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The difference between false memories and true ones is the same as for jewels: it is always the false ones that look the most real, the most brilliant. ~Salvador Dali
You are dreaming, you are sure of it. After all these years of that aching want spent over her, you know that this can't be true. That she can't be standing there in the hilled green countryside because she is gone. You have accepted that you never hear her breathy laugh of amusement at your antics and it is almost cruel to have her dangled in front of you again, another taunt from the world. You have already given up everything and that still wasn't equivalent to the price that was being asked. All your knowledge and your genius still couldn't bring her back and the only thing you regret more is losing Al. Unknowingly, you fist your hands in your crimson red coat and your eyes blaze brighter than a thousand suns.
You study her from a distance. Her russet colored hair is in the loose, slightly curled ponytail that she always favored and her eyes are still a warm chocolate brown. Her skin is soft and clear, nearly luminescent in the dim light. A basket of apples is perched on her hip and she is holding a few bags and suddenly you realize that you've been staring.
It is one of those dappled gray spring days where the sun is bright and the air is still a bit nippy. You stand, and continue to stare at her and she stares back with eyes that are kind and gentle. You know that you must look familiar, although the fact that she cannot recognize you tells you how much time has passed. She looks more youthful and young but maybe that is just your memories talking because you know how soon she will be gone.
"Do I know you?" She interrupts your train of thought and you come to the sudden realization that you must still be staring at her.
"Kinda," you answer in reply, sticking out your hand. You give a non-descript name that will raise no suspicions in this close-knit farming community. You suavely offer to carry her bags like a true gentleman and chatter with her about pointless things like the weather and when the crops will ready for harvest. It is typical farm town gossip and it is familiar enough as you were raised in a small town like this but you can still tell she knows something is off. Maybe it is the way your eyes glance towards her once in a while or the way you walk along, shoulders hunched and ready for a fight. Years spent on edge have changed the way you walk and you glide along silently like a wraith beside her, not disturbing the natural environment.
You arrive at her quaint house with the picket fence and two children come running out. They squabble, as young boys often do and come to a halt in front of their young mother. They reach out to her with their chubby arms and cherubic faces and it is almost too much to watch. You know that in a few years they will lose her and then….
But you must shake these thoughts out of your head.
The woman notices your agitation and introduces you to them. "These are my two sons Edward and Alphonse Elric." The younger boy smiles up at you with a hopeful expression, eager to please. The older brother scowls and mutters something darkly. She scolds him lightly, "Now Edward, is that very nice?" Slightly mollified, he mumbles an apology.
"I'm sorry about that, they sometime lack good manners."
"It's fine. Lord knows my mother was a patient person in order to put up with me. I was a real brat." You give her a lopsided smile in return.
"It sounds like you loved your mother very much. I was wondering…." she trails off hesitantly, almost afraid to ask.
'Yes? Go ahead." You prompt her to continue her thought, curious to see where this will go.
"What happened to her? You spoke of her in a past tense."
Suddenly, your face is devoid of any emotion. "She passed away when I was in my early teens." Your tone is short and clipped as if you are angry with her. Of course you aren't, but the whole chess board has been upended and you are scrambling to pick up the pieces. You know longer no how to react.
"I'm sorry." You can tell she can tell that she feels terrible. She never wanted you to experience this pain in the first place let alone to remind you of it. She really is as genuine as you remember.
"Why don't you come in," she says. "I've been terribly rude, prying into your private life and you look like you could use some rest." You are tired from days of constant traveling and food and a warm bed would be a blessing however you don't want to impose. She notes your hesitation and quickly adds "It really wouldn't be any trouble. Besides, you can repay me by telling me about you and your travels." She winks and you know that the deal is sealed.
She shows you the door and it is just like you have stepped back in time. There is the familiar entrance to the kitchen which smells just like freshly baked bread and the light illuminates the darkened living room. You feel as if you are young and carefree again and you glance around, eager to take in the familiar decor of the house. You can at least allow yourself this luxury as you know that you can pass it off as the curiosity of a stranger.
The house is cozy, warm candlelight enhances the warm oak of the furniture and brightly colored rugs cover the floor. Pictures litter the hallways and most of them are of the two little boys you saw earlier. There is the older brother proudly holding up his freshly caught fish. The younger is being held by someone...
Suddenly you stop and glare at the picture. The man looks quite similar to you as much as you hate to admit it. High forehead, gold eyes... Yep, that's him; The Bastard.
She turns around, having heard you stop and walks over. She smiles at the picture with a radiant joy that could light up a room. You know that she loves him and that she always will, but in a way it hurts. Even though it brings her joy, you can't help but be selfish and wish that she had never met him (but then she never would have met you, a voice whispers in your head. You ignore it though.) She follows your gaze to the man and states, "Oh, that's my husband."
You smile at her uncomfortably before saying "And your youngest son, Al correct?" You let your voice trail off into the silence.
"Yes, that's correct," she replies. "He's off traveling but should be home within a couple days... Maybe even tonight."
"Oh, perhaps I should leave. After all, I don't want to intrude." Your voice has a hint of bitterness that is subtle but tangible.
"Oh, please stay. You won't be a bother. Besides, you're an alchemist, right? I couldn't help but notice your watch... My husband is one also and he is always looking for new ideas." She looks at you pleadingly and even after all these years you can't resist.
"I'll stay."
"Good," she beams. "Your room is this way. It's not much but it should do."
She shows you into a room that is warm and inviting. A simple, rustic bed frame with a feather down mattress is in the center of the room and by the window there is a washstand with a towel. When you turn back around, she is gone having left you to get settled.
You only remove a few things from your suitcase as you don't plan on staying here long. If you do, old wounds will bleed again and maybe you'll start to dream again. You will remember things that shall remain unseen, of cries in the dark night and of the twisted agony of losing everything and yet gaining it all in sick, twisted way. Shadows will haunt you, dodge your every footsteps until your dying days and you know that you would taint them if you stayed. So innocent and pure and yet fragile but easy to break; after all, they have not been strengthened by loss and pain. They are beautiful glass and you are the cold, unmoving, uncaring, and yet unbreakable steel. Yet you wish to stay and try to change things but in the end, you know that history will repeat itself in an endless and cruel cycle. Your laugh is a bitter mockery that spills forth from your lips.
She knocks on your door and you banish such dark thoughts. You of course know that they are there; hiding in the dark recess of you mind but you ignore them. You always have.
You sit down at the dinner table. It looks delicious and your mouth waters at the sight of the thick stew. Heavenly aromas waft towards your nose and you sniff appreciatively. She smiles back at your eager response and you start eating. She is kind enough to offer you a glass of red wine to go with the hearty meal and you accept. Easy chatter fills the air and you find that you are content. It seems that you get along well with her and her children.
About midway through the meal, the door is thrown open and a middle aged man strides in. He is the same man in the photograph, the bastard, you note. You lean back in the chair and swirl your wine ominously as you look down upon him. Your eyes blaze with repressed emotions and in the dim lighting they seem to glow. His however seems to have lost their inner fire and seem weary. You spare no mercy with your glare.
You greet him curtly by name, surprising her with your familiarity. You glance down; look at your pocket watch which glitters in the faint light before looking back at him. He appears puzzled; he knows you're familiar but not how. He stares at you, before the realization comes in a flash when little Alphonse states "Daddy, you and Mr. Yao look alike." Apparently it strikes her at the same time too. And you sigh because you knew that this would happen. Perhaps you should have never come... But you are here and what matters is now.
And you are left with questions that hang about in the air. Empty thoughts filled with so many lies.