Just a little one-shot I came up with. Enjoy! :)
It was raining.
That was the first thing Montag noticed when he stepped outside his house. Some time ago, what seemed like centuries but was really only a month and a half, he wouldn't have noticed the wet drops as they splashed onto his face and dampened his hair. Now, it was incredible to him that he could have even ignored it in the first place.
Montag loved the rain. He loved the feel of it as he strolled down the sidewalk, the sound as it pattered against the glass panes in his windows, the smell of it after the sun has fought through the pewter-colored clouds and dried up all the precipitation. He loved it, because it reminded him. It reminded him of her. It reminded him of her when she taught him the very important lesson that he should always stop and absorb his surroundings, observe things that are beautiful, not get caught up in everything he'd been trained to get caught up in since he was born.
So, as he ambled up the grassy hill that had somehow been left unscathed after the bombs, he found himself thinking of her. Reminiscing on the times when she was still here. Looking back at their conversations, ones that were short but had more meaning than any conversations he'd ever had in his lifetime. Each of those conversations were permanently branded into his mind, which proved useful when he was attempting to recollect the Old Days.
It made sense for him to think about her, for as he neared the top of the hill, he saw it. The gray stone that was planted right smack in the middle of the grass. It'd been a week since he left it there, but he hadn't returned since that day. He'd been too busy, trying to work with Granger and the others on the new project they were planning. This was the first night he'd even gotten home before dark. He had an excuse not to come back before now.
Yet, as he slowly approached the stone, he couldn't help admitting to himself that his busy schedule had not been his only reason for not coming back.
The stone was about the size of an old-fashioned computer, the kind with the big metal box on the back. Oh, it had taken him at least an hour to lug that rock up the hill. He had made it even harder for himself by being careful not to flatten any of the flowers that littered the area. But it was all worth it in the end, after he'd plopped the stone in the right place and set to work carving the words into it.
Now, he stopped in front of it and stared down at its surface, the rain soaking his clothing and dripping off the end of his nose. He'd done an acceptable job with the letters, despite the fact that it had been quite some time since he wrote anything by hand. They were in print, not written in the fancy, looping style that Granger was accustomed to, but it was readable, at least, which was more than he expected.
"If you only read the books that everyone else is reading, you can only think what everyone else is thinking."
It was a quote, written by a man named Haruki Murakami. Montag had heard it from one of the other professors, and it just stuck. It described her perfectly, he thought, and he wondered if she had ever heard it. If she had ever experienced the same books and stories that he was just now growing to accept. If she had ever let a thought like that run through her head, affecting her mind and causing her to perceive the world differently.
Of course she had. Montag suddenly had no doubt in his mind that she had heard the quote, and lived by it, even with the irony it had in their previous society. Clarrise McClellan embodied that quote, and every time Montag heard it, an image of her would flicker briefly in his mind, and he could sit and think these thoughts and not have to worry about being punished or exiled.
There were no words he could say as he stared down at the stone. The smell of rain mixed with the sweet aroma of wildflowers, and it reminded him of her. Everything reminded him of her, everything he could see and smell and taste and hear and touch, because she was the one who taught him to see. She taught him to smell. She taught him to taste and hear and touch the things around him, the things that were a big part of the world but that he never noticed. He could feel the spirit of her on top of this hill, even though she had undoubtedly been cremated minutes after her death. But he knew at once that he'd chosen the right place to put her monument, because the scenery screamed Clarisse even before he had the idea.
It wasn't long before he felt a low growl in the pit of his stomach, telling him that it was almost suppertime. Faber would be expecting him for a meal soon, and Montag had no other business here. He realized that it would not take a visit to this hill for him to feel her spirit again. He felt it every day, every hour, every minute, every second. Her felt her everywhere he went, and it was a comforting presence in this frightening new world they were building.
So as he turned away from the stone, the feeling of her presence did not dwindle, even as he began to walk away. This was the last time he would visit here, he knew. Because while Clarisse McClellan's spirit was alive on this hill, a beautiful landscape with flowers scattered all around, it was also in his everyday life. There was no need for him to return.
Yet, just before he was too far to be able to see the stone, Montag peeked over his shoulder, and said a silent thanks to the dandelions that grew bright in the luscious grass.
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