Disclaimer: I own nothing.
She
hears him crying in the night, sometimes.
Deep in the midnight
hours, as she wanders the sleeping halls of the house she's lived and
died in, occasionally she'll hear his muffled tears, echoing sadly
through the entire house, and she'll wonder whether George can hear
him too, then dismiss the thought, assuming he'd have asked him about
it by now.
She often considers asking him herself, but can never
find the confidence- he'll come down the next morning, that big smile
on his face she's sure he saves for her, and she'll just smile back.
He's strong for her and she appreciates it.
Whatever it is that
keeps him up at night, it's his problem, his memories and his secrets
and she doesn't want to hurt him any more by asking.
One night,
though, she almost comes as close as going in and confronting him,
begging him if she has to, to tell her what's wrong, but as her
ghostly palm rests on his door, his heart-wrenching sobs start to
subside, and so she just stands there, one hand still pressed up
against the peeling wood of his door, and waits until she's sure he's
asleep again, before she walks away, making no sound even on the
creaking floorboards of the landing, and goes to await morning
somewhere else, curled up in a ball as she cries out her own tears
for him, tears he'll never see or hear.
But then the next morning
they'll be back to friendly smiles and warm cups of tea; tea she
can't even drink and smiles she's sure neither of them mean; and then
the next night she'll hear him crying again and will pass the dark
hours contemplating what it is that makes him so sad.
It really
is a funny kind of existence.
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