Drabble based on a recent conversation I had with a friend (name rhymes with Tammie ;)) who noticed a certain song from the Beauty and the Beast soundtrack fitted our darling Luna so so well.
Faint Memories
There was not a single doubt in her mind this was once a beautiful place.
Sure the cracks of the window were like large spider webs, extending from corner to corner, top to bottom, changing what was once a lovely view of the city into blurred fragments. The walls once alive with swirls and blends of colors, withering away like dead flowers. Dust settled over the place like a heavy, thick gray blanket, dampening the bright mood that it sparked with such life. The place was so small, it was almost the size of a bedroom with few, remaining pieces dotted here and there that made it feel smaller.
Anyone else would be taken one look at the room, scrunch up their face as if he sucked on a lemon that was especially sour, and suggested that the attic wasn't worth a gallon. Most people probably would have been in favor for it being torn down altogether.
But Luna had never been anyone else but herself. And she was most definitely not like most people, a well-known fact often expressed by everyone from strangers to her dad, her friends, and Neville.
And one of the things that set her apart from others was her perspective on things. She had always been to see past the jagged thorns to admire to the rose's true beauty. A gift she was blest with from both her parents, gifted with her dad's creative spirit and her mom's sharp eyes.
No, this place wasn't ugly at all. It was beautiful in fact. Starting with the window.
A smile, one that was soft and a bit sad, touched her as she walked to it and traced one of the cracks of the window.
The same window where over twenty years ago, a young man watched a woman strolled down the street. A woman with freeing spirit about her that was as dazzling as her looks, hair bright as the sun's rays, and eyes wide and luminous as the moon.
Or so, as Daddy liked to often say.
A giggle fluttered from her mouth like a butterfly as she heard his voice recite his thoughts and feelings when he first saw Mum, and then died down into another soft smile as she turned back.
The old, chestnut desk set close to the window that was missing a leg in the front and back, awkwardly titling to the left side, the drawer handles littered with spiderwebs, where a writer spent hours hunched over her journal, writing till dusk to dawn, spilling all her words onto paper.
The two wooden stools across from the window, over to the right where an artist occupied one, creating replicas of his writing muse onto his canvases and sketchbooks, and the same one would sometimes occupy the other seat if and when the artist begged long enough for a close-up picture.
The small crib that was across the room, close to a queen-size bed that took up most of the remaining space. A small, tiny crib that looked more like a basket, marked with faded paintings of flowers and moons, that once held a baby girl whose smiles were easily brought up by her father's silly charms and tears easily soothed by her mother's touch and song.
No, it most definitely wasn't an ordinary room. It was an extraordinary room, filled with so beauty that wasn't seen by the common eye.
"In this crumbling, dusty attic," she sung underneath her breath, eyes glancing around the place. "Where an artist loved his wife."
This room held so many pieces of her parents' love story. The place where Daddy first laid eyes on Mum, the place where they had their first date, the place where they had their daughter, the place they visited for every anniversary. It even held memories of the aftermath to that love story. It was where Daddy came to on the anniversary of Mum's birth, their wedding, and her death to sit by the window, by the desk, by the stool, on the bed, and lost himself in the memories that were always bitter on those days. And she'd by his side, holding his hand tightly in her own, her tears a silent downpour to his thunderous weeping.
She didn't even realize that tears were falling just then until she touched her damp cheek.
"Mommy?"
She took in a deep breath, wiped away her tears, and looked over her shoulder where a little girl with her curious, bright eyes and her husband's dark hair stood behind her.
"Yes Clarity?"
"What is this place?"
She held out a hand and her daughter reached for it, allowing herself to be pulled forward, nuzzling close against her mother's side. "This, my dear heart, was your grandfather's favorite place in all of Paris. It was where he met grandma."
"Really?" At Luna's nod, the curious eight year old looked around the room, wonder gleaming in her eyes. "Beautiful."
Her mother would be proud to know that her sharp eyes had been passed onto her granddaughter.