghost stands in the doorway.

Angela.

She staggers in place, a mess of disheveled hair, sunken cheeks, and listless eyes—an echo of how she was in that lonely cemetery. Her sweater, once thick as a quilt and white as snow, is threadbare and ashen gray, while her lips are marred by scabs and strips of peeled skin. She shivers, arms wrapped around herself, overcome by the bitterness of the November night.

And he wants to reach out, touch her hand, touch her shoulder, just to prove she's real, just to prove she's there. Wants to smile, lead her inside, and say:

I missed you.

But uncertainty reigns, and all he can manage is a weak, "Hey."

Her response is equally brief, her voice low, hoarse. "…Hey."

He steps aside and gestures for her to enter. The door swings shut. Feet shuffle across the carpet. He flicks on the light.

And the wariness in her expression is clearer now—the unease, the fear. "Are you gonna ask where I've been…? What I've been doing?"

The questions swirl in his mind, echoing again and again, and his initial instinct is to simply say yes. Of course he wants to ask, wants to know if something's happened to her, if she's gotten into any trouble, if she's been hurt. But his more rational side urges him not to pry, screams not to do anything that might jeopardize whatever fragile relationship they share.

So he just sighs and asks, "Do you want me to?"

And silence falls, short and tense. She chews her lip. "…No."

"Then I won't."

And with those three words, the exchange ends. He studies her face, unsure whether it's relief he sees, disappointment, or sheer apathy.

"I've got some soup on the stove. You want some?"

She fiddles with her sleeve, tugging lightly on a loose thread. Her eyes flicker to the analog clock hanging on the wall. "…You were cooking at two in the morning?"

He runs his fingers through his hair. "I did the same thing yesterday." A weary sigh. "I guess a part of me thought… just in case."

Her eyebrows rise as her cracked lips quietly part.

Seconds march past as the clock tick, tick, ticks.

"Soup would be nice," she murmurs. "…Thanks."

He hesitates, looking to the kitchen then back to her. "Don't mention it." Then he turns, dazed and thoroughly disoriented as he drifts onward.

"James!"

He whirls back. Angela reels as she stares at the floor, one hand clutching her stomach, the other clasped over her mouth. "Your f-foot… It's bleeding…"

A small wince. "I, uh, dropped a glass," he says. "A shard must've cut me." And now he sees it, too, the fresh blood seeping through his sock, the red stains trailing across the carpet. The wetness he's felt… That wasn't just water? "…It's not a big deal."

Their eyes meet for an unfathomably fleeting moment, and in that fraction of a heartbeat, he notices something faint… a nearly imperceptible glint…

…sympathy?

Neither of them speaks.

When he returns to the kitchen, he spreads his arms out—spreads his arms out and just breathes. His head may be throbbing, his foot may be bloodied, but right now… he feels so weightless.

She's back.

She's safe.

"What do you want to drink?" he asks over his shoulder, startled by the evenness of his voice, the resonance. Please don't wake Laura…

"J-Just water is fine."

He fetches a bowl and uncovers the saucepan, grabbing a nearby ladle and almost filling it to the brim. He finds a cup—plastic this time. Shhhhhh. Two-thirds full or one-third empty. A drawer shoots open. He rummages through a clutter of silverware and clasps a soup spoon, dropping it in the bowl, watching it sink.

Exhaustion leaves him stumbling to the dining room, where he lays everything out on the table then pulls back a chair. Angela stands mere feet away, fidgeting with her hands one moment and her sweater another.

The clock ticks. Tick. Tick. Tick.

She slinks closer. Lowers herself onto the chair.

"Well…" he says, "…enjoy."

And quietly he turns. Better to leave, he thinks. Better to spare her the burden of his dismal company. Fatigued as he is, it's only a matter of time till he does something foolish—something he'll regret. He just got her back. He can't afford to make any more mistakes. Can't afford to do anything else that might push her away.

Besides… he needs to take care of his foot.

"James."

His gaze flickers back. Angela sits still, arms folded on the table, eyes fixed on the soup.

"Sorry," she says. "Sorry for worrying you."

"It's alright." His voice cracks. "You're okay." And then he smiles. A small smile, but a sincere smile. His first in… too long. "That's all that matters."

Chapter Text

March, 1995

The sun grazes the horizon as it descends upon the endless sea. Fire burns in the evening sky as shadows dance across the shore. Restlessly people wander among the sand and the waves, sonorous and strident as they leave their evanescent marks—phantom trails of echoes and footprints. The parade of life marches on.

Angela hugs her knees tighter.

An early taste of spring. A weekend of warmth almost unprecedented for the inaugural days of March. High seventies today—that's what the forecast said. Seventy eight or seventy nine. "Maybe we should go to the beach," she remembers James said. "We won't get weather like this again for at least a month."

And she wonders why she agreed to come. The beach is such a daunting place: a sea of strangers, every unfamiliar face and indistinct murmur a disturbance—a threat. The urge to run is strong—the desire to find some quiet place unseen by the sun and just… disappear.

She's done it before. It would be so easy…

…and yet she stays, arms secured around her legs, hopelessly tethered to the earth.

Perhaps it's the thought of James's face—the way it would look if she ran away—that keeps her grounded. It's a subtle expression. Resigned. Weary. The defeated eyes of a broken man who dared to hope. She can't stand seeing him like that, and upsetting him is the last thing she wants. It's so rare to see his smile or hear his laughter, and those scarce signs of life…

…she wishes she could experience them more often.

Her limbs begin to twitch, the pervasive heat and humidity only deepening her discomfort. Sweat pools beneath the fabric of her clothes: an inescapable consequence of wearing a sweater and jeans in such aberrant weather. And she knows it's strange, knows she looks foolish, but she never would have stepped outside in any less.

James didn't ask why. Didn't pry. He rarely pries.

She appreciates that.

Because regardless of the weather, regardless of what others might think, covering up is essential. Anything to hide the everlasting mementos, the remnants of her shame. Anything to forget the blemishes of the past… the impurity of her flesh.

Covering up also dissuades the stares, the obtrusive leers. And maybe it's just paranoia, she sometimes thinks. Maybe they aren't all like that. But whenever she sees the faces of strangers, looks into their inscrutable eyes, she feels so small, so disgustingly weak, like a fawn under a wolf's gaze. She hates that fear, hates that vulnerability… but what she hates even more are the questions.

Questions call for excuses.

Excuses mean lies.

"I fell… I'm just clumsy and kinda dumb."

"I saw a stray cat and tried to pet it. It scratched me… Yeah, I know… I'm dumb."

"I was playing with Daddy's lighter, b-but I learned my lesson. I… I won't do that anymore…"

She hates lying.

She hates lying so much.

A sigh is drawn as she runs a hand through the pale sand. Infinitesimal grains slip through her fingers, flying in the wind then falling to the earth. Fleeting. Forgotten. She looks to the sea, watches its hypnotic waves as they sway under the setting sun, and she's reminded of a distant moment… a summer's evening from so many years ago…

…the day she almost drowned.

First came the descent. Sudden and swift. Then came the weight. Engulfing her. Dragging her down. The weight of a fierce and unforgiving sea. The weight of her sin—a heavy anchor. She struggled desperately beneath the restless waves—a castaway lost in a vast abyss—and when the world went dark, she realized all that she was:

Angela Orosco; a name written in the sand, washed away by the tide.

Deeper she sank, deeper, deeper, through the salt and through the shoals, until everything grew faint… cold. The weight left her—left her completely—and as she began to drift, free of gravity, free from the shackles of existence, all around her lights flickered in that infinite darkness. The world pulsed with a crescendo of vibrations, the chorus of a billion hearts beating as one, and in that moment, she knew she was not alone. The impressions of all who preceded her still lingered, waiting to embrace her, waiting to guide her home.

An overwhelming sense of comfort filled her being.

Peace reverberated through her spirit…

…then fear, unfathomable and unspeakable, seized her.

Perhaps it was instinct, perhaps it was naïve hope, perhaps it was simply fate—if there is such a thing—but she clung to life. Not unlike years later, in that foggy town…

…Silent Hill.

It's true: she still thinks about death. Still has dreams of knives and nooses and little white pills. Dreams from which some never wake. But the call of heaven or hell, that sweet siren's song, has faded with time. Fortissimo gradually descends to pianissimo.

A few yards away, a young girl tends to a sprawling sandcastle. Laura. Equipped with her blue pail, she fortifies its walls with turret upon turret, laughing as she sings of the palace's storied history: tales of sieges and war and royal intrigue. But to whom does she sing? Herself? Angela?

Perhaps only the wind.

As the scene unfolds, Angela begins to realize… The reason she's here, the reason they're all here… It's not for James, nor is it for her—it's for Laura. This outing is an opportunity to provide a semblance of normalcy, to let her enjoy the amenities of life instead of hiding from them.

And as foreign as that concept is, Angela thinks she's starting to understand.

"Hey!"

She sees him in the distance now, a tableau of contrasting colors painted by the sun and the shadows—James. As he weaves through passing crowds and draws ever-closer, she begins to wonder about his life… Wonder about the memories he's shared… The vague and the vivid… The sordid and the somber… She knows so much yet knows so little.

How many scars do you have, James? comes an unspoken question. And how many lie hidden beneath the surface?

Two ice cream cones rest in his hands. One for her. One for Laura. None for him. It's habitual, denying himself what he provides for others, and she asks herself: is this done out of selflessness, or self-flagellation?

He offers one to Laura first, bubblegum flavored. She wipes the sand from her hands then snatches it without a word. He doesn't ask to be thanked. He never asks to be thanked. Never asks for apologies. Never asks to be forgiven. And Angela understands. Understands the guilt. Understands the feelings of unworthiness. They're the same in that way, she supposes. They're the same in so many ways.

And yet…

"Laura," she says, "you should say 'thank you.'"

They both regard her in that half-confused, half-pitying way, as if she's said the most absurd thing in the world, and she feels so very small again. Should have kept my mouth shut… Shouldn't have said a damn thing…

Now James looks guilty, as though he's the one who erred and not her. "That's alr—"

"Thanks."

One word. One syllable. So short. So simple.

But nevertheless significant.

Laura truly is full of surprises.

James's eyebrows rise as a smile slowly dawns. "…You're welcome…"

He approaches Angela and presents the remaining cone, vanilla and chocolate swirl. Her favorite. She reaches out a hand, and for the briefest of moments, her fingers sweep over his, eliciting a strange, electrifying sensation. She clasps the cone, cradling it in both hands as she brings it closer to her lips. "Th-Thank you."

"You're also welcome," he says, and perhaps it's a trick of the evening light, but his smile seems just a little wider.

She's glad to see it again.

He seats himself on the sand, slinging an arm over his knee as he gazes quietly toward the horizon. He keeps his distance, as always, yet somehow feels… closer. And she finds herself thinking…

…that's not such an unpleasant thing.

She takes a tentative lick of her ice cream, savors the soothing taste, then closes her eyes as she breathes the faintest of whispers. Perhaps a promise. Perhaps a prayer. But the hushed words reach no ears, lost to the wind and the waves.

Chapter Text

April, 1995

Empty eyes. Lifeless eyes.

Cadaverous figures perched on high like heavenly sentinels gaze upon all creation, their faces frozen in fear and ecstasy. Roses spiral from ashen fingertips as petals fall upon the earth. The descent of the pure. The descent of the pious.

The siren blares. Hell roars.

The world lies in ruin, ravaged by a storm, consumed by a flood. Flashes of light and flickering shadows delineate the remnants of blasphemous idols, crowned with filth and gilded with mold. Screaming. Scraping. The blade is drawn, stained by rust, steeped in tears. Slowly it sinks. Deep into the earth. Deep into the sea. Deep into the flesh.

Piercing. Puncturing. Penetrating.

He wakes to the sound of an alarm.

Sheets are discarded as he leaps out of bed, rushing through the dark and racing to the door. His head is heavy. His heart is howling. Symptoms of an atrophied soul. An image burns in his mind's eye as he stumbles into the corridor: a familiar face, a familiar smile. Laura.

Panic.

Then ephemeral relief.

She's not here, he reminds himself. She's staying at a friend's.

"Angela!"

He shouts her name again and again. A mantra. A desperate plea. Weary eyes adjust to the dark as aching feet drag him to the end of the hall. An open door. An empty room. Maybe she left, he hopes. Maybe she's safe. He strides into the living room—flares of light ahead—and he can smell it now, acrid… burning…

Smoke.

A dense layer creeps out from the kitchen, cast in an orange glow, and through the fog-like veil he sees a shape. Faint. Motionless.

"Angela?"

The shape remains still.

"Angela!"

He hurries ahead, immediately assaulted by a wave of intense heat. The stove is ablaze, incandescent tendrils flailing violently—a wildfire in its infancy. Angela lies on the floor, curled up in the fetal position and limned by the hazy firelight. Only her lips move, mouthing silent chants of madness and despair.

He grabs her by the arm and forces her to her feet. "You have to get outta here!"

She just stares, eyes wide and lips aquiver, bereft of understanding.

And he drags her away from the blaze—pushes her with considerable force. "Now!"

Everything blurs, and footsteps can't be heard over the sound of hell screaming in his ears. He can only hope she listened to him. Red flashes in the corner of his eye, a faint, blood-like smear: salvation lies a few strides away—the fire extinguisher.

He runs to the edge of the kitchen, grasps it in his unstable hands.

He fumbles with the pin, dislodges it with a strained grunt.

He aims the hose. Steady… Steady…

And foam erupts with a sharp, sustained hiss, vanquishing the sputtering flames.

Lingering smoke fills his lungs and stings his eyes, the kitchen whirling as the alarm continues its aural assault. He clumsily lays the fire extinguisher on the counter then switches off the stove, careful not to burn himself.

Knob still works…

He surveys the damage: the stove top and fan are blackened by ash; the overhead cabinets and edges of adjacent counters are severely charred. Substantial, but mostly superficial—he hopes. The source of the fire lies on the bottom left coil: a frying pan containing the scorched remains of what was once food, coated in white.

The alarm stops.

He drifts into the living room, wavering with every dizzy step. A flick of a switch. A flourish of light. The smoke is heavy here, too. He continues to the nearest window, slides it open with a tired sigh, and softly the night air flows as he looks out into the world. He sees the full moon as it hangs in the starless sky, the faint city lights as they flicker over the shadowy horizon—faraway and indifferent, as always.

A deep breath. A sluggish turn. Angela sits on the couch, despondent, near catatonic, fiercely clinging to herself.

He steps away from the window. "What the hell were you thinking?"

No response.

"Why didn't you run? Why didn't you get the fire extinguisher? It was right there!"

Then a low, raspy sound. Choking or heaving. She begins to tremble.

"What do you think would've happened if I weren't here?" He shakes his head then runs his fingers through his hair. "Thank God Laura's at Emily's."

Another sullen moan, and for several seconds, she only shudders in silence.

"…The stove is electric," she eventually says, muted, hoarse. "I didn't… I didn't think there'd be any fire." She swallows. "When the pan started to burn, I… I saw it and just… sh-shut down."

And he falters. Amid the fever of panic and fatigue, the significance of the fire never occurred to him. Silent Hill… The Lakeview Hotel… The oppressive heat of that stairway as it was consumed by flames… He hasn't forgotten—he could never forget—and he knows that's only a fraction of what she endured in that town. She hasn't shared much. Only fragments, murmured recollections. Vague and scarcely coherent. But in every tense exchange there's been one constant, one unshakable element—fire.

"For me, it's always like this."

He crashes onto the sofa chair, throws his head back, then aggressively pushes his palms into his eyes. Christ, he's tired. His head and heart are still pounding—screaming for reprieve that won't be granted. No rest for the weary. No rest for the wicked. His mind whirls as it desperately grasps for words, any words…

…but nothing comes, and all he can do is sigh.

"You want…" Angela manages between labored breaths, "…you want to kick me out, don't you?"

He uncovers his eyes. "…What?"

"You want me gone! Just say it!" Her gaze burns with the embers of long-suppressed fury. "I'm useless, aren't I? I-I always fuck everything up… I make everyone around me miserable!"

"Angela…"

"I'm a broken whore!" She trembles violently, her grip on herself tightening. Tears trail down her cheeks as jagged fingernails rip through the fabric of her sweater. "I'm a stupid bitch who's more trouble than she's worth!"

"Angela, that's—"

"Mama was right," she whimpers. "They were all r—"

"Angela!"

She flinches, shrinking into herself like a wounded animal.

And he's on his feet now, reeling from the stream of blood rushing to his head. "None of that is true." His voice is firm, unyielding. "Absolutely none of it."

He looks into her eyes, those deep, hazel eyes, and through the waning smoke sees the fear—sees the ever-present pain. If his life has been a whirlwind, hers has been a hurricane, merciless and devastating, laying waste to almost every avenue of hope.

"They're gone, Angela. The ones who hurt you are gone. Don't let them drag you down… Don't give them that power."

She looks to the carpet, shivering as she softly weeps. Seconds pass in uncertainty as he waits for his disarrayed thoughts to form into something coherent.

"…I care about you," he says. "Laura cares about you. You're kind. You're smart. You're thoughtful. You keep yourself guarded, but you've been hurt so much, I don't blame you—I can't blame you.

"I'd like to think that after all these months… I've gotten to know you…

"…the real you…" he pauses, lets the words sink in, "…and I'm glad you're here, Angela. I'm grateful you're in my life."

He steps closer, staggering on tired feet, then breathes. Inhale. Exhale.

"Why do you think I'm so upset? Everything in that kitchen can be replaced." He points to her. "You can't be."

And slowly she faces him, eyes swollen with tears, still holding herself so tightly. A light breeze drifts through the open window, whispering softly as it tousles her dark hair.

"If you want to leave," he says, "I won't stop you… but don't ever think you aren't welcome here. You'll always have a place here."

He closes his eyes, sighs. "And if you did leave… for good… I don't… I don't know what I'd do with myself."

And he means those words. Means them more than she could possibly know. He cares about her—so much so that that seems like an understatement—but this goes beyond that. She witnessed the horrors of Silent Hill. She lived through that nightmare—lived through that hell. She understands. And in a way, he needs that solidarity. Needs that sense of assurance. Needs to know he isn't alone in the world.

And he wonders if she's ever felt the same.

"Why do you care so much?" Her voice is weak. "I don't deserve it… I don't deserve it at all…"

He opens his eyes. She's staring into her lap.

"You do deserve it, Angela." Another step forward. "I meant it when I said I'm grateful you're in my life."

She takes several breaths. Rough breaths. Rapid breaths. Neither of them says a word. She raises her head, trembling as she meets his gaze, faint light flickering in her eyes.

And deep within a war rages—a fierce skirmish between logic and emotion. The first side fights to maintain order and distance, to avoid exacerbating an extremely volatile situation. The second strives to provide whatever comfort possible, to show a trace of compassion, a shred of humanity.

Emotion wins.

He sits down next to her, hesitates for a lingering moment, then drapes an arm around her shoulders, his fingers barely skimming the material of her sweater. She tenses, shuddering at the feeble touch, and he prays this gesture won't be met with a scream, a violent outburst, or, God forbid…

…something much worse.

His prayer is answered.

She closes her arms around him and frantically grasps at his shirt—a clumsy yet cathartic embrace. He stumbles backwards as she presses her face against his chest, the back of his neck colliding with the armrest. Perhaps he should hold her tighter, he thinks. Be more consolatory, affectionate. But she feels so delicate in his arms, so frail, as if she'll crumble at the slightest pressure. He can't quiet the uncertainty… can't quiet the unyielding fear…

…but she doesn't share his trepidation, strengthening her grip as she digs her nails deeper into his shoulder blades. An acute sting. A welcome sting. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, then finally musters a sliver of courage, rubbing her back and stroking her hair as she weeps into his chest.

"I… I'm sorry," she chokes out. "I'm s-so sorry…"

And he sighs as he holds her closer, his voice so soft as he echoes words spoken months ago:

"You're okay… That's all that matters."

Chapter Text

May, 1995

A vision of autumn.

A dream of a forgotten town tucked beneath the trees and colored by the embers of ever-changing leaves. A portrait of a young couple, smiles warm and bright—ghosts of the bygone summer. A keepsake of kinder days, framed in gilded maple, resting on the end table.

A photograph of James and Mary.

And the clock ticks as Angela loses herself in its endless details. Tick. She notices the way the manifold branches twist and turn—nurturing arms drawn toward their presence. Tick. She notices the closeness, the tenderness with which he holds her, the quietly affectionate way she leans into him. Tick. She notices their eyes, vibrant as the autumn foliage, unsullied by life's inexorable rust. Tick. Infinite specks give way to infinite interpretations, varied as the faces of fall, and like a metronome, time plays on. Tick. Tick. Tick.

She wonders, is this what hope looks like?

Hope…

It truly is a fragile thing, fickle and fleeting. So hard to nurture yet so quick to crumble. Like a house of straw or a house on the sand, it's feeble shelter from the reality of empty lives and empty promises, of broken homes and broken hearts. But perhaps she's being presumptuous. A not-so-small part of her asks: Has the photo led me astray?

The camera never lies.

She's heard the phrase before, though she can't recall where. Bullshit. She remembers the photos that cluttered the walls and tables of her old home. Remembers all the misrepresented moments and memories. All the dusty picture frames she shattered before leaving that hell behind. They flash so vividly in her mind's eye—a slideshow of artifice and deceit.

Daddy and Mama dancing at their wedding reception. "You can see it in their eyes, their body language: the love, the devotion. Some couples are just meant to be."

Lie.

Her and her brother running through the park, her hand pressed against her cheek—hiding a secret, hiding her shame. "Look how happy you are! Laughing and playing. Siblings make the best friends, don't they?"

Lie.

Her perched on Daddy's lap, one hand on her shoulder, the other on her leg. His property. His plaything. "What a sweet little girl, and what a sweet smile! You just adore your daddy, I can tell."

Lie.

Mama, days after giving birth, holding the newborn so tenderly in her arms. "Such a loving expression… Now, that's a mother who would do anything for her daughter."

Just another lie.

Cameras don't capture the anger nor sadness veiled by artificial smiles and manufactured scenes. Photos don't reveal the secrets that lie beneath long-sleeved shirts and baggy sweaters. They only present twisted simulacra of reality, distorting and manipulating, offering nothing but abstract canvases onto which people project their own truth.

Cameras lie. They lie all the time.

Footsteps echo from the adjacent corridor. She holds herself tighter. One, two, three seconds pass before he slips into view—James—face etched with a hint of confusion, a trace of concern.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

"It's a nice photo," she murmurs.

And silently he watches her, wary, tense, as if searching for a meaning, a motive—something unspoken. Or perhaps that's just paranoia whispering. His eyes fall on the photo—a wistful gaze—and carefully he reaches out, grasping it in both hands.

"It is." He slides his fingers along the frame, tracing its floral patterns. "This was taken the year Mary and I got married."

"Were you visiting friends or family or something?"

Angela knows almost nothing of his social circle, past or present. He's spoken little of his parents, made no mention of siblings nor cousins. He leads a solitary life, ascetic and dreary… but has that always been the case?

A slight shake of the head. "No," he says. "Just a stopover during a road trip. We were staying at this bed and breakfast in New Hampshire. Cozy little town. Can't remember the name." His lips curve in a faint smile. "Fall in New England… We really take it for granted, don't we?"

"I… I guess…"

"A couple in their sixties or seventies were running the place," he goes on. "They were a little… eccentric but nice as can be." A light chuckle. "They really took to Mary, and she really took to them. Even wrote a short story about 'em."

And Angela sighs softly. The tension has waned with every word he's spoken, and her grip on herself has loosened considerably.

But why…?

Why is he telling me all this?

It's not often he's so candid, especially unprompted. The way he's been talking is strange, confusing… but disarming—comforting, even. The gentle cadence of his voice… The softness in his eyes… Like he's been holding onto something precious, intimate—desperate to be set free. Perhaps the photo didn't lead her astray, she thinks. Perhaps her first impressions were accurate. Not everything is deceptive. Not everything is a façade. But it's such a foreign concept: to love and be loved. But it must be a beautiful thing, she supposes. If it's… if it's genuine. And perhaps it is.

Sometimes she forgets…

…beauty can exist in such an ugly world.

"Did Mary write a lot?"

Tick. Tick. Tick.

His smile fades.

"She was always writing…" he says, voice quavering. "Writing about the people in her life, little things she'd observe, recollections of her dreams." He closes his eyes. "Even when she was lying in that hospital bed… she never stopped writing."

And again, Angela looks to the picture frame, that photo held so firmly in his hands. She sees the expression of a younger James, full of passion and joy that's all but lost. Sees the way Mary smiles and laughs as she melts in his arms—an embrace so sweet… so secure…

She loved him.

And he still loves her.

A relationship torn asunder by disease and despair. A flicker of life extinguished by an unspeakable act. Yet that love still survives, fierce and unwavering. A tinge of bitterness festers within—a miserable little demon—and Angela hates herself for that. But it's a terrible thing…

…living in the shadow of a dead woman.

"She was beautiful," Angela says.

His eyes drift open. Weary. Hardened. "Yes…" a low sigh, "…she was."

And a feeling overtakes her. An urge. A compulsion. An uncontrollable desire to express sympathy. "It must have been so painful…" she says, "…dealing with what you did for three years."

His fingers tighten around the frame. "I know something even more painful…" There's an edge to his voice now. "Wasting away for three years, knowing no matter how desperately you fight, how desperately you cling to life, it won't make any difference. Everything is falling apart. Your foundation is crumbling to dust.

"Suffering alone as the inevitability of everything hangs over you, and just…" he draws a heavy breath, "…wanting your husband to hold you in his arms and tell you… it'll be alright…"

Then he turns, and she can't see his face anymore.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Nausea rises as her head furiously throbs away. Another mistake. Another abject fuck-up in an existence full of them. She fidgets in restlessness. Falters in helplessness. No more words. Words only make things worse.

He returns the frame to its original place, his hands trembling. "Sorry," he can only murmur. "I… I need to be alone right now."

And as he walks away, she hears a sound amid the faint rustle of footfalls. Low. Plaintive. Not a bang, merely a whimper.

After all, that's how the world ends.

Chapter Text

June, 1995

The record store thrums with the mutters and murmurs of a restless crowd. An atonal symphony. A chorus of white noise. Countless posters cover the concrete walls: postmodern icons of the venerated saints of MTV. Islands of cassettes, vinyl records, and CDs lie amid a sea of sneers and scowls and perpetually rolling eyes. Teenagers, walking abstractions of angst and ennui, draped in flannel and ripped denim. Youth, aimless and afraid, hiding behind masks of apathy and rebellion.

And James knows he's conspicuous here, knows he doesn't belong. He feels it in his bones, feels it with every sigh and weary lament—the disconnect, the obsolescence. He stifles a groan. Barely thirty and already a relic.

But this is for Angela.

He was surprised when she said she wanted to come here, a place so hectic… so alternative—far outside her comfort zone. Her idea of sanctuary, of solace, is any place free from the typical commotion of the world, and she's never shown much interest in music. She rarely listens to it. Rarely discusses it. Doesn't own any albums. Doesn't sing or even hum. And it seems like such an unfathomable thing: a life without music, a voice without a song.

He shakes his head. That can't be right.

Music must play a role in her life, no matter how small or subtle. Why else would they be here? And it's not as though she's never succumbed to its transcendent influence. He's watched her drum her fingers and tap her feet to wild rhythms, seen her sway so softly to a gentle melody or two, glimpsed rare smiles when songs have played on the television… on the radio…

The thought trails off as a sudden dizziness arises.

Radio…

In idle moments and restless dreams he still hears them… the distorted whispers… the visceral cries. Subliminal reminders. Transmissions from Silent Hill. Though not as relentless as they once were—not as loud nor dissonant—sometimes all it takes is a hiss of static, the howl of a scrambled frequency, and he's back in that town, drifting through the endless fog—condemned to his own rotten hell.

So lost. So afraid.

And the monsters…

…they never go away.

He breathes slowly. Breathes deeply. A wandering mind is a dangerous thing. Images flash as he resumes his aimless search, fingers trembling as he sifts through scores of vinyl records. Old and new. Familiar and unfamiliar. Pop and rock and blues and jazz and hip-hop. It's an effective enough distraction, immersing himself in the countless categories and classifications. A universe of orders and suborders, of genres and subgenres. Some of the albums are in mint condition, pristine and protected by plastic sleeves. Others are used, their covers faded and worn from years of neglect.

He knows what that's like.

A voice, timid and hushed, rouses him from his dreary reverie: "J-James."

And a smile crosses his lips, his disquiet momentarily cast aside.

"Hey, Angela."

She looks even more conspicuous than he does, eyes flitting to and fro as she fidgets in her snow-white sweater: turtlenecked, woolen, loose fitting. Much better suited for the dead of winter than the dawn of summer. And he knows why she's wearing it. Knows why she needs that cover… that security. He gave it to her back in December—a little comfort and warmth for the cold, gray months. Her old one…

…it just couldn't last any longer.

A well-worn leather bag—more of a satchel than a purse—hangs from her shoulder. Something she purchased at a thrift store about a month ago. Drab. Utilitarian. It serves its purpose. A lone cassette is clasped in her hands, its cover a photo of a trio in a shadowy arboretum, framed in white. He reads the title:

The Dream Academy

"I found it," she says. "I heard this song on the radio a few days ago, Life in a Northern Town." She holds the cassette close—holds it tight. "It's on this album, and I… I thought it was really nice. It's been in my head ever since."

The thoughts of radios are shaken away.

"Yeah, Life in a Northern Town… 'A Salvation Army band played,' that's how it starts, right?" And he hears it in his mind: the wind's gentle whistle, the soft strum of a guitar. "I like it, too."

She smiles that shy smile of hers. "The man on the radio said they're a one hit wonder, but I still wanna check out their other songs." She then punctuates the sentence with a sigh, cautiously satisfied, and he feels his own smile grow a little wider.

She does have music in her life.

But…

"Is that all you're getting? Don't you want a little… more?"

She looks away, shaking her head. "N-No… this is… this is enough for me." Her hands begin to tremble. "I'm used to listening to what other people want to listen to…"

"Are you sure? There's no rush. Browse as long as you want."

Her lips silently part. The cassette lightly rattles.

"Yeah." She looks back, her smile strained now—placating. "I'm sure."

He knows it's unwise to push this any further, regardless of his concern. Doing so will only exacerbate her discomfort, shatter the fragile detente. So he sighs, ready to acquiesce, ready to leave this frantic place behind…

…but an idea then springs to life.

"Alright," he says, "but I'm not done here just yet. Why don't you buy that, wander around, and check out some of the other stores? Go and have fun. Don't let me hold you back."

Her eyes shift as she shuffles her feet.

"I, um… I don't know…" she murmurs. "It's just, there are so many people…" She fiddles with the cassette. "I don't… I don't think I want to wander around without you…"

There's nothing to be afraid of, he wants to tell her. The people here are just living their lives, no different from us. But he stifles the thought. Even in his mind, the words sound insultingly hollow.

"Well, how about this." He glances at his watch. "Get that tape and head to the food court. I'll meet you there at one o'clock—eighteen minutes from now. Then we can go to any stores we want…" he finds himself smiling again, "…together."

She grips the cassette tighter, saying nothing as the noise around them erratically ebbs and flows. Her lips then quiver, and his smile begins to waver.

What will you do, Angela?

She nods faintly, answering the unspoken question when she walks away, silent as a shadow as she fades into the crowd.

Determination leads him in the opposite direction, wading through streams of impassive faces, searching for tags, vests, shirts—any indicator of employment. The store is expansive. Two floors. Left then right then left again, and colors soon blur in the corner of his eye: rows of little boxes, lines of portable music players. Aiwa. Panasonic. Sony. He stops. They don't own anything like that. Only the stereo at home… the cassette player in his car…

Maybe Angela…

He grabs one of the boxes and reads through the list of features. FM/AM digital tuner. Full remote control. Three songs AMS. One song repeat… He assumes that's adequate, though he's far from an expert.

He looks at the price tag. Reasonable enough.

A moment of contemplative silence passes.

And he nods to himself before looking back to his watch: fourteen minutes to one. No more distractions. He returns to his self-assigned task, eyes dancing as he drifts through the store. A few more aisles. A few more false alarms. Then a soft sound—a light hum barely audible over the drone of the crowd. A woman with auburn hair rocks her head back and forth as she dutifully organizes a shelf of cassettes.

"Um, excuse me…" He walks closer. "Do you work here?"

She sighs, blowing a few strands of hair from her eyes. She slides a cassette in place then faces him with a wry smile. "Yeah, I guess I do." She points to a tag pinned to her Tears for Fears shirt. "Sarah. How can I help you?"

"Sorry if I'm bothering you, but, uh… do you know any music that's similar to the Dream Academy?" He fidgets with the box in his hands. "I want to get a few albums for someone who's… very important to me."

Chapter Text

July, 1995

She sits on the side of her bed, eyes fixed on the sketchbook splayed in her lap: an outlet for lofty and half-mad desires; a gift from James. Frantically she labors as the phantoms of a dream dance upon the pages. Scritch-scratch. Scritch-scratch. Scritch-scratch. Self-discovery is her impetus—the stars her muse.

She draws the myriad fantasies of her fevered mind. Draws all the sights and scenes that spring from her unshackled imagination. Draws with the wild and aggressive strokes of an untrained hand. Raw, embryonic, yet hauntingly elegant.

The scribblings of a restless daydreamer.

She continues across the pages, shading here, crisscrossing there, only coming to a stop when a youthful voice rings out:

"Hi, Angela."

She lets her pencil fall as she turns to the doorway, and there Laura stands, hands clasped together and lips arched in a tentative smile—a sight that's only grown more common in recent months. It wasn't long ago when Angela kept her door perpetually closed, eternally locked—a steadfast barrier blocking out the depravity of all that lay outside. This room was her sanctuary, her world. Angela's World. A world of silence and solitude and sleep, in which she alone resided and she alone reigned.

But as time drifted by, this cloistered world of hers seemed to narrow, grow duller, lonelier, and she began to resent that loneliness, resent the confines of her drab little room. She found herself leaving her door unlocked, leaving it ajar. Found herself wishing for company, wishing for knocks and friendly drop-ins from Laura and James. A process taken in small steps, not strides.

And now, it's no longer Angela's World. It's just another part of their world.

And it's nice… sharing this world with them.

"Hi, Laura." Angela sighs softly as she closes her sketchbook. "Come in."

Laura strolls through the room, curious eyes wandering. "Emily's coming over." She stops in front of a bureau on which a stack of cassettes, a Walkman, and a few scattered books lie. "She's spending the night."

Yes, James made some mention of that, Angela recalls. Emily… A familiar name—Laura's best friend.

It's… good she has someone like that in her life…

Angela's never met the girl, but Laura's descriptions have painted a vivid enough picture: brown hair, glasses, tall for her age, a little shy.

Innocuous, she supposes, but a stranger nonetheless.

"I was wondering if… maybe you'd wanna spend some time with us," Laura says. "We're gonna play a buncha games. All the normal sleepover stuff, you know?"

No, Angela doesn't know.

"James rented some movies, too. It'll be really fun, I promise."

Angela looks away, hand instinctively slinking up her arm and brushing against her sleeve. "It's really sweet of you to ask, but I think I'll just stay in my room." She squeezes her arm. "You'll have more fun without me, I'm sure. I… I don't think Emily would like me very much, anyway."

"Why do you say that? I like you. You're nice." Laura smiles warmly—a flash of little teeth. "I mean, most of the time."

"Thanks… I guess…" Angela sighs, "…but kids don't usually like me. Even when I was a kid, they didn't like me."

Laura gives her that serenely naïve expression only a child can make. "Why?"

"It's…" she falls silent as she searches for the right words, "…complicated, Laura."

And as her vague answer hangs in the air, a gentle trill echoes from outside. A fleeting melody. A robin's song.

Laura's eyes fall on a magazine lying open on the bed: photos and reviews of a chamber music group. She glances at Angela's sketchbook.

"What were you drawing?"

Angela's hands begin to tremble, and again she turns away. She's never shared her sketches with anyone. Never considered sharing them. Until now, no one's even asked.

Why would anyone want to see them?

She grasps the sketchbook—draws it close, hugs it to her chest—and all she can hear now is the thrum of her quivering heart.

Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.

She breathes—a sharp intake—then flips through the pages before stopping at her latest sketch. Another breath. Another string of heartbeats. She lays the book out in her lap, presenting an incomplete piece spread across two pages:

A symphony in the stars; an ensemble of angelic musicians floating through space, the universe their stage, the galaxies their audience.

"It's just something that came to me," Angela says. "I've been using that magazine as a reference for the instruments." Then self-consciousness rises. "…It's n-not finished yet. I've still got a lot of work to do…"

She trails off.

Everything falls silent.

It's awful. She hates it.

You can't draw. You can't think. You can't do anything right.

This is why you keep to yourself. This is why you never share anything with any—

"That's really cool!" Laura hops on the bed, wonder shining in her eyes. "Can I see more?"

Angela just chews her lip, gripping the pages tight.

And Laura's enthusiasm quickly wanes, her voice low when she says, "I always show you my drawings…"

A scarcely audible murmur. A faint, nasal sigh.

She's… she's not wrong…

With a resigned, "Alright…" Angela capitulates and turns to the previous page.

"That's me!" Laura points at her own likeness. "You made me look pretty good."

A tenuous sense of relief washes over Angela, and she can't help the small smile pulling at her lips. She breathes to quiet her darker thoughts, breathes to quell the uproar of her heart, then flips through the sketchbook, letting the fragments of her dreams unfold in reverse.

Sunflowers blossom from a pair of open hands, veiling the face of a nameless stranger.

James.

A stray dog wanders through an old churchyard; "He searches for his light" marks one of the gravestones.

A woman lies in a sprawling poppy field; ashen clouds spiral in the sky. (Laura: "Is she sleeping?" Angela: "In a way.")

James.

An emaciated cherub with severed wings gazes skyward; a dove descends from the heavens.

A shadowy figure stands in a child's bedroom; broken toys lie strewn about the floor.

A face, human and inhuman, disfigured and distorted; "self portrait 2" is scrawled on the bottom right corner.

James—again.

"That's… a lotta weird stuff," Laura says. "And a lotta James." She presses a finger on the page, covering his right eye. "And you put a lotta effort into this one."

Angela just gazes at the floor, inexplicably transfixed by the off-white carpet.

And Laura giggles. "You really like him, don't you?"

"I… I do." Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. "I mean… he's nice… and he's done so much for me… and for you. W-Why wouldn't I like him?"

Laura hums. "Yeah, I guess so… Emily's always drawing pictures of this boy she likes—Scott." She sighs. "People do weird things when they have crushes."

Angela's heart thrashes away as the carpet slowly swirls—little whirlpools in a milky sea.

"…I never said I had a crush…"

What exactly is a "crush," anyway? Childish infatuation? Simple lust obscured by ignorance and empty-headed idealism? Her feelings for James, however confusing and tumultuous, can't be encompassed by such a hollow, nothing term. No words seem adequate… save for the four-letter enigma she dares not speak. That's a word—a concept—she's still trying to figure out herself.

"Uh-huh," she hears Laura say. "Sure."

And Angela just sighs as she turns the page.

"Snoopy!"

Dozens of cartoon beagles decorate the pages. Here Snoopy lies on the roof of his doghouse, and there he sits with his bird friend, Woodstock. In one corner he's dressed as Joe Cool, round shades and a turtleneck sweater. In another he's donned in an aviator hat, his scarf dancing in the wind—the illustrious WW1 Flying Ace.

A smile plays upon Angela's lips. "I've always liked him a lot. I even had a stuffed Snoopy when I was your age."

"Did you have a lot of stuffed animals?"

The question resounds like a gunshot.

"I had a few…" she murmurs, her smile nothing but a memory now. "They were… they were my friends…"

"Did something happen to them?"

"…I ripped them all up." Angela's hand curls into a fist. "They weren't the ones who… h-hurt me, but I… I still ripped them up…" Her nails dig into her palm. "…I was just so angry… angry about everything. They were my friends. Why didn't they help me?" She sighs, shaking her head. "It sounds so silly, doesn't it? Of course they couldn't help me. They were just toys."

She folds her hands in her lap and squeezes them tight, staring at the pages—staring at all those lifeless shapes and outlines. "I… I miss them."

Little fingers brush against her arm. She flinches at the uninvited touch.

"Sorry," Laura says.

And as Angela slowly faces her, she notices the softness in her features, the sympathy in her gaze—not a look of lukewarm pity, but of compassion, solemn and sincere.

"…It's okay," Angela says. "It's all in the past…"

But she knows the words are a lie. Knows the past is an inescapable burden—a merciless demon that burrows deep inside… festering… corroding…

The hell that burns within.

Footsteps sound from outside her room. Angela clamps the sketchbook shut, eyes drawn to the doorway, and it's not long till another face makes their presence known.

"There you are, Laura." James. "It's time to pick up Emily. Are you ready?" He gives Angela a guilty look. "Sorry to interrupt."

She shakes her head. "It's fine, really."

Laura hops off the bed then rushes to the door. "Yeah, I'm ready." Then she turns, offering Angela a sunny smile and a parting wave. "Bye, Angela."

Angela waves back, smiling weakly in return. "Bye, Laura."

James glances down at Laura as she skips past him. "Wait for me in the living room, okay? I'll be a few seconds."

A round of giggles echoes from the hall. "More like a few minutes."

And he smiles, chuckling softly as his eyes flicker to Angela—the only one not laughing. "You alright?"

Concerned, as always. A sentiment she's still getting acclimated to… but nevertheless appreciates.

"Yeah…" she murmurs, "…I'm alright."

Liar.

Something flares in his gaze. Faint. Curious. He folds his arms and leans against the door frame. "Wanna come along for the ride?"

Yes, she wants to say, I'd really like that, but the words die on her tongue, and she can only sit there and stare.

He tilts his head, patiently awaiting a response—any signs of life.

"…No, thanks," she eventually answers. "There's a sketch I'm working on. I'm really eager to get it finished."

It may be an excuse, but at least it isn't a lie.

He studies her with that half-sympathetic, half-skeptical look of his. "Want me to pick you up anything? Knowing Laura and Emily, they'll probably want ice cream."

"I… I'll pass." She wrings her hands. "But thanks again."

And resignation seems to set in, his eyes drifting shut as he lightly sighs. "Well… okay." He stands straight then offers her a halfhearted smile. "See you in a bit."

She watches quietly as he fades from the doorway, fades from the room, fades from their world—and she's alone again.

See you in a bit.

She opens the sketchbook then flips to her unfinished drawing—the symphony in the stars. She gazes down at the graphite-covered pages, eyes sweeping over the celestial orchestra and all the lonely, scattered planets, then slams the book shut and throws it on the floor.

With a sigh that's all but endless, she lies back and stares at the ceiling, scowling at the fan hanging idly above. Watching her. Judging her. Mocking her.

And she wants to scream.

Another opportunity to connect with James and Laura she let slip through her fingers. Another chance to strengthen those bonds, feel that elusive sense of belonging—wasted.

All because of fear.

The fear of a little girl.

Pathetic.

It's a while later when they return, when she hears two thuds and the distant thrum of light chatter, muffled by her now-closed door. The conversation carries on for a minute or so—a faint stream of carefree laughter and half-understood anecdotes—before giving way to less verbal sounds: first rushing footsteps, then percussive pounding—knuckles rapping against her door in rhythmic succession.

Of course…

She rubs her eyes, rises from bed with a stretch and a yawn, then shambles to the door, opening it just enough for the slightest of peeks. Laura stands alone in the hall, eyes downcast, hands behind her back.

"Hi."

Angela steps back and opens the door further. "Hey…" her voice wavers, "…what's up?"

Laura hesitates for a moment. "There's, um, there's this crane game at the ice cream place, and I… I saw a toy I really wanted." Her little feet shuffle. "I tried like three times, but I just couldn't get it…"

She lifts her eyes, and a grin soon lights up her face.

"…then Emily, I told her how much I wanted it, and she got it in one try! Can you believe that?"

Angela smiles softly—Laura's enthusiasm is infectious at times. "That's pretty impressive."

"Anyway…" Laura says, "…there's a reason I wanted it so bad." She draws a long breath. "I wanted to get it for you."

"You wanted to…" Angela trails off as her heart pounds away. "…Why?"

Laura doesn't say anything, only smiles broadly. She removes a hand from behind her back, waving an empty palm and wiggling her fingers. She then removes the other, slowly, playfully, revealing what she'd kept hidden till now.

A little stuffed animal.

Mostly white. Black ears. A kind smile.

Snoopy.

And Angela trembles as she reaches her hands out, clasping him so gently and holding him to her chest. She cries a riot of thank-yous to Laura then murmurs frantic apologies to the impossibly soft toy in her arms—an old friend thought lost forever. Memories of the times they shared together come flooding back… the times she shared with all her toys. Nights she lay awake, eyes swollen and sore, whispering words of desperation and hope. We'll leave someday. We won't be here forever. Things will change. Everything changes. Hours she spent hidden in the dark—her secret place, her safe place—warmed by their embrace.

Those quiet reprieves…

Those precious few moments of comfort…

She sighs as she looks down the corridor. Maybe… maybe she will leave her room… Maybe she will meet Emily, if only to say…

…thank you.

Chapter Text

September, 1995

"Alright," Angela says, finger pressed against the page. "First we mix the butter and the sugar."

Her hazel eyes flicker from the cookbook to the bowl and then to him, alight with a faint yet unmistakable feeling… the frail glow of nascent passion.

Let's get to it, then.

Ingredients and utensils lie neatly arranged on the counter—a colorful assortment of bags and cups and little plastic trinkets. James gets what he needs: white sugar; brown sugar; butter, softened. Everything falls into place, and Angela diligently mixes, equipped with a wooden spoon and a warm smile.

This was her idea—cooking together. An opportunity to hone her self-admittedly lacking culinary skills. An excuse to spend a late summer's day together, unburdened by the stresses of the outside world. Two birds with one stone. Something sweet, she wanted to make. Something indulgent. No knives. And seeing the look in her eyes, the clear if tempered enthusiasm she radiates, he knows it was a great one.

She's a picture of domestic serenity, dressed in a slapdash ensemble: a blue apron, gray sweatpants, and an old T-shirt that's much too big for her. Plain, inelegant, but exuding an effortless sort of charm. The shirt is his, faded and dusted with specks of dry paint. It lay untouched for years, but she found and laid claim to it, breathing new life into its worn threads.

And he remembers asking her, "Why do you wear that thing so much?"

"It's comfortable…" she answered in a lilting voice, "…and warm." He'll never forget the smile that followed—sweet as a dream and soft as sleep. "Wearing it makes me feel safe."

She feels more comfortable showing her arms nowadays—showing her skin—if only at home. And it's remarkably encouraging seeing her like this, high-spirited and healthy, casual and unafraid. She once looked so haggard, so desolate. Years of abuse had taken a severe toll, mentally and physically, and sweaters provided her with a sense of security, a shred of solace. They were her way of hiding from the world, hiding from herself.

Hiding the scars.

She still does whatever she can to conceal them, even when wearing short-sleeved shirts, but there's a lightness now… a growing vibrancy. Her smiles are a little broader, and they last a little longer. Her moods are a little brighter, and she laughs a little louder.

It truly is a wonderful thing.

A melody fills the air, a peaceful hum, and he sighs softly to the sound. Angela closes her eyes as she sways to and fro, lost in a sonic trance. She never hummed until recently, never shared the full sweetness of her voice, and hearing it is still a rarity: a euphonious blessing. Her lips dance—faint, fluid motions—and wordless notes give way to song:

Time it's time to live.

Time it's time to live for living.

Time it's time to live, now that it's all over.

A sharp gasp resounds through the kitchen as something slams against the bowl—clang!

Her eyes shoot open, wild with panic. "S-Sorry!"

And he raises his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "There's nothing to be sorry about. You have a great voice."

She shakes her head, groaning quietly. "No… No, I don't. M-Mama… she had a great voice." Her lips begin to quiver. "She was the singer of the family. She was… she was always better than—"

"Angela."

He rests a hand on her shoulder. A simple gesture, but one he'd never do unprompted until recently. She flinches at the sudden touch—muscle memory from a violent past—but soon relaxes, meeting his gaze with those endlessly expressive eyes of hers.

"I mean it," he says. "You do have a great voice. Don't let anyone, especially yourself, stifle it."

Her face flushes as brilliantly as the dawn, and warmth blossoms in his own cheeks—a little touch of summer. He stumbles back as he withdraws his hand. When did it start trembling?

"Al-Alright…" he glances at the cookbook, "…vanilla and eggs are next."

Then he breathes—a futile attempt to quell his growing anxiety. He grabs a bottle of vanilla extract, fills a teaspoon, but maintaining its balance proves to be a trying task. He moves his other hand, steadies his arm with a firm grip, then with a labored motion splashes the dark amber liquid into the bowl.

"C-Could you crack the eggs?" she asks. "Bits of shell always fall in when I do it…"

"Yeah…" he swallows, "…sure."

Another breath, heavier this time. He opens a beige carton. Five eggs left. He takes one, waits for his shivering arms to stabilize, then clears his throat.

"When it comes to cracking an egg," his voice is steadier now, "you want your thumb on the side like this," he moves his hand so she can see, "and your index finger on the top.

"Crack it in the middle," and he does so against the counter, "but don't crack it against a bowl. A flat surface is what you want.

"Now, you push your middle finger against the crack like this." His hand hovers over the bowl. "Then, you pull the top up with your thumb and index finger."

And with that, the egg splits open, a yolk and its viscous coating lazily descending—no traces of shell. He tosses the remains in the trash.

"Mary taught me that."

Angela mixes slowly, her eyes focused on the bowl. "…Was she a good cook?"

"She was an excellent cook…" he fetches another egg—again, his hand trembles, "…and an excellent teacher. I… I could barely make anything before I met her…"

His shoulders slump. His gaze falls. Ceramic tiles spiral and swirl in a dizzying kaleidoscope, and he can't hear anything anymore. Not the whispers of the kitchen. Not the rhythm of his heart. Not the tumult of his mind.

All is numb.

All is light.

And when he looks up, she's there, fresh from a photograph or a distant memory, radiant as she was so many years ago.

Mary.

She stands by the cutting board, dicing vegetables with the grace and deftness illness stole. Softly her lips sway as they form words without meaning, sing songs without sound, and all he can do is stare, thoughtless, motionless, lost in the depths of her heavenly gaze. But she doesn't care. No, she doesn't have a care in the world—all smiles, all sunshine.

Closer she comes, closer, closer.

She reaches out a hand.

He can almost feel her…

"James?"

Two blinks. The first shatters the illusion. The second fails to mend it.

And Angela's staring at him now, her eyes wary and wide. "You okay?"

"Y-Yeah." He draws a deep breath. "I'm fine."

But he feels something. Jagged. Wet. He raises his hand. The remnants of a crushed egg stain his palm and fingers, dripping listlessly onto the kitchen tile.

I… I'm sorry…

He washes his hands thoroughly, washes them repeatedly. Another egg is taken, and like an automaton he operates in mechanical silence. Crack. Split. Discard.

Once Angela finishes beating in the eggs, she gathers the remaining ingredients. The spoon lies askew in the bowl—a tacit reminder it's time to alternate. He takes it without hesitation, continuing his quiet labor as she pours in salt, baking soda, and flour.

When that's done, she fades from the corner of his eye, and little is heard but the sound of footsteps and light rustling. Then: "Time for the, uh… pièce de résistance," she says. "Chocolate chips."

She pours, he mixes, and on the dance goes. A dozen or so pirouettes before he starts to grunt, a little cramped, a little strained, but as sore as his hand is getting, the gnawing anxiety has left him. This kind of rote work is welcome—necessary. It distracts from the agony of reminiscence and introspection… quiets all those miserable and intrusive thoughts.

It doesn't take long before the chips are fully incorporated, and the mottled mass of flour, sugar, butter, and chocolate looks nice, smells nice, but…

…this is a lot of dough.

Maybe we should've halved the recipe…

Angela stands by the stove as she busies herself with a roll of parchment paper. He raises the spoon. "Want some?"

She shakes her head, tearing off a sheet and laying it out on a baking tray. "I'll wait till it's cooked, thanks."

He just shrugs. "If you say so."

A tentative bite. A pleasant taste. Ephemeral comfort for his ailing soul. He sighs softly. It's not often he gets to indulge like this—not often he allows himself to. A few more bites. A few more licks. The spoon is spotless in no time.

"I love cookie dough." He readies his aim. With a flick of the wrist, the spoon spins through the air then lands safely in the sink—clang! "Raw eggs be damned."

Angela fetches another spoon from a drawer.

"You know, most people think it's the eggs you have to worry about." She lets a spoonful of dough drop delicately onto the sheet. "Raw flour's actually more dangerous."

"Oh…" He turns on the faucet, rinsing the utensils lying in the sink. "…Is it really that dangerous?"

"Don't worry," she says, a hint of urgency in her voice. "If you get sick, I'll take care of you."

Then realization strikes, and she stiffens as another blush colors her cheeks.

But he can't help but chuckle. "I'll be in very capable hands, then."

She manages a wan smile, lips lightly quivering, face still luminous, and for the second time in minutes, he finds himself hopelessly entranced. She continues filling out the sheet, dutiful as ever, and soon finds her voice again, humming that same peaceful melody.

And for a moment, he feels like he's home again.

After the disease… after Mary was hospitalized… this place no longer felt like home. Just empty space. Walled-in. Closed-off. Mary was the one who gave this place warmth. Mary was the one who gave this place life. Mary was home.

When did things change?

He recoils at the resounding thud of the oven door swinging shut. Angela clasps her hands together, regarding him with a look of mild insistence. He sighs as he glances at the cookbook.

"Recipe says ten minutes." He sets the oven timer: a little white dial. "Now, we wait."

Silence inevitably falls as they stand by the oven. Amiable silence. Reflective silence. Despite his seemingly endless issues, they've worked quite well together, moving at the same tempo, attuned to the same rhythm. Harmony: a thing of beauty.

But bereft of distraction, it's not long till his eyes begin to stray. Angela's shirt—his shirt—is large, loose, but the apron is fastened tight around her waist, pressing against her body and accentuating the curve of her chest—average in size, but seeming so full in the moment. He sees the subtle ways it undulates, quivering with every sigh and sensuous motion.

He shuts his eyes. Breathes in. Breathes out.

Am I a monster?

He feels like a monster.

Lusting after someone so vulnerable, so traumatized… There are countless reasons why this is inappropriate—reprehensible, even.

But it's only natural, whispers a more shameless voice. You're a man. She's a woman.

And it's not entirely untrue, reductive as it is. He hasn't had sex in… he's not sure how long. Angela is attractive—hauntingly so—and this isn't the first time he's caught himself staring. He's flesh and blood, after all. Imperfect. So imperfect. But after the unforgivable sin he committed… after the hellish ordeals of Silent Hill… he was left an irreparably broken man. The last remnants of his libido were shattered… eviscerated…

…weren't they?

People like him… the bastards of the world… they don't deserve that soft embrace.

They don't deserve the privilege of lust.

"James?"

He opens his eyes and sees her curious, expectant face, ignorant of his depraved thoughts.

"Y-Yes?"

"Would you… would you mind…" She slowly backs away, clutching her apron and casting her gaze to the floor. "…Never mind."

"No, no, it's fine. Would I mind what?"

Her eyes lock with his. Fraught. Frantic. A blink and they flick away. She bites her lip. "Would you mind if I… if I held your hand?"

A simple question.

A terrifying question.

He's held her hand before, though only on very rare occasions… trying and harrowing occasions… It's an innocent enough gesture, he tells himself. Friends do it. Siblings do it. Children do it. But it can also be intense, intimate—an overture of so many things still excruciating to think about.

If she knew what you were thinking earlier, another voice jeers, would she still have asked?

His uncertainty only rises as he watches her helplessly fret, her eyes fixed on the kitchen tile, her knuckles white as she grips her apron tighter.

I want her to be happy.

Is that…

…is that wrong?

"Sorry!" She closes her eyes, furiously shaking her head. "That was a dumb question. F-Forget I—"

"It's not a dumb question." There's a hint of defensiveness in his voice. "And no…" he reaches out a hand, "…I wouldn't mind at all."

Her lips part. Her fingers twitch. She looks up, holds his gaze.

Her hand draws closer, wavers in the still air—then stops.

Muscles tense. Seconds pass.

And with sudden, scarcely contained hunger, her hand clasps his, and it's a warm hand, a soft hand—so unlike the tremulous one he held so many months ago. And as their fingers slowly intertwine, he realizes just how desperately he's missed this… this closeness, this contact: the electrifying connection between two souls—a circuit sparking feelings long forgotten, anesthetized by the opiates of guilt and self-loathing.

This isn't just lust.

No, it's something much deeper.

She smiles.

And she's beautiful.

Somehow, through the raging inferno that was her old life, a light survived—an enduring innocence that couldn't be burned away. She has every reason to be bitter, cynical. Every reason to hate the world—hate everything. And it wasn't long ago when she did. There was no meaning in her life. No joy. No hope.

Only emptiness and pain.

He remembers the stairway. Remembers the moment she turned away, lost in despair as she marched closer to the precipice…

…closer to the end…

"What's wrong?"

"Huh?"

"You're frowning." And now Angela's frowning, too. She loosens her grip. "If you don't like this, we can st—"

"No!"

She flinches, and guilt immediately comes crashing down.

"I mean, I-I do like this." A breath escapes, long and deep. "I'm fine… really." He offers a small smile. "Just… just a bad daydream, that's all."

For a prolonged moment, they both stand completely still, bound together in mutual silence.

…

But then she laughs, and her grip tightens as her smile returns.

And he sees that summer smile. So full of emotion. So full of life. Sees the passion in her eyes. The steadiness of her poise. She's strong… so much stronger than he is.

He hears a sound as her laughter fades, faint as it is fleeting, and his mind fills with the fragments of a song—a bittersweet voice echoing from his memory.

…live for living…

…now that it's all over…

He clears his throat. "That song you were singing…"

"Y-Yeah?"

"What's it called?"

"Time It's Time," she says. "It's on that Talk Talk album you gave me. I, um, like it a lot, so… thanks again."

And she lapses into quiet meditation, her smile growing ever-so-slightly—a warm and rosy crescent.

Perhaps the song is playing in her mind, too.

"I'd like to listen to it sometime," he says. "…If you're okay with that."

"Sure." And stars dance in her hazel eyes. "Maybe we could listen to it together."

"Yeah…" he gives her hand a soft squeeze, "…that would be nice."

And the timer dings.

Chapter Text

October, 1995

She hears a voice as a song fades, spirited and strong but muffled by her earbuds. "…we're waaay up in the mountains."

Laura, she realizes.

Angela pauses her cassette and slings her earbuds over her shoulder.

"There they are in the background. Lots of snow on top, see?"

"Yeah, I see." James this time, a little calmer, a little quieter. He laughs, gentle and warm. "That is a lot of snow."

Angela peers out from the corner and sees them from across the hall, backs turned and perfectly framed by the doorway—a charming, almost familial portrait. James kneels, sifting his fingers through his hair as he admires the picture Laura proudly holds: a bright canvas of colors and contours Angela can scarcely discern. Laura giggles, her ponytail swinging from side to side, a bundle of endless energy and excitement. Angela sees it in the way she carries herself, hears it in the musical cadence of her voice, and it truly is a sweet thing to behold…

…but she can't quiet the envious whispers.

Laura does everything with such grace, such effortlessness, always confronting the adversities of life with unwavering confidence—ever contrary to how Angela operates, crippled by the weight of fear and insecurity. Angela wishes she were brave enough to shed her inhibitions and be so unabashedly herself. Wishes she had the courage to be so open, so natural, around James.

The courage to show him her art.

Something churns in the pit of her stomach. Bitter. Sick. Guilt for her pitiful laments, for her shameless eavesdropping. She's not a part of this conversation, not a part of this moment… this precious moment. Her presence is unnecessary—unwanted. But for some strange reason, she can't turn away.

Laura sweeps a hand across the bottom of the picture. "Down here are all the trees and wildflowers." And Angela sees them when she closes her eyes: iridescent petals and leaves swirling in a kaleidoscopic daydream. "I checked out a book from the library so I could get everything right. The flowers are pretty, aren't they?"

The ones in Angela's mind are.

"They're beautiful, Laura." And there's something about James's voice: the timbre… the feeling… Subdued yet sweet, like the waning autumn sun. "Very colorful and detailed."

"We're having a picnic," Laura says. "See, the basket's right there, and that's you on the blanket. You're looking up at the sky, 'cause you do that a lot, and you're thinking about… I don't know… whatever you think about when you do that."

He moves an arm—rubbing his chin, Angela assumes—then hums. "I look a little sad."

"You are sad." Blunt, as usual. "But… you're not as sad as you used to be." There's a softness in her voice. "I tried to make you look sad but not too sad, you know? Like you're kinda sad and kinda happy at the same time."

"Yeah…" he falls silent for a moment, "…I think I can see it."

And Angela understands, too. She's seen the contrasts of his tenuous joy, every expression marred by uncertainty, every smile shaded by sorrow. Emotions so conflicted, dulled by fear, tempered by shame.

"That's Angela next to you." And Angela jumps at the mention of her name. "She's drawing something in her sketchbook, and when I drew her, I thought… maybe she's drawing the mountains or the flowers, or maybe she's drawing something from her dreams." Laura sighs. "I tried to make her sad-happy, too. I mean, you're both pretty sad, but you still smile and laugh sometimes… especially 'round each other."

Angela clutches her chest. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. She knows the effect James's presence has on her—God, does she know—but she's also become increasingly aware of the effect her presence has on him. She's noticed no shortage of little details… slight shifts in his gaze, his voice, his posture—subtleties she once dismissed as the product of wishful thinking, the wild fantasies of an unwell mind. Not anymore. Laura is perceptive. Eerily so.

Or perhaps she and James truly are that easy to read.

He rubs the back of his head. "You… you put a lot of thought into this, huh?"

"Uh huh." Laura nods. "And that's me sitting on the tree branch over there."

"That bird… That's a cardinal next to you, right?"

"Yep, he's my friend. He talks and sings, but only I can understand him."

"Must be fun to have a friend who can fly…" James pauses the exact moment Angela coughs, a noise too abrupt to stifle, and she ducks behind the corner. Did he hear me? "…You look a lot happier than Angela and I do."

And Angela's heart is beating like a drum roll now, the relief of not being caught hopelessly drowned out by the anxiety of being mentioned yet again. She takes a breath, deep but muted, then slowly looks back.

"Yeah, well, you're both pretty sad, but I… I like being with you two. And you're sad-happy, remember? That's not all bad. That little bit of happiness… I don't know… there's something about it… like it's special or something."

Laura then looks to James, and for just a second, Angela sees a sliver of her face—half a smile and a single eye shimmering in the light. "Does that sound weird?"

"No," he says. "That doesn't sound weird at all… You're pretty astute, you know that?"

"…What's that mean?"

He laughs, lightly tousling her hair. "It means you've got a good head on your shoulders."

"Well, yeah." An effervescent giggle. "Everybody knows that."

They're so comfortable with each other now. Calm and content. Not at all like the early months, when tension and conflict reigned. So much resentment… So many attempted courtesies met with defiant stares and inimical silence.

It's only been a year, but it feels like a lifetime has passed.

"This really is a wonderful drawing, Laura."

And again, Laura faces him, the look in that one visible eye unmistakable. "You mean it?"

"Of course I mean it. The nature… The mountains and the flowers… The colors… All of us being together… It's a great scene."

Then he turns, and what Angela's heard in his voice shines so brightly in his half-seen expression.

Pride.

"I love it."

"Then… do you want it?" Laura shuffles her feet. "I, um… I drew it for you, but… you don't have to take it or anything…"

"Thank you." His voice cracks. "I'd be honored to have it. In fact, I think I'll put it in the living room—where everyone can see it."

"Honest?"

"Cross my heart," he tells her, firm and steady this time. "Of course, a picture this beautiful deserves a beautiful frame…" He rises to full height. "I have just the one lying around somewhere. Give me a minute to find it, okay?"

And the moment he turns, Angela stumbles back, bumping into an end table and nearly knocking over a framed photograph. She teeters in place, legs stubborn and unwilling to budge as she fumbles for her Walkman. A staccato of footsteps: tap, tap, tap. A flurry of heartbeats: ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum. She blinks once, twice, and he's there, walking tall and walking strong, stricken by surprise but smiling so sweetly.

Laura is right. That little bit of happiness…

…it is special.

Angela can't help but stare as she admires the tautness of his features, the depth of his expression. A face weathered by years of grief, yet somehow youthful… strikingly handsome.

Handsome?

And those eyes of his, compassionate as they are mesmerizing—warm irises that illuminate the night. So breathtaking… So beautiful…

Beautiful?

Her mouth is dry. Her knees are weak. Equilibrium is rapidly leaving her.

"Hey," he says, and it's all she can do not to collapse on the spot. "Didn't know you were there."

She balances herself against the wall and offers a shaky smile, certain she looks ridiculous. "H-Hey yourself."

If she does look odd, he doesn't seem to notice. "Laura drew this great picture." And he sounds so satisfied as he says it. "We're all in it, having a little picnic in the mountains."

"That's cute," she says, a whirlwind of wonderful and inexplicable sensations coursing through her… till shame inevitably resurfaces. "And, um… I know. I heard you two talking."

"Were we that loud?" All it takes is a chuckle, and all traces of guilt vanish. "And yeah, it's cute, but there's more to it than that. There's something special about her drawings. It's hard to explain, but I just… love seeing them."

And Angela sighs softly. "I know what you mean. We're lucky to have her in our lives." She grasps her forearm, bites her lip. "And she's lucky to have you in her life."

And we're lucky to have you in our lives, is what she wants to say.

He runs a hand through his hair, gaze averted, cheeks colored pink, and she almost giggles at the sight. His lips part once, twice—third time's the charm. "I, uh… I need to get a frame," he murmurs. "Finding it shouldn't take too long."

She just hums as she gives her arm a light squeeze. Still giddy. Still dizzy.

Blissful vertigo.

But as she watches him turn, watches the back of his sandy hair as he quietly walks away, something curious stirs within—a faint yet irrepressible impulse. She takes a step forward, takes another, then stops, legs trembling, heart howling. Whatever shred of courage she's mustered is woefully ephemeral.

She breathes. He's almost out of view.

"James?"

No turning back now.

He faces her with a soft smile. "Yeah?"

"Would you, um… would you want to see some of my sketches sometime?"

Surprise flickers in his eyes as his smile flourishes. Wide. Radiant. Free from the blemishes of uncertainty and sorrow.

"Absolutely."

Then he crosses the threshold into another room, and though she can't see his smile anymore, she knows it won't be long till she sees it again.

Was it really that easy?

She waited so long, suppressed by the constant din of so many voices screaming in her head, and she feels like such a fool for giving them so much credence. Perhaps she's getting ahead of herself—being reckless, naïve. She still has to show him her art, after all. But whatever lies ahead, she's no longer hiding, no longer afraid. Because that word… that infinitely complex, four-letter word whose meaning has so eluded her…

…she understands it now.

She slides her earbuds in place, grasps her Walkman, then presses play. Muted trumpets sound—the heavenly prelude to an angel's song—and as the ethereal melody drowns out the beating of her restless heart, the droning of the relentless world, she lets dizziness carry her away.

The universe is spinning, and she doesn't care.

Because she's in love.

Madly and hopelessly in love.

Chapter Text

December, 1995

They walk side by side along a cobbled path, past faceless strangers and beneath whispering branches, sharing conversations in a language that's theirs alone. A tacit dialect spoken through furtive glances and gentle touches and shy smiles. Wordless gestures to keep them warm on a winter's night.

A sea of stars shimmers above as all the scattered lights paint the world below. Splashes of color heralding the coming Christmas. Traces of past snowfall dust the trees, lie strewn upon the frozen earth, and in the glowing stillness, sounds sporadically echo. Faint sounds. Familiar sounds. Sounds of a city in repose.

James looks to their hands: clasped hands that haven't parted since they left the restaurant. A quiet hole-in-the-wall hidden on a lonely street—a stone's throw from the arboretum. Small, rustic, but cozy as a halcyon dream.

He then looks up, and a smile graces Angela's lips as flickering lights dance in her eyes. Softly she sways in the colorful night, swathed in her snow-white sweater. The same one he gave her a year ago: turtlenecked and woolen and warm as an embrace. She's not wearing it out of fear, not wearing it to hide.

She's wearing it because it's just… comfortable.

He tells a joke that isn't funny, but still she laughs, and such a sweet sound it is—and now he's lost. Lost in the lights. Lost in the moment. Lost in her intoxicating spell. He wants desperately to caress her rosy cheeks, feel their incomparable softness against his quivering fingers. Wants nothing more than to claim her supple lips, taste them again and again. A kiss for every sigh. A kiss for each heartbeat.

He looks into her eyes, those vivid, hazel eyes, and wants to hold onto this moment forever.

A woman passes, faint, indistinct—a blur in his peripheral vision. Four words are spoken before she disappears into the night:

"Such a cute couple…"

And the moment slips out of his grasp.

Whiplash. He slows considerably, overwhelmed by the sudden gravity of everything, crushed by the inescapable weight of reality. Couple, echoes the stranger's voice, couple, couple, couple. Then vertigo strikes, disorienting, nauseating.

What would Mary say if she saw him now? What would she think of all the lurid thoughts running riot in his mind? He let himself get swept up in a whirlwind of heat and desire. Let himself forget something he swore never to forget: the severity of his sins.

What the hell am I doing?

He comes to a lurching stop, gaze falling on a patch of snow. Through bleary eyes he makes out two footprints. Small footprints. A child's footprints.

"Was she right…?" Angela's voice stings like hell. "Are we a couple?"

Slowly he turns as he faces her, and she looks so hopeful… so beautiful… Still smiling. Colored by the Christmas lights.

"Are we…" is all he can say before the world descends into silence, fading from his senses as he's overcome by a deluge of memories:

Leaving Silent Hill; Angela's weary and pallid face, cheeks sunken, eyes enshrouded from sleeplessness.

Reuniting after she ran away; the relief he felt when he knew she was safe… knew he hadn't lost her.

Holding her when she wept—after the fire, after their exchange—and how delicate she felt in his arms.

The light in her eyes… the unforgettable way she smiled when he gave her those cassettes, gave her that Walkman.

Cooking together, that closeness, that harmony, and how wonderful it felt when he heard her sing… held her hand.

Seeing her sketches, raw, haunting, breathtaking—the moment he realized she trusted him completely.

He remembers the quiet nights and all the conversations. Remembers the rare laughter and the bitter tears, sharing secrets and sharing dreams. Remembers every look, every word, every smile.

He remembers everything…

"…I'm sorry, Angela."

They're among the most painful words he's ever spoken, and the second they leave his mouth, he knows he's crossed a serious line, knows he's a bastard. But he can't keep deceiving himself—can't keep deceiving her.

"I enjoyed dinner," he says. "I've enjoyed… this—walking, holding your hand. I'll be honest, I don't want it to end.

"I like being with you. I like talking with you, going out and seeing the world with you. I like you, Angela… I like you so much I-I can't think straight." He hesitates as her hand gently trembles against his. "And maybe…"

He draws a deep breath.

"…maybe I even love you."

Hazel eyes grow wide and cloudy. Quivering lips part yet make no sound.

And he can only growl as his mind screams: Fuck!

"I hate how guilty that makes me feel…" he says, "…but it scares the hell out of me how good it makes me feel."

He whimpers softly. Laughter echoes from afar.

The world is mocking him.

"I don't think I'm ready… for more than this." The words taste intolerably bitter on his tongue. "I don't… I don't think I'll ever be ready."

And Angela just stares, face impassive—inscrutable. He braces himself for a slap he's certain is inevitable.

But it doesn't come.

"It's been over a year…" she says, her quavering words misting in the air, "…and three years before that. When are you going to let yourself be happy?"

No answer.

"I was the same way, James. You know I was. I didn't think I deserved happiness. I didn't think I deserved anything good." She heaves a drawn-out sigh. "But you… you and your damn kindness… you helped me realize how wrong I was." And then she looks away. "But I don't know now… Maybe I'm just deluding myself. Do I really deserve happiness?"

He doesn't hesitate when he answers, "Of course you do."

And she looks back. "Then why don't you?"

Branches rustle in the solemn wind. A million lights blink in the distance.

"What I did…" he can only whisper. "M-Mary…" Then he says louder now, "I can't… I can't be forgiven for that."

Angela's gaze is sharp, piercing. "If you really believe that, let go of my hand."

"N-No…" He shakes his head. "I won't…"

"Why?" A voice neither harsh nor derisive, but gentle… soft as snow.

He looks to their hands, bare and trembling in the cold, but still clasped so tightly together. "…Because I'm afraid."

"Why are you afraid?"

"I'm afraid if I let go… I'll lose you." His voice wavers. "…I can't lose you, Angela."

She steps closer. "Do you want to be happy?"

"I… I'm not…"

And his voice trails off as the wind whispers softly—a familiar murmur that whisks him away to a harrowing time: to the season of eternally gray skies, to the era when everything was falling apart.

Mary's final months.

So many days wasted wallowing in bitterness and self-pity. So many nights spent sick, spinning, and passed out on the floor—the consequences of trying to forget. Too many moments that should have been shared with Mary, cherishing the gift he'd so foolishly taken for granted—frittered away.

That unspeakable pain… That blinding and suffocating despair… It has to be confronted. It can't be smothered by pills. It can't be drowned out with alcohol. Either you conquer it, or it conquers you.

And he let it conquer him.

Yet still, after everything that happened in Silent Hill, every horrifying and heartbreaking ordeal—he persevered. He could have driven his car into the treacherous waters of Toluca Lake. Could have let that town claim his soul like it had so many others. So why didn't he? Was it Mary's undeserved mercy that gave him the strength to survive? Was it her will to see him go on—to live—that guided him through the fog?

Yes… at first.

Angela and Laura, those two troubled souls who drifted so unexpectedly into his life… Somehow, they gave it purpose. Somehow, they gave it meaning. When an existence without Mary seemed so bleak, so unbearably hollow, they provided something he thought had been lost forever:

Hope.

He closes his eyes, and the universe slowly unravels. Reality ebbs away as an eternity elapses in a heartbeat, and now he's cloistered in a little room flying through space. Lost… but not alone. Mary lies in bed, wide-awake yet so frail, eyes lit with the faintest flicker of life. She holds her hand out… touches his face… tremulous as she softly speaks:

James…

Please…

Please do something for me.

Go on with your life.

He opens his eyes, and he sees the stars above and all the brilliant colors below. Sees the fleeting forms of friends, lovers, and strangers passing in the night. Sees the trees, evergreen and deciduous, the living and the dead, glowing in a glorious pageant of nature and artifice. And he sees a woman, draped in white and bathed in the infinite lights, clinging to his hand as she stands at the edge of forever.

Angela.

The world sighs—a fierce and frigid wind.

The city resounds with an otherworldly chime—a chorus of church bells tolling in the wintry night.

And his tears fall freely, stinging a little more in the bitter cold. "…Yes," he says. "I want to be happy."

Angela smiles as she reaches out a hand, and blessed fingers brush against his cheek. Heaven-sent. An angel's caress. "Then you won't lose me."

And for a moment, it feels as though gravity has faded. The weight of years of powerlessness… years of self-loathing… years of feeling so hopelessly lost… gone.

He sighs heavily. A sigh of acceptance. A sigh of release.

"You've done so much for me, James—so much for Laura." A dulcet voice, hushed yet resolute. "And she's forgiven you. She forgave you a long time ago.

"You deserve to be happy, and I…" she swallows, "…I want to share your happiness… if you'll let me."

She wipes away a tear, her hand silken against his skin.

That merciful touch…

Can he deny himself that?

"I can wait," she says, and more mist spirals around her. "I can be patient.

"But please… don't say you won't ever be ready.

"Because maybe I…" her voice falters as her smile quivers, "…maybe I love you, too."

His heart trembles as he looks into her eyes, caught in a daze, caught in a dream. He places a hand over hers, holds it firmly against his cheek, and her fingers flutter under his: a sweet, dizzying sensation. He leans down, transfixed by her anxious lips, and again he's tempted to revel in their tenderness—claim them once and for all.

Lights dance in the corners of his eyes, the world an iridescent blur.

She breathes, faint as a fading echo.

And softly he kisses her, just brushing the edge of her lips. Only the slightest of tastes, but it's rich, invigorating. Another source of warmth on a winter's night.

"Thank you, Angela." A whisper against her cheek. "I'd be lost without you."

And in that quiet moment, that singular locus in time, it's only them: two souls in a city under the stars.

Chapter Text

January, 1996

She hears them as the movie plays: faint sighs and murmurs, the soft sounds of sleep. James is lost to the world. He lies to her left, face cast in the screen's pale glow and cheek pressed against the armrest—a poor substitute for a pillow. His nose wrinkles. His eyebrows twitch. Subtle signs of life. A little silly, she thinks, but peaceful… cute.

She reaches for the remote, presses pause.

Time really got away from them, carrying on in its tireless way. Must be very early in the morning, she supposes. One. Two, perhaps. A panorama of lush, verdant hills fills the screen: the third movie they've watched tonight—all rentals. Poor James…

He just didn't have the endurance for all three.

The first film was a romance. Classic. Clichéd. Shamelessly melodramatic. True love in all its transcendent glory. A tale told since time immemorial. Somewhat of a guilty pleasure… There's just something comforting about that kind of idealism, that fantastic notion of love triumphing over adversity. The radical dreams of those who've seen the ugliness of the world yet still find beauty. Auspicious, like a flower blossoming in an endless wasteland.

The second: a horror. One of those old technicolor films, vibrant and ethereal. An experimental, almost schizophrenic story, interspersed with dreamlike sequences rife with dissonant music, surreal imagery, and obtuse symbolism. Borderline incomprehensible, but visually intriguing. More focused on building suspense than showcasing gory practical effects. Fortunately. She doesn't like violence… hates the sight of blood. Subject matter that dredges up far too many painful memories… ugly memories. She clung to James during a few of the scenes, felt the warmth of his sheltering embrace…

…but not just because she was afraid.

The third, the tape resting in the VHS player: a comedy. A recent release, saved for last to lighten the mood. A slice-of-life picture with a subdued, dry flavor of humor, and surprisingly stunning cinematography. Set in a quaint, pastoral town: Nowhere, USA. A region of rustic homes and sparse, overgrown landscapes. She's enjoyed the cast so far, an idiosyncratic assortment of characters. Bizarre, flawed, but endearing—human.

She sighs softly.

When she was younger, movies were a means for escape. They were fantasies, glimpses into other worlds that could distract her from the bleakness of her own. Untold idle hours were spent in front of an old television set, re-watching the same few tapes, pacifying herself, numbing herself. Movies weren't entertainment. They were sedatives.

But since escaping that life… since meeting James… so much has changed. What once severed her from the world somehow became one of her best ways of connecting with it. And it's such an exhilarating experience to be able to sit down and enjoy a film, to enjoy the company of another and the comfort of that closeness. She often finds herself searching for new videos, searching for new shows, searching for any excuse to recapture those feelings.

Desiring another's closeness…

What a wild thing.

She covers her mouth and yawns, growing increasingly aware of her drowsiness as she watches James. Slowly his chest rises, and gently it falls. Minute movements, like the languid waves of a somnolent sea. His lips part near-imperceptibly, murmuring faint fragments of a sentence, vague, cryptic, and she wonders:

What's he dreaming about?

Something nice, she hopes. Something pleasant. Perhaps he's lost in a whirlwind of fantasy, journeying through the worlds of the films they watched. Or perhaps he's dreaming of his own life, of slower and simpler days: moments shared with old friends, nights of comfort spent with Mary.

Another thought then emerges, ever-cautious, ever-hopeful.

Maybe he's dreaming of me…

She rises, carefully, quietly, then tiptoes to the linen closet. The door creaks—she prays the noise won't wake him. She rifles through stacks of sheets, difficult to distinguish from each other in the dark, then grabs a hefty quilt, draping it over him when she returns, gentle as a breeze.

Still asleep.

Dozens of similar scenes dance in her mind's eye: vivid recollections of so many little things he's done for her—gestures she's sworn never to take for granted. An indescribable warmth blossoms within, and she feels… happy. Happy she can be there for him. Happy she can provide a touch of comfort, no matter how small or insignificant.

A snow globe lies on the coffee table: a city swathed in glass. She grasps it, gives it a firm shake, and thousands of snowflakes rise and fall, softly swirling around miniature skyscrapers and shimmering in the television light. As she holds the fragile world in her hands, this little universe that rests in never-ending winter, her imagination begins to wander…

She sees the silhouettes of lovers stealing kisses in the night, sharing an embrace in the falling snow. A second shake, and somewhere a monster lurks, spreading terror through the frozen streets. A third shake, and there are people of all kinds, imperfect and painfully human, cast adrift in life's endless blizzard. A fourth shake, and in a window of one of those little buildings, she sees herself and James, nestled on the couch, lost in a universe of sleep.

Shake. Shake. Shake.

Each time the snow falls a little differently. Each time the story changes course. Each time the faces form anew.

She hears a muffled groan then sets the snow globe aside. James's face rapidly twitches as his lips curl in a frown.

A bad dream?

An all too familiar pain.

They've both been plagued by recurrent nightmares. Though always reticent to discuss them, he's shared unsettling and gruesome details. Flashbacks to Silent Hill. Hordes of corpse-like figures. Distorted and wrathful apparitions. A quiet breath. A tentative step forward. She kneels, her face now level with his, then carefully reaches out a hand, stroking his hair while whispering words of reassurance. Seconds slip away as he slowly settles down, his cries silenced, his expression eased.

Then a smile dawns.

And she finds herself smiling back.

He looks so content… Serene and safe… His dream must be a pleasant one now. Her fingers dance down his cheek, and softly he sighs, still sleeping, still smiling. She brings her face closer, touching her lips to his forehead—an evanescent kiss, faint as a whisper.

Sweet dreams.

She reaches for the television remote. With a click, everything fades to black. She settles next to him on the couch, heart quivering as she basks in his closeness, his infectious warmth. They still haven't shared a bed, still haven't been that… intimate. But this… this is close, she supposes.

Close enough for now.