**warnings**: language, car accident, mild alcohol use

A/N: This is my contribution to ResBang 2016 from Tumblr. A special thanks to the betas Marsh of Sleep, Professor Maka, and Redpflox who cleaned up this beast and made it so much better! Also a super special thanks to tumblr users Feather97 and guessesmachina for their beautiful art contributions to this piece. Please see my profile for details on my tumblr page which will have links.


THE LAKE HOUSE

It's Saturday night. She's crying silently on her bedroom floor as the heat of the emotions overwhelm her- her heart is racing. Why is it so hard to put a name to what she's feeling? What is this? It can't be love, love-shouldn't feel so physically painful.

A book is clutched to her heart. Silent sobs wrack her body. There isn't enough air in her lungs- she must look like a gaping fish because Maka Albarn doesn't cry. Especially not over the ridiculous notion of love- true love. A love that can cross through time and space.

Maka

The morning dawns cold and crisp. Fog curls over the water as the sun crests the hills. In a few hours, she'll be locking up the house, moving to the city, to start- well to start over, basically.

She's a year shy of thirty, and already she needs to start over. Her green eyes scan the few items she has left to pack, the chore a heavy burden. Moving away shouldn't be this hard. Blair, her cat, curls around her ankles as if she knows how difficult it is.

Something about this place draws her in- Maka is meant to be here, but she can't stay. Some things aren't meant to be, and anyway, she's done with thinking about this. Her decision has been made: she is moving to the city to be closer to work, closer to something. Something real.

Minutes tick by quickly, almost as if sensing her impending doom. And then it's time, she's locked the front door, walked across the planks that bridge the lake house to the shore. No longer a tenant; she's now a stranger to the property.

It really is an exquisite piece of architecture, and she knows she's going to miss it. Industrial iron meets light and airy in a study of contradictions, it's too-sharp angles softened by warm wooden floors. Vast expanses of glass had given her an unobstructed view of the lake, of the world- seen but untouched. Not unlike herself, in an odd way.

All too soon, the bridge ends, the painted paw prints on its planks left behind. Her big boots crunch on the frosted gravel as she makes her way to her old Mustang parked next to the wrought iron mailbox. The mailbox gives her pause; she's received mostly political flyers, magazine subscriptions, and the odd take-out menu. She hadn't seen a need to discontinue her PO Box in town, where she travelled every day.

Thinking of the mail makes her think of the lack of communication she has within her family. Most people looked forward to birthday cards, perhaps some card at Christmas time, maybe even the occasional postcard. Maka gets junk mail.

One would think a mother and a father would remember to send their only child something- anything-but they're too wrapped up in themselves. Selfishly living their own drama's, too busy to even place a stamp on an envelope.

Mother- mother had left Papa and married her work, instead. Her father was too busy with the flavor of the week, and when that wasn't the case he was on business travel. That was the year Maka ran away to California; she was sixteen.

Mama was, after all, one of the top surgeons in the country. The doctor achieved this distinction after so many feared she'd fail (for having a child during grad school). They were wrong. That (read: Maka) was such an insignificant event on the road to her professional success that it never really made an impact for her. No child, nor husband would keep her from her vision, and as for Maka, what little girl didn't grow up wanting to be just like her mama?

Marika Albarn is a dream Maka aspires to. Maka has lived years under the notion that if she worked to surpass her mother, one day her mother would notice her. One day, Marika will realize that she had left her daughter behind when she had walked out on Spirit.

She had foolishly clung to her, loud-mouthed with a strong penchant for sky blue hair, childhood friend Blake, confusing the emotional attachment for romantic love. When he devised his half-cocked plan to conquer California and become the god of surfing, he asked her to come along. It was the first break from her perfect attendance, perfect school records, and perfect (albeit from the outside looking in) life- her one reckless moment. It wasn't without some half idea of her own that this would be the moment her mother noticed Maka had been left behind, that her daughter needed her.

In the end, it was Spirit, her papa, who came.

Papa showed up a week later, after having tracked her down through the Barrett's, Blake's adopted parents.

With time and distance, she saw her relationship with Blake for what it was: kindred friendship forged out of a common upbringing, martial arts tournaments, and convenience. They stayed in touch for a time, and the last she'd heard he had met a beautiful Japanese woman by the name of Tsubaki Nakatsukasa. A sponsored surfer herself. Maka could only wish them well.

With the distraction of Blake gone, school and the goal to become a nationally recognized surgeon soon took over her life.

And finally, finally, after so many years of hard work, the day had arrived. Hence her impending move to the big city- she had accepted a position with Death City Regional and would be starting Monday. Would Marika finally write, now that Maka had achieved her goal? Perhaps not, but the lake house was the last address her mother had- not that she ever made an effort to contact her here.

Opening the car door, she grabs a pen and a clean sheet from the journal she keeps in her day bag. There is one last thing she means to do. On the off-chance anything should be delivered out here, she decides to scrawl a note to the next tenant, something about the light making her nostalgic and inspiring her to pen more than she'd planned to.

Dear new tenant,

Welcome to the Lake House. I hope you enjoy your time here as much as I have. I set up mail forwarding, but if it's not too much to ask would you please pass along any that gets by? My mailing address is below. Thanks!

Maka

PS: The paw prints by the door were there when I arrived, as was the box in the attic.

Double-checking the address for her new place on her phone, she adds it along with her full name after the post script. It's a point of pride for her to maintain neat penmanship, something her field isn't known for. Surgeon's hands, layman scrawling- not for her. Folding the paper, creasing it carefully, she opens the mailbox and lays the note inside. The front shuts with a metallic click. Before turning away, Maka raises the flag of the mailbox as an afterthought.

Heaving a sigh, she starts her car, the engine roaring in the quiet of the morning. "We're ready now, aren't we, Blair?" The cat mews softly, staring out of the windshield.

The sun catches the curtain wall, painting the window panes golden. Would she ever see this place again? She turns her classic '68 Mustang around in the gravel drive, biting her lip. It's best not to stare longingly in her rearview at the house, because it feels as if she's losing a best friend.


It's been years since he's made the drive out here. The road twists and turns, familiar in some way. Foreign in others. He's lost in thought and unfocused on the present. Belatedly realizing this as he reaches the turn-off sooner than anticipated, he grits his teeth, the tires of his old truck squealing in protest. He looks in the rearview, anxiety pooling in his stomach, but the straps on the trailer hold.

Winter clings to the lake region in the early months of the year, snow still present under the trees where the shadows prevent it from melting. He's lucky he didn't lose Matilda driving like a fool- Matilda being his bright orange sportster.

At long last he's arrived, parking the relic at the end of the gravel drive. Slowly, his heart returns to a normal beat and he gets out. The air is cold and humid, which chills him to the bone. The weather- fuck this whole move- has sapped the life out of him. This place has a way of doing that to him. Which begs the question, why did he choose to come back?

To start over? Soul wonders bitterly. This might very well be an exercise in stepping backward to move forward.

Soul shuts the truck door behind him, walking to the retaining wall at the edge of the drive, hands buried in the pockets of his worn leather jacket. He eyes the property before him. The house, if you can call it that, sits on stilts over the water, connected to the drive by a wooden walkway. The facade is glass; there is no privacy, no place for retreat- it's a place to be under constant scrutiny. It's disconnected from nature in every way. Cold and calculated. Home sweet home. He scoffs.

Had it really been so terrible? Shaking the thought, he turns back to the truck to get his bags. Besides, he only has himself to blame seeing as he chose this isolation.

Stark hair reflects back at him from the driver side window, and he opens the door, long since used to the frustration that burns through him. Along with the white hair, he has red eyes, and his face lost the happiness of childhood long ago. These days his features are permanently set to resting bitch face. He grits his teeth, yanking the bag out and shutting the door. He knows his features aren't what keep him isolated from society, it's more or less his attitude. Why bother?

Boots crunch on the gravel when something red catches his eyes in the overall landscape of muted greens, grays, and dead browns. The flag on the mailbox is up, signaling correspondence. Which is a little strange, but never the less, he detours to open the old iron box and pulls out a crisp, folded piece of paper. Whatever it is, it can wait until later, so he tucks it under an armpit.

Soul sorts through his scant key ring, selecting a bronze relic and fitting it in the door. A click later and the door swings in. He drops his bag next to the kitchen island, placing the folded paper on the countertop. No one has been out here in ages and he's got work to do.

Inside, the temperature feels hardly any different than it does outside. First things first, call the utilities to verify the service windows his brother planned.

Wes had been genuinely excited when he got the news, even if he was the only one glad of his return. They hadn't exactly talked about his choice of living quarters, but the great thing about Wes was that sometimes, he actually let things be. Instead of starting the Spanish Inquisition, Wes offered to set up the utilities and service times, something that makes Soul eternally grateful.

Forty minutes later, after confirming all services, he sets his cell next to the paper from the mailbox. He stares at it a minute before picking it up. Soul reads through it quickly, and places it back on the countertop, confused.

"Pawprints?" he says aloud, feeling stupid. He could have sworn... no, there was nothing on the walkway. Retracing his steps back to the glass door, he confirms it- no pawprints. And after several minutes, he locates the attic access through the utility room; it's difficult to make out shapes in the gloom without electricity. After his eyes finally adjust, they confirm what he already suspected. No box.

Back in the kitchen, he scans the note once more: paw prints on the bridge, box in the attic- none of that. Why would this Maka, he re-reads the postscript...Albarn point out random shit that's not there? No one has lived in the lake house to his knowledge since- well, in years. It's disconcerting, but this place makes him feel that way in general.

The following afternoon, he brings home supplies and gets to work. Cleaning glass during cold weather is out, but he clears out gutters, removing old tree muck, and checks the roof for any signs of leaks or damage. Finding none, he climbs down.

A cat sits on its haunches, watching the young man work. Sunlight glints off golden eyes. Licking a paw demurely and setting it back down on the gravel, the cat leaves its spot and heads for the gangway. Silently, it approaches the man who is painting the handrails on the bridge. With the grace of a charging rhino, it stomps through the paint tray and makes a beeline to the front door.

"Hey!" Soul yells, completely taken by surprise, and gets up and quickly running after it. Only when he's about halfway to the door does it strike him: pawprints that begin at the middle of the bridge and head towards the door. "Hey! Come back here." Fucking pawprints. He gives up on his chase, and doubling back to the kitchen, he picks up the letter thinking, What are the odds?

Decides to check the attic but still- no box.

Maka

Work at Death City Regional is quickly settling into routine for Maka. Her first few days were hectic, but with Dr. Stein as her mentor, she is sure she will have all her questions answered. After all, he was her father's school roommate and even worked with her mom at DCR, long ago.

Earlier in the week, she got tripped up on the floors and room configurations until a kind-hearted nurse took pity on her. It is possible that Marie Mjolnir could become a close friend- only time will tell.

Today, she is finishing up her morning rounds so she can meet Papa at the nearby plaza for lunch. It is Valentine's Day, and to be honest, she's rather surprised Spirit wanted to share lunch with her. Maybe it's their own day of mourning- Mama has been gone sixteen years now. Replacing her last file at the nurses station, Maka grabs her lunch bag and jacket.

The plaza is a short walk from the hospital, and she picks a spot overlooking the street. Shibusen Academy is in the distance, the tall spires reaching towards the periwinkle blue sky, hardly a cloud in sight. How can it be this nice on Valentine's Day? She sits eyes closed, face tilted to the sunshine. Without sunscreen her freckles are sure to have a hay day.

"Can you believe it? Seventy degrees on Valentine's," Papa says, by way of a hello.

Spirit, forty-eight, has hair as bright red as it was the day Maka was born. She highly suspects he dyes it, because he looks like he hasn't aged past forty.

The looks women give her when she and Papa are out turn her stomach. If he's being especially affectionate, which he is prone to be, she can feel their stares oozing judgement. It had dawned on Maka, not long ago, that she is coming to an age where she looks like she could be dating her father. She shudders at the thought. The gross truth is he's probably dated people as young as her.

"That's what's commonly known as global warming, Papa." Maka says, opening her eyes. She stares at the extended bag with trepidation. Papa isn't known for age-appropriate gifts of any sort. "What's this?"

Papa smiles- it's a great smile. Again, Maka fears for her propriety. The man has no limits. "Pumpkin, it's just a little something for today."

Wearily, she takes the package and, oh thank Death, it's chocolate. The delicious, expensive kind, with a note of fatherly pride about her becoming a doctor just like her mama. "Thank you," she says quietly, gifting her papa with a rare smile.

He sits down, giving her a mercifully quick side-arm hug. Maka clears her throat, pulls out her lunch bag, and divides up the contents. They sit in companionable silence- in this way Spirit and Maka are similar.

"Now that you're settling into work, when can I expect my grandchildren?"

The record scratch is audible only to Maka, who looks up to find her papa merrily munching away at his sandwich, oblivious of the bomb he's dropped.

Maka can feel the vein in the side of her head pulsing, the desire to chop him overwhelming. Alas, she has no medical textbook at hand. Is he serious?

"Papa." The sound is nails across a chalkboard.

"You and Kid- weren't you all in talks about settling down?" He looks so monumentally confused.

Her heart softens a little, "Papa," really it's none of his business. "Mort and I broke up nearly a year and a half ago." Except that she had already told him. This is typical- he never listens, and she gives him the look Mama used to when trying to explain things to him. "I told you. It happened over my birthday."

When Papa looks down at his lunch, crestfallen, it hurts. "Oh," he says, searching for something to make it better. That's how he's always been. "I just, he's working for his father's mortuary. He treated you so well…" The observation hangs in the air between them.

Maka sighs, shaking her head. "I didn't love him. Or maybe I did. I don't know."

If Papa is keeping quiet, he must really be taking the news hard. She might as well come clean now. Love, and all of it's inherent grossness, isn't something she sees in her future anymore. Not with how things ended with him and her Mama.

Before she can say anything, he opens his mouth. "If you love women...that's okay, too. Anybody really. I would be okay with that, as long as they treated you well and made you happy. That's all I want for my little girl."

Green eyes stare at blue. There are no words at the moment.

"Ah Papa, that's okay. I have a cat." What sort of response was that, she wonders. "I don't believe in love. And I appreciate your openness in accepting any future partner, but I'm not like you, Papa. I don't want to live my life wondering when I'm going to let someone down, or waiting to be disappointed-"

If Spirit is hurt by her words, or if he is going to make some reply, it never comes. At that moment, the peace of the plaza is shattered by the screaming of wheels, a shrill car horn, and the sick sound of impact.

The world slows down and speeds up all at once.

Maka drops her lunch, launching herself from her seat and whipping out her cell phone as she runs to the scene: a bus had collided with a motorcycle and car.

"9-1-1 what's your emergency."

She says, "This is Dr. Albarn with DCR, there's been an accident at Death Plaza," the name suddenly taking on a morbid chill. "We need an ambulance, stat. A young- man was hit by a bus and thrown from a motorcycle, other possible injuries-" she pauses to yell at a man to back away, to go get help. She's finally reached the driver of the motorcycle who is face down on the asphalt, unmoving. Her phone clatters to the ground.

Save him.

Maka is on autopilot. A hollow ringing fills her ears. Her eyes are glued to her hands, seeing nothing but textbook guides to field-checking and triaging her patient. A full helmet encapsules the head- to remove it would be potentially more harmful, so she opens the visor to make sure he can breathe. It's dangerous to move him before the EMT's arrive, what is taking so long?

His pulse is weakening. Where the hell are the EMT's? He couldn't have landed in a worse position. Each minute is precious. They're flying by. She is doing nothing.

...

Hours later, Dr. Stein rolls in to find her in the break room.

"Maka."

The sound of her name hangs in the air, waiting for acknowledgement. At the moment, nothing seems more important than committing the pattern of the tile to long term memory. "Mhm?"

The office chair wheels squeak as he comes to a stop behind her. "I heard about Death Plaza. The EMT's Rung and Ford said you fought hard for him."

If by fighting hard he meant wasting time waiting for proper procedure, unable to do a thing, then, sure...she fought hard. Maka really doesn't want to discuss this, choking out a tight, terse, "Yup."

"You know, I've seen my fair share of new residents during my tenure. Maybe you'll be the first to listen. Do me a favor, Maka, when you get a day off, get as far away from here as you can. Go to a place you feel most alive."

When she finally lifts her gaze from the tiles, ready to face her mentor, he is gone.

...

Two days later finds Maka on the road out of Death City. Could the city developers have picked a more morbid name? Heeding Dr. Stein's advice, she decides to return to the grounds around the lake house.

It's strange that she would miss the place as badly as she has been.

Blair mews, stretching in the sunlight-warmed passenger seat. Maka drives without a care.

After the familiar twists and turns of the drive, she finally arrives at the gravel lot that overlooks the lake house. No other cars are in sight, and she suddenly wonders, why is she here? The house no longer belongs to her. In all honesty, she is trespassing.

The gear shift is rammed into park a little more viciously than she originally intends. Fuck it, she thinks recklessly, she's only here to walk around, to clear her head. Opening the door, the cool air smells fresh. The weird energy she is feeling dissipates when she gets out of the car.

Seeing the lake house- the realization of it being the first place that had truly felt like home, hits her like the memory of the bus accident. Her heart shudders.

A yowl alerts Maka that her cat is awake- she watches as her little beasty stretches and then follows her out of the vehicle, apparently recognizing the old homestead. Red catches Maka's eye; the flag is up on the mailbox.

After a moment of indecision, curiosity begs her to check the mailbox, but she came out here for the scenery not the mail; she follows her faithful cat down one of their favorite paths.

The coolness of the morning is burning off, and not even the curlleaf mountain mahogany can keep the heat at bay. Her sweater is tied to her waist by the time they've circled around to the car. Blair beats her to the mailbox. Circling around the base, her tail wraps around the post as she sits to lick a paw.

Gravel crunches underfoot as Maka walks up to the wrought iron box. She looks around, not wanting to be caught checking someone's mail, in case whatever is inside isn't meant for her, before opening the lid to peek inside. There is a note. And, her name written on it in bold cap style lettering. Squinting into the gloom of the box to be sure the light isn't tricking her eyes, Maka snatches the note, flipping it open as she walks to her car.

Dear Ms. Albarn,

I think you might be mistaken. To my knowledge, no one has lived in the lake house for years. Perhaps your note was intended for the O'Lantern-Dupré cottage down the road. Although, I am curious about the paw prints.

S. Evans

There is a sharp exhale of angry breath leaving her nostrils. What a flippant piece of work. "No one has lived here for years?" she hisses, out loud. Acknowledging that it's crazy to have such a visceral reaction to someone who she's never met- and who might have better penmanship than herself- is not to be borne. She is Maka Albarn: she's never wrong. She can feel the bemused stare of her cat as she drags out her leather-bound journal from her bag. Willing herself to take several deep breaths, she pens another message.

Dear Mr. Evans,

I'm very familiar with the O'Lantern-Dupré cottage. Call me old fashioned, but I don't think a cottage should be over 6,500 square feet. Allow me to try this again. I used to live at the Lake House, and then I moved. My address is 1800 N. Black Cat Drive, Death City, NE. I would ask that you please forward my mail, should you receive any. And, by the way, it's 2016. Has been all year, ask anyone.

M. Albarn

With a flourish, she caps her pen. Stomps to the offending mailbox. Yanks the lid open, deposits her note, and flips up the flag. Now she just feels ridiculous; it's not as if he has a clue as to how frustrated she's feeling. There is a wordless shriek muffled by her pursed lips. Flippant man!

Soul

Soul arrives home as the sun is setting across the lake. Shuffling to the mailbox, he grabs the letter without paying much attention. He's tired after a long day at the job site, but there's still work waiting for him at the Lake House. The toilet's been leaking, and he's picked up the piece it needs on the way home. Should be an easy fix.

The cat, which seems to have adopted him, mews from the front deck, welcoming him home.

Opening the letter, he reads as he makes his way across the bridge, not focusing on the words as he walks to the front door. His steps are an even rhythm across the wooden planks, echoing with a dull hollow sound.

Such rhythm has always come naturally to him. Eva Evans, his mother, loved music; she had been a first chair flautist with the Death City Symphony years before Soul was born. Father had insisted on architecture. That hadn't stopped mother from seeing to it that Soul had musical lessons. He had a natural gift with the piano, but it hadn't progressed further than that.

A loose slat clanks against the iron with a discordant sound that catches him off guard. Quickly, he rereads the line about the date: 2016?! What the hell does she mean by that?

The rest of the evening is a blur as he goes about his work. The contents of the letter irritate him more and more as he becomes increasingly frustrated with the only menial task on his list, fixing the leaky toilet. It is with an exhausted sigh that he finally heaves himself into bed, one part bemused to three parts aggravated by this enigma of a woman.

On the opposite side of the bed, the cat stares at him. And he wonders if the cat isn't laughing at him.

...

Soul stares at the grandiose sign. Elliott Evans, FAIA. Well, Pops never did shy away from blasting his name into the stratosphere. Bitterness colors his thoughts- memories of all the Architect of the Year or something bullshit he had to put up with, of never being good enough as he grew up fill his mouth with distaste.

In the afternoon shadows of the buildings, the air is crisp for March. He buries his hands deeper in his riding jacket- his favorite, even when he doesn't drive Matilda. Spits out the seeds he's been chewing, red eyes fixed on the revolving doors. He isn't here for the crotchety old bastard, anyway.

There is a flurry of movement as the spinning doors finally reveal his doppleganger- to the untrained eye. Upon closer inspection, one would notice significant differences: white blond hair, dark brown eyes, and if the man smiles he'd reveal straight teeth. This is Wesley Evans, better known as Wes.

"Little brother!" Soul's big brother.

Soul's face is a mask of apathy, but it doesn't throw Wes off anymore. The younger Evans is enveloped in a bear hug by the elder. "It's good to see you." His brother says, pulling away to examine Soul's face more closely. "Did you have any issues with the utilities?"

Wes has never been great at letting him speak, not that it bothers Soul- he is the quieter of the two, always lost in his own world.

"It went well." Wes looks at him skeptically. "It did. Thanks for setting up all that shi- stuff."

Soul is spared the twenty questions by the flourish of the door, behind them. The gentleman that exists is lithe in frame, the once-blond hair fading to patches of silver, but still full and styled. As he exits the building, it's clear the older gentleman is lost in thought. Soul observes him, trying his best to ignore his now-racing pulse.

Almost as if he's heard his name called out, Elliott looks up, at first unseeing before recognition dawns on his features. It is a pained look, which vanishes behind a mask of apathy as quickly as it had formed. After a stuttered step, he brushes off the visual contact, briskly walking away from the pair that look after him.

It takes a moment for Soul to realize the grating sound he hears is actually his teeth grinding together in his mouth as his jaw clamps shut. Great seeing you too, Pops.

"Screw him," says Wes. "Look, let's go get a beer, so you can tell me where the hell you've been and what you're doing for work."

Soul nods, indicating the truck behind him. His brother expresses disbelief over the thing still running as they climb in and head off.

Thirty minutes later sees them at Deep Six Bar and Grill.

Death City is known for its odd death related naming habit. The citizens and business owners rally behind this. No one quite understands how Deathbucks hasn't been sued yet.

"You're managing for Charon and Styx Construction?! You know father would die if he knew." Wes has a rather gleeful look in his eye. "So, can I tell him?" Why his brother thinks eyebrows are meant to be waggled after ridiculous exclamations, Soul will never know.

"It's work, Wes," he says, voice low- tinted with annoyance.

His big brother resumes examining the neck of his bottle of pale ale. "So, I couldn't find Google images of your place. Where is it again?"

His brother would find out about the house eventually, so he tells him. "I bought the lake house."

"You did sell out if you're making enough to own a house on the lake." He pauses to take a drink of his beer, but the bottle stays suspended between the bar and his mouth. "Wait, you bought the lake house. Fuck- I thought the address looked familiar, but couldn't place it." The beer sloshes as it's set back on the table, untouched.

"Yeah." Soul's face pulls into a tight grimace. "I did. And, I even own a cat." He picks up his own bottle and takes a swig, waiting for the question.

He watches as his older brothers eyebrows knit together. "Does he know?"

It's Soul's turn to set down his drink with a slosh. "Nope." The word pops from his mouth, like a teenaged girl popping gum.

"Wait, what possessed you to get a cat? You hardly take care of yourself."

Soul nods in agreement, "It adopted me." The unspoken rule is, the cat did so of its own free will, so it will see to keeping itself alive.

"Does it have a name?"

"Cat," he says, managing to suppress the eyeroll. "Enough about the cat, and the other bullshit. Has he let you design anything?"

Wes finally takes the drink. "No, he's a bitter old man. Do you really think he's going to let me waltz in and start designing things? You were right to leave. I was an idiot for staying."

To say he's gaping would be an understatement. He's viewed his older brother as he-who-never-screwed-up, literal golden boy of the family all his life. Soul has always been reduced to hiding in the shadow of one Wesley Damon Evans- top of every architecture class, with some renown due to award winning school projects featured in the alumni national newsletter.

"Do you still think about it?" Wes looks expectant, like Soul should understand what he's talking about. In reality, Soul is trying to process the question.

Shaking his head, he wonders aloud, "Why I left?"

By Wes' expression, that wasn't it. "No sharkboy, do you still think about Resonance Design?"

He cringes under Wes' skeptical gaze. Resonance Design was a late-night brain child of Soul's.

Of course he thinks about it. It's his own opus to architecture. The idea behind it had been to create places for people to unwind, to resonate in their private space and truly live - not just a place to reside and whittle life away. In a way, his designs would be the foundation, the staff paper for the homeowners to fill with the melody of their lives.

With these stupid, romanticized notions of what architecture could achieve, no wonder his father doesn't respect his ideas. "Yes, I think about it."

Tossing out a few bills to cover the tab, he gets up. His tone terse and clipped, he says, "Look, Wes, I've got an errand to run. Resonance Design is off the table."

Something about the look on Soul's face must be convincing, because his brother doesn't press any further. The younger waits as the elder finishes his beer. They collect their coats and head back out to the truck.

...

They've arrived at what looks to be a construction site, and Soul's eyebrows knit together a little further, his unease growing with each step. This can't be right. He double checks the map on his phone but there's no mistake: 1800 N. Black Cat Drive.

It's gotten colder and his brother has his hands buried in his trench, his nose is buried in his scarf. "Are you supposed to meet someone from the jobsite?" His voice is muffled beneath the fabric.

This is ridiculous, he thinks, but says. "No, I was going to drop off this letter."

"For the project manager?"

It's a fucking construction site. Walking around the corner, he sees a banner: '1800 N. Black Cat Drive, Luxury Apartments coming soon!' What is this? First the wrong dates. Now this? The complex isn't even slated to open for another eighteen months! What gives?

Wes stamps his feet for warmth, his own confusion mirroring that of his brother's. "Soul? C'mon man, you're gonna get sick."

He never gets sick. "Yeah, yeah- I'm coming."

...

Soul pens a snarky post script response to the Ms. Albarn when he returns home. With glowing amber eyes, Cat the cat observes his palpable annoyance as he amends his earlier letter, tail gently swishing.

P.S. I went to 1800 N. Black Cat Drive. It's not there. From the pictures it looks nice, but not for another 18 months. Am I missing some cosmic joke here? Perhaps you got the address wrong, 'cause I noticed you got the date wrong too!

S.

In the morning, he stuffs the envelope into the mailbox with little ceremony, wondering again why this lady is worming her way under his skin. He is the epitome of cool, goddamnit. Know-it-all girls with nothing better to do than to send him on willy nilly goose chases shouldn't have any effect on him.


Tired of her hectic work week, Maka is anxious to see the countryside.

A week later is the next time she can make it out to the lake house. Upon her arrival she checks the mailbox; afterwards, she wishes she hadn't bothered. Because what she finds makes Maka shriek. The birds in the nearby trees take flight, unaccustomed to the ancient sound of their prehistoric ancestors.

The tone of his letter!

...

Blair lies on the bed watching as the severely annoyed doctor frantically searches through her pictures on her laptop. She's searching for specific proof because he doesn't believe she has the correct year.

Alright, Mr. You-got-the-date-wrong S. Evans! Two can play this game.

If he thinks he's so smart, his elegant penmanship aside (seriously, did he take writing classes from Mr. Darcy?), he has something else coming for him.

Checking the date on her calendar on the wall behind the computer, she scans ahead- something about the date had triggered an old memory. "Aha!" she crows, eliciting a yowl from a surprised feline. "Hope you like the cold, S. Evans!"

Two trips in less than a week, why must she be so stubborn?

After work she had gone to the mall, the first time in a long time since she has had any business perusing in the men's section. The attendant had given her a skeptical look when she asked about scarves.

It's true, in April most places are turning out their summer merchandise. As luck would have it she found a lovely cashmere one, a deep, rich crimson, discounted 75%!

Deep down inside, she's surprised by the euphoric feeling her errand and the drive have elicited. She's giddy at the prospect of being totally right- He's going to be in for a rude awakening. Either that, or she needs to work less and rest more.

Soul

The wind is picking up; instead of the temperatures rising, they're falling. Work has been shit, lately. The project is progressing slowly. His foreman is fighting his management.

Having a game plan always makes his job easier. He might look like he's sleeping to the untrained (read: Ramirez's) eye. In reality, he's weaving a complex work of art: he is the composer, guiding his trades to do his bidding.

The construction work, his music. Coordinating the different subcontractors accordingly, everything is coming into place. So long as his workers don't fight his direction- they're bright, and they're catching on. Still, though. He rubs a sore shoulder, doing his best to ignore the tiny tickle in the back of his throat.

Feeling drained, he opens the mailbox. Something red is caught in the wind. Surprised by his reflexes, he catches the tail end of the red scarf and thinks, what now?

Alright, my mysterious S. Evans. I'll play along. If you really are where, and when you say you are, you're going to need this. There was a freak late snow the spring of 2014, everyone got sick. So, be sure you're getting enough fluids, and rest. Doctor's orders.

-Maka

Soul doesn't believe this. It's crap. Mother Nature will show this...Maka! What is it about her name that makes his chest flutter? It's stupid. It sounds like something a ninja would yell before karate-chopping a piece of wood in half. He visualizes it, that stance from The Karate Kid, and a battle cry of 'Maaakaaa Chop!' He snorts, or was it a cough? He doesn't waste anymore time out in the cold.

Inside his kitchen, he's still very much skeptical as he pours himself a bowl of ramen with a large portion of broth. He breathes in the steam. Is he getting sick? It's bullshit; he's paranoid now because she's putting things in his head.

The steam admittedly does make him feel a little better, so why do his feet feel so cold? Is the heat even on? That's the downfall of living in a glass-enclosed box. Even with the highest thermal coefficients, and light reflecting window film, the place is still affected by the outside temperatures. He blames the designer with a mental scoff, knowing full well who designed this mockery of a fish bowl.

Since the house has radiant floor heating, it is generally a quiet space. So, when he hears the faint sound of...sand pelted glass? What the hell is Cat doing? It sounds like she's flinging kitty litter at... the windows? Except her box is nowhere near them. He looks up, squinting at the inky blackness that reflects his skeptical, haggard expression. It can't be.

Oh hell no, it is. Snow.

To top it all off, he surprises himself with a huge sneeze. Which makes his head feel like it's been bludgeoned by a hammer. Simultaneously he's feeling cold and hot. Finishing off his soup, he wraps the red scarf around his neck. This isn't good. He hasn't been sick since before Mother died- it hurts to think about that, so he focuses on finding medicine instead.

Shuffling to the bathroom, he rummages around his medicine box. Relieved to find a pack of cold/flu medicine, he chooses to ignore the expiration date. Take two and call me in the morning, he thinks roguishly. He spies a small blue tub of Vicks and snatches that, too.

Wrapping himself in his worn terry robe, he can't shake the cold. Soul wonders about Maka. Is she a doctor? Her tone comes across as bossy and nerdy enough to be one, or a nurse, something brainy.

A pair of woolly socks in his hand, he hopes the medicine kicks in soon. Slowly he rubs the Vicks on his feet, they're so cold. Cat mercifully decides to cuddle his toes. If only for that small act of comfort and kindness, he's glad Cat adopted him.

At long last he can feel his toes warming up; finally, better living through chemistry. The medicine must be taking effect, because he's slowly starting to feel comfortable.

Soul burrows into the scarf. It reminds him of his mother; it smells clean with hints of eucalyptus, sage, and pine. What sort of person is this Maka? These are not native smells to this region. It strikes him that this is the first gift he has received in a number of years and he's genuinely touched. It's the last thought he has before he falls asleep.

...

Howling winds fill his head for most of the night and he sleeps fitfully. When morning finally dawns bright and clear, there is a dusting of snow covering the grounds. In the corners where the windows were installed improperly, frost glitters in the sunlight.

Soul is awake, none the worse for wear, although it feels like he pulled an all-nighter and then lost a fight with a hangover. At least his throat doesn't feel raw anymore. Maybe aged cold and flu medicine works better?

Damnit all, though, he has to figure this out. It's going to gnaw at him. So with a determination he seldom feels at nine in the morning, he shrugs on his old Carhartt work coat over his bathrobe, pulls on his boots, arms himself with a pen and notepad (just in case), and shuffles his way out to the harbinger of doom known as the mailbox.

He scrawls a quick note, places it in the cold steel box with trepidation, lifts the flag, and backs away slowly. It's so fucking cold, though, that he only waits a moment before he decides to walk back inside and stake out the mailbox from a more comfortable location.


Maka awakes, elsewhen in the world, feeling giddy like it's Christmas morning. After a quick breakfast, she scoops up Blair and decides to go see if anything has come of the red scarf.

The drive goes without incident, and twenty minutes later, she's armed with a cup of Deathbucks coffee, staring at the mailbox before her. The flag is up. With hesitation, because even if she's right this brings more questions, she opens the lid to reveal a note.

Can this be happening?

The note leaves so many questions. If that's all he has to say about the matter…


Sou is halfway across the bridge and as the cold air blows through him, Cat rushes past in the direction of the mailbox. That's up to it- if it wants to freeze Soul isn't going to put a stop to Cat's madness. As he's turning back, something creaks. It takes him a moment to realize that the mailbox flag just went down. The fu-? There's no way the wind is strong enough to move it; it's barely at light breeze strength.

Soul eyes it like it's filled with contents under pressure. Something unknown is going on here. Just as he reaches it, the flag goes up. Oh no, no no. The weird shit radar is going off in his head. It feels like he's got goosebumps on top of goosebumps. His head swivels from side to side trying to figure out what has happened.

Finally he arrives at the conclusion that he's just going to have to go for it. He did sort of plan for this. If not, why had he brought out his pen and pad? With a deep breath, he hooks a finger under the metal pull, whipping his hand back to open and simultaneously try to flee if the need should arise. Probably looking like a dumbass, 'cause he sure as hell feels like one.

The envelope he wrote on is there. So maybe the flag did fall, and he's freaking out over nothing. And then it catches his eye, and he's pulling the envelope, incredulous at what he sees.

Why not?

Why not?! Sweet mother of all good things. This means- he's not sure what it means. He concedes that perhaps his rhetorical question needed to be met with another. She's witty. Why does he feel like he's in middle school about to pass notes?


Why not? What is happening here? So many questions are running through her mind as she walks back to the car. Calling for Blair, she turns to search for her cat. Blair is sitting at the base of the mailbox pawing at the small column.

Maka opens her mouth to repeat herself when- the flag goes down. It feels as if someone has doused her with cold water. She has been facing that general direction the whole time. She's frozen, coiled tight with anticipation. It's humorous how she startles when the flag raises on its own, her arms prickling with goosebumps. This can't be happening. It's not possible. The young doctor approaches the mailbox with the same caution with which you'd approach a wild animal.

Carefully and cautiously, she hooks a finger under the metal pull. Yanking, the lid opens with a metallic bang. She'll not run; she'll show courage even in the face of the unknown.

There is a new note on a different sheet of paper- not written on the envelope she had scribbled on.

Impossible, I know- not possible, But, what the fuck, something is happening.

A gaping mouth is Maka's only response to this. It's his handwriting, her note is gone, and then flag? What is this? It isn't time travel, they're two years apart!? How is that even possible? Has there been a tear in the space time continuum? Should NASA be studying this? She has so many questions.

Running to her car, Maka grabs her journal and scribbles something back.


Soul watches with morbid fascination as the flag drops, a few minutes pass, and the flag raises. No one is here- it's just him and Cat.

Okay? Where are you?

The paper is different, but her handwriting is there, on the sheet. His head whips around quickly, but he knows the answer since he's been standing here the whole time. His pulse has quickened as he exhales forcefully from his nostrils, snorting. Dumb question, where else would he be? Scrawling on a new page, he places the note inside, raises the flag, and waits.


Maka watches the flag dip and raise. Clever. This is so strange.

The new note contains all of three words.

The lake house

She titters. "Ha, very funny." The sound of her outburst bounces around the open area reflected back from the glass of the very place where he claims to be. No, she's done playing this strange little game. A dull ache is forming in her head because it just isn't possible. Why? Because she, too, is at the lake house. And she's not going to be the fool who keeps addressing this prank outloud, good bye S. Evans.


Why is he out here in the cold? After suffering last night, if he's going to get better he needs to get inside. Soul only abandons his post after Cat decides they've had enough. Reluctantly, he follows his only companion back into the house. The rest of the day is followed by random peeks to see if the flag has moved. It hasn't. This definitely qualifies as a loss for his cool. Cool men aren't ghosted by stupid mailboxes.

By the end of the week, the snow has cleared, and his fascination with the mailbox has receded to the back burner of his thoughts.

Maka

How is it possible that they are two years apart? Not in age, well maybe in age- no, she's sidetracking herself. No, two years apart... in time. It defies all logic. It's impossible; completely into the realm of the unknown. The thought feels like it's driving her mad.

As a child, she had loved science fiction. Now she's not so sure. Again she wonders if she should report this. But really, what's the harm in not reporting it since it appears to only concern her and this Mr. S. Evans?

That is problematic. From everything she's read as a kid, it isn't time travel. They appear to be advancing at normal time progression. That leaves the possibility of a worm hole, maybe? Or, she theorizes, while staring at her ceiling, Blair's tail twitching next to her, it could be some sort of time loop. Ugh, it's utter insane bullshit is what it really is.

What Maka thinks she needs to do is: stop thinking so much and get to focusing on work again. Except, she can't. Because she seriously doesn't have time for this- whatever this is.

Have their fates become inexplicably linked? And if so, how? Why? To what end? Is there something that is meant to be changed by this wrinkle in the space time continuum? Because she sure as death isn't sure about any of it.

With a flabbergasted sigh, she places the book she's reading over her face. She's complicating the shit out of this. Honestly, who could she explain this to and not come across as certifiably mad? Her papa is out, he's too practical. Marie? No, Maka wants to be friends and this situation could derail that. That leaves Blair.

Blair is the only one she has to bounce ideas from. A muffled sound of exasperation escapes the book. "Maybe we should just introduce ourselves?" she questions the silence under the printed pages. Blair only mews in response.


He's lost Cat. It's gone, nowhere to be found. Soul stopped to purchase cat food on the way home; now he's home and Cat isn't.

Everything is silent for a moment while he thinks. That's when he hears the yowling. Turning to the windows that overlook the drive, he sees the feline in question, circling the mailbox. How had he missed her when he walked in? Wait! The mailbox with the raised flag.

The flag!

He hates the panicked excitement that flares through him and decides to take his time collecting a pen and pad (again, just in case). Now that the cat has been found there is no need for him to rush, right? She, on the other hand, could be gone, though. Deep breaths, he reminds himself. Deep, deep breaths.

Finally, he's outside standing before the mailbox. There is a note.

Dear Mr. Evans,

Perhaps we got off on the wrong foot. My name is Maka. I'm a doctor, a surgeon really. I'm going to change the world-

He digs out his pen and pad and prays to any deities who happen to be listening, that she's still there. Open. Shut. Flag up. Let's do this.


Maka thinks that the most bemusing part of this experiment is the ghost flag moving up and down of it's own accord. How quaint, really, this worm hole of a mailbox. Smiling, she pulls out the note. And she's pleasantly surprised to see he's dispensed with the formalities. Good, so will she.

I build. I'm an architect. I can't say I particularly like my current project but it allowed me to come back to this place, the lake house. I'm curious, you're a doctor now. May I ask, where were you before- In my time?

An architect, that explains his fancy handwriting. Maka stares at the note in hand. He's already asking where she was in his time, as if he owned it. Anyway, why is her heart beating more rapidly? It is the first time in a long time she's felt any sort of exhilaration. And, if their fates have been tied through this loop, what harm could come from telling him?


The flag dips, his heart skips a beat. The flag raises and his pulse quickens. Seriously? Cool guys should have absolutely no problems chatting up girls from the future. Grinning like an idiot, he pulls out the note.

Two years ago, in your time …

Soul studies the series of taps on the page, imagining her thinking. Does she chew on the ends of her pens? He thinks of all the pens he's ruined that way.

I was in Boulder City, doing my residency at the small hospital there.

He isn't sure why, but her lack of expanding on her explanation gives him the feeling she must be a guarded, private person. Fuck, Soul's a private person, and in this conversation he's the one who's spilling his life history.

Scratching his head, he tries to think of something cool to ask to redeem the fact that he's probably said too much already.


A giggle bubbles from her, without permission. It's hard to help it; he's somewhere, presumably at the lake house, some when in time, writing to her. And before she knows it, she's laughing in earnest; she just knew he was going to go there eventually.

So, tell me about the future. How are things in the year 2016?

A devious part of her feels like she owes it to every trekkie fan out there to mess with him. Even as she's trying to formulate her response, she thinks about the world. How fast does it really change in two years? In some ways her life is every bit the same, she's still working in a hospital, but she's alone now.

It's probably best not to bore him with the details, she decides as she answers him.


By this point, Soul is sitting on a lawn chair (he ran to get one after he set the last flag), figuring there's no sense in being uncomfortable. He's popped the tab on a beer and marvels at just how pathetic he's become in his old age. The flag squeaks the announcement of another note.

Well, to be honest, the world is pretty much the same. Oh, but they did finish building a spacecraft: the USS Enterprise (it launches next month), the guy that invented Facebook has taken over the world, and no one talks anymore because we have the iPhone 7 and it plugs directly into the frontal lobe.

He knew he had her pegged for a nerd. But, if that sad excuse for a "winky" smiley face next to that last sentence is any indicator, she's being facetious.

The truth is, my past tense friend, not much has changed in 2016.

Soul knew it. From the things he observes, the world changes slowly. Even with the advances of technology, architecture lags. He thinks of some of the movements. Modernism moved in to Postmodernism, and that's moving into sustainability- green buildings the wave of the future, until something better comes to push the envelope.

Speaking of the past, though, I've been thinking about the paw prints. Any idea how that's possible?

Cat mews, licking a paw demurely.


Blair yowls for Maka's attention, who has retreated to the hood of the car to soak up the sun while she waits. Maka sits up, seeing the cat pawing the base of the mailbox. The flag is up.

I've been thinking about that. I think we have the same cat.

Blair mews again. Well if it's true, about them having the same cat…? She strokes the soft fur between her ears, imploring her cat to spill the secrets of her previous owner. As if the poor thing could.


Soul reads the words quickly. It should be noted, he's never been a fan of reading much of anything. But there's something about her words, the way she writes, it reminds him of notes on staff paper. Perhaps it's because she rounds out the curvy letters so much, or on the p's she makes such a straight line. He sniggers. It isn't music, and if it was it would be monotone, but the cadence of her writing…

Oh really? What's yours like? Mine, according to the vet-

Good grief, he realizes he hasn't even thought about taking Cat to the vet. He should ask his project office admin to make that appointment for him.

...is eight years old, ah, six in your time. She is beautiful, so black and glossy she nearly shines purple, vivid ocher-yellow eyes, she snores, and she sleeps like a person. I call her Blair.

Perhaps it's because as he's reading, Cat lets out a soft snore, waking itself up, that Soul does it. Really, he has no explanation as he calls out 'Blair' and Cat mews contently and circling his leg once, jumps up to his lap, places both paws on his chest, then licks his nose. The fuck? Soul swears it- no, she- gah, no, Blair!- smiles, then disappears in the direction of the house. That is some fifty shades of too weird shit for Soul.

Does he really want to get involved with this kind of strange ju-ju? Forget time loops, or nerdy shit, what if it's more sinister, something like...witchcraft? That's it! He's decided, since she left him hanging last time, that he's o-u-t, out! He got the hint after fifteen minutes; she's already a bigger brain than he is. Star Trek, he scoffs. He's sure she'll be gone before she grows mushrooms on her head. He doesn't owe her anything.

Not bothering with the lawn chair, he stomps back inside.