I could tell you her story –
of the books setting her heart ablaze
and the knowledge coursing through her veins,
untamed.
She was long divorced from warmth, after all.
She is a girl with smokescreen lies and a moon-shine smile. Somewhere deep within her there must be some sort of fire, but it is simultaneously the one thing she hates and loves. If her world were not as delicate or as fragile as a spider's web, she would not have become this cynical, really; but it is, and she will always find herself trapped in the uncertainties of yesterday.
Sewn over her heart is a letter. She's read it several times since it first fluttered in by way of covert operatives, and if the new recruits – Risa and Luke – had not been familiar faces to her, she would have clubbed them for barging into her bedroom. They had been apologetic, but neither was contrite. She would have to resolve that later in another meeting.
But back to the letter and the way it steadily burns through her skin. There is nothing substantial contained in the creased cream paper, only the coordinates of a place and a corresponding map. Should anything happen during this rendezvous, back-up is in place within a 1 to 3 km radius of the meet-up spot. She shakes away the persistent rhythm of fear pounding against her stomach walls.
The car is cold. Night cloaks many things; and though the remains of the rain-soaked afternoon have not dissipated, the streets still feel empty. She is used to this. She is used to this, but it doesn't mean she likes being lonely. He had to go do something else tonight. She was caught up in another mission, too. Now she is the only one left in this godforsaken place, and the static buzzing through her fingers is hard to ignore.
Truth is, she's grateful for the distraction. It's better than staying in a lonely house, where the rooms reverberate with the absent habitants' echoes, where the shadows creep in too close and the lights shrink away, where everything is bigger in size. It isn't lack of courage which makes oxygen diffuse prematurely into her bloodstream; it is the loneliness, where she fears she will drown.
She shifts gears and turns to the right, where trees block out the cloudy skies with their long, skinny branches. It's a game of dynamic hide-and-seek: she sees them now, she sees them not. The GPS system installed in the dashboard glows a fluorescent green. Her car is a blinking red spot coasting through a white line, her exact location on a grid displayed off to the side. She's nearing the place.
A fountain sculpted out of smooth marble emerges through the last stand of trees, in the middle of a flagstone-paved courtyard. She kills the car engine, choking off the entrance. She fumbles for the door, opens it, steps outside; the breeze whips her reddish-brown hair into a tangled mess. Almost as an afterthought, she locks the car.
There's no one here. That much is obvious but then, her contacts have never been the type to show up early. They do it with style and flourish; she does it with punctuality and impatience. She gathers her jacket closer, trying to generate heat in this chilly atmosphere. She wishes for this to be over soon.
Footsteps, tap tap tap, behind her. She turns around.
"Amy," the figure says.
Reading The Good Earth by Pearl S. Buck.
This will most probably be a series.
Until then, I wish you all the best!
~ The Whisper of Wings ~