I couldn't help but feel ashamed. How is it fair that I am given the opportunity to experience all these raw and fresh sensations? How can everyone around me tell me to embrace and enjoy what I had been missing out on for so many years? Everyone tries to throw the line "its what he would have wanted", towards me. How dare they assume they have the right to speak on his behalf? Without my brother, the supposed fresh spring air is anything but fresh. The taste of Winry's home made apple pie that she had promised to bake when brother and I reached our goal is bland, dry, and tasteless. The numerous books donated from the townsfolk upon hearing of my return concerning Alkahestry and Alchemical properties do nothing to hold my attention. I know that my soul is no longer bound within my father's cold and unfeeling suit of armor. I know that I should revel in the warm embrace of loved ones. . . and yet I feel that my heart is anything but warm.

"Alphonse…"

I look up from my untouched meal of mashed potatoes, ham, and vegetables. It happened again.

"You should try to eat something. You can't go on like this. Its not healthy."

Since returning to Resembool to live with Winry and Granny, I've found myself caught in a habit of day dreaming for long periods of time. If you could even call it that. Its mostly trying to recall details of my brother from the past. I realize my gaze had been transfixed on the condensation running down the side of my glass as I was lost in thought. I can't bring myself to drink it. Its already almost too much to even look at the substance within.

"If you don't drink your milk, how can you gain any strength? Edward gave me enough gray hairs fighting me, don't make me go white."

Granny tries to end her words with a light-hearted laugh to improve what I'm sure is a dismal mood.

I felt my shoulders hunch and my gaze lower to my feet. My chest aches and tightens as I hear her utter his name. It hurts every time. Every time I hear his name, I expect to hear his voice bickering back at some statement he took offense to. But there is only silence in response. It feels almost too sacred to me now. No. Too cursed. As I feel myself tense, I also feel her eyes lock on my feeble frame.

I can't blame her for staring. My physical form hasn't improved much since its reunion with my soul. The hair atop my head that had once matched the honey gold hue of my irises has become matted and dull. It has distorted into a greasy sandy blonde mass of knots and split ends that haven't been properly washed since before the failed transmutation. My fingernails are long, yellowed and misshapen from years of neglect. My collarbones clearly protrude from an ill-fitting shirt due to my body's malnutrition, add to it my sunken in and hollowed cheeks. It makes for less than the ideal body.

My body starts to quiver and shake, any before I know it a quilt has been placed over my shoulders.

"Oh dear," she says. "I'll go run you a warm bath. We can work on eating tomorrow morning. I don't need you catching a cold in your condition."

I continue to stare at my feet. The sound of her footsteps becoming more and more distant, followed by the rush of water filling the bath. This moment of solace gives me some relief as I can openly grieve. I silently watch as tiny droplets of water hit my feet and the wooden floorboards. It comes so easily to me now. These silent tears. I miss having to be the one to wipe them off of your face, brother. I was so used to having to remind you of our goal, and how amazing it would be to truly be together again. If only you were here to wipe away mine.