The only sound came from the soft clacking of the elevator as it crept past floor after floor on its way through the deserted building. Even the single occupant was silent and still. Violet eyes, expressionless, stared ahead through a few stray pieces of silvery hair. Her shoulders rose and fell in a slow, controlled rhythm. But if not for that, she might have been a statue. Her face, like everything else, was dull and empty.
Perfect for this cloudy afternoon.
At last, the elevator came to rest, and the artificial light was replaced by its grey natural counterpart coming in from the large windows across the room. It lifted a layer of fog from her face, and with the first blink in a handful of minutes, she slowly drifted into the president's office with her gaze fixed on the desk and its very unoccupied chair.
It was like stepping into a painting, like everything here was frozen in time while she alone moved freely. Not even the pad of her shoes or the slightest rustle of her clothing disturbed the moment. She almost held her own breath – but that would be stupid. There was nothing here to disturb. Not physically. Still, there was a sort of reverence, but it was something forbidding. Not peace, certainly. There was nothing peaceful about this day, not for her, for her children. Maybe there was for him. She didn't know. She'd never know.
As she found herself behind that chair, she gingerly reached out to touch it. Her fingers walked the back and then smoothed down into the slight pattern worn by the back of a dedicated man and countless tireless days. Not that it had all been work. So much time had been spent in this room, most by the President, but some by the Man. And while she lifted her eyes to scan the dim office, phantoms materialized, unbidden, to play out scenes and memories.
There he was on the sofa with little Chava, dangling a delighted toddler upside-down between his knees while she flailed and he laughed. Then over there by the bookshelf as Micah strained for a book just out of reach until he found himself scooped up by sturdy arms. Even over by the elevator, the first time he had held baby Journey, rocking and shushing her ever so gently. And yes, here at the desk, too, turned toward the window to gaze out over the ocean view with such contentment in his eyes that it seemed nearly impossible that anything could be wrong anywhere in the world.
She could hear his voice, that playful lilt he used when she was trying to be serious and he wouldn't quite allow it; she could smell the tea he always kept on the desk; and if she just reached out her hand, she could almost feel his shirt, soft and smooth and pressed, just like any other day...
Her fingers closed around empty air, and like a puff of smoke, the ghosts vanished to leave her very much alone once more.
It took her lungs another several seconds to remember how to breathe again, and when she finally seemed to come back into her body, a chill passed through it as if in bitter rejection of the comforting reminiscence. This wasn't "every other day." It would never be "every other day" again.
Around a lump trying to form in her throat, she did her best to swallow and turned away from the room to close her eyes and draw another shaky breath. When she opened them, drops of rain were beginning to patter against the window, tracking down over her reflection like the tears she still hadn't shed. Somewhere were their children, one an adult, one a teenager, and one still so young, and thus far, she had been strong for them. She was what they had left, and that was important. She knew it would have been the most important thing to him – after everything they had been through, he had never let any of it break his family for good. But some things she had to figure out on her own.
Some things, like this empty, lonely office, she had to face on her own.
Feeling like a phantom herself, she drifted closer to the window and stared at herself in it, dressed all in black as if wearing a costume fit to play her somber role. She wasn't wearing a veil, though, despite having been advised that it was a traditional accessory for a nobleman's grieving widow. She was also wearing slacks, of course, in place of a skirt or dress, but that came down very simply to taste and personality. The veil, however. The veil was different.
The first and only time she had ever worn one had been the day of their wedding. She could still remember the brush of his fingertips against her cheek as he lifted the sheer fabric, easing away a mask both literal and metaphorical, right before the first kiss of a shared life. It had been something special and meaningful between the two of them. It didn't feel right to violate that now. He had taken it away; she was not going to let this bring it back.
...Sentimentality.
A tiny, pained smile quirked at one corner of her mouth as she lowered her face and closed her eyes. That had always been his department, hadn't it? No, she had been the practical one, the cool and collected, detached, unromantic. She opened her eyes, and for the first time, the bead of water sliding down her face had nothing to do with the falling rain outside. And that was all it took.
She quickly caught the first tear, but another fell before she could stop it, and soon, this pillar of composure crumbled. Leaning forward, she pressed her forehead and palms against the cool glass and let a silent sob pass through her shoulders. In public, she could hold it together. But even when he wasn't there, he managed to get behind the walls. And sometimes...that was okay.
The minutes passed, but only outside this room. Here, there was nothing and no one but herself and her grief. Pressed against the window where he had stood so many times, but not nearly enough, she cried. It was quiet, but her body shuddered and shook, and eventually she slid to her knees and wrapped both arms around herself, hunched over under the weight.
They had known. They had always known it was only a matter of time before they would have to say goodbye – but it was far, far too soon. They still had time. He had never seen Chava walk down the aisle, or Micah achieve his place as the first half-elf graduate of Sybak, or seen Journey just grow up. There never seemed to be enough time, but this wasn't fair, and with each sob and shuddering breath, she cursed this building, this company, that goddess-forsaken mine and his damnable sense of duty that stole him for good decades before his time.
He was gone.
Gone.
And she hadn't been able to do a thing to stop it.