A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them J. No copyright infringement intended.


Mood music: Foolish games, Jewel


04. Shadow Of The Wind

"It's the same with the first person you love."

She closes the book and stares out of the window. There are houses and people and trees and cars passing by but she doesn't see them. She immediately knows that opening this book was a mistake because her heart is suddenly full and the soft ache that lives there and that she's learned to ignore grows just a little bit more persistent. Curiously, she feels very calm and even welcomes its presence, like she would welcome an old friend that she's lost touch with for a while but never really forgot about.

She knows that she will read this book. She smiles to herself sadly and thinks how perfectly she's developed this ability to deny, to hide, to ignore, to escape and to push away everything inside herself that she didn't know how to deal with, all the thoughts and emotions that formed after he left. She remembers how much effort she put into placing them far out of her mind and even further from her heart, and yet, ironically, how she instantly knew, the moment she realized where the book had come from, that she would let them all come out again. She knows she will go home and spend this weekend that she has to herself reading the book and facing whatever feelings she finds inside and come Sunday, she will either defeat them forever or be defeated by them – and whatever the outcome, she'll accept it and find ways to piece herself together around it. She knows it may break her, this book and everything in it, but she decides that maybe it's time to get broken if there's a chance of finding truth in the fragments and strength in admitting it. She feels no fear anymore, just a soft resolve that is easy and natural and somehow seems long overdue. She's tired of playing hide-and-seek with herself and she's giving up now – there has to be closure, there has to be a point somewhere that, once reached, will let her be at peace with herself as a whole.

She gets off the bus and slowly walks to Lukes's, and for the first time, she deliberately looks for memories in the places she passes. In the square, every bench holds a conversation, a joke, a fight; the alleys off the square remember too many kisses to count and this route she's walking now, they've walked together a million times. It was months ago but seems so close to her now that she can almost feel his arm around her and hear his voice as he whispers in her ear, and there's suddenly such yearning to hear his voice again that it makes her skin bristle and her throat constrict. She stops for a moment and takes a breath before she fixes a smile on her face and walks into Lukes's.

She's alone and so she sits at the counter; in here, she doesn't allow her mind to wander because he's literally everywhere in this place and it would just be overwhelming to face him here. She looks around for Luke and finds him gathering plates at a table by the window; he looks up and winks at her, then walks back to the counter.

"Coffee?"

"Yes, please" she smiles.

He hands her a super-sized mug and fills it up. "Oh, hold on a sec, I'll be right back." He disappears in the back and returns with a huge box which he sets on the counter.

She's confused. "What's this?"

"It's food. Lorelei came in earlier and mentioned she'd be out of town for the weekend." She still looks confused, so he scratches his head and continues, "I mean, you still have to eat, right?"

She grins widely. "You put together a care package for me? Luke, that's so sweet."

"Yeah well, as I said – you still have to eat." He smiles back. "You know what, you don't have to lug this with you now, I'll just drop it off after I close up tonight, how's that?"

"That'd be great, thank you very much."

He starts clearing the plates he's brought with him and watches her settle her eyes on her mug. He can't help the feeling that there's something different about her today; it was there when she came in this morning too, but it's a change so subtle that he can't put his finger on it.

"So, any big plans for the solitary weekend?"

"What?" She looks startled for a moment but recovers quickly. "Oh no, just pretty much a lot of boring stuff," she lies but can't do it to his face so she looks at her coffee. "You know, homework, laundry, maybe a movie…" Her tone changes slightly. "Maybe a book…"

"Your mom would be really disappointed to hear that, you know that, right?"

She laughs. "Yeah, she would. Maybe I'll squeeze in some bikers or a keg party just to make her feel better."

"I'm sure she'd appreciate that."

Someone yells for him at one of the tables and he rolls his eyes; "I'll drop by with the box around ten", he says, then grabs a plate and walks away. She finishes her coffee and picks up her back-pack; just as she's about to leave, the specials board catches her eye and she suddenly freezes in mid-step as she recognizes the handwriting. It's been sitting here for months and somehow she's never noticed it, but now, the familiar lines of the letters seem to scream at her so loudly that they drown out every other sound in the room. She's so transfixed that she doesn't even notice Luke come back.

"Rory?" He looks at her and follows her gaze to the board before she finds the presence of mind to take her eyes off it and focus on his face; she can see his expression change and a soft look enters his eyes, a look of understanding that makes her feel like he can see past her face and right into her soul.

"I should have wiped that stupid thing, it's been on there forever and no one orders it anyway…" he mutters and looks for a rag. "I don't even know why I keep it in here. I'll get rid of it right now."

Her hand shoots out before she can stop it and she grabs his arm. "No." He looks at her studiously and she knows she needs to somehow downsize the gesture. "No, don't – it's just a board. It's part of the décor." She looks into his eyes and softly says, "I like it."

"Ok then." He studies her face for a moment and sees her smile is back, but it somehow doesn't quite reach her eyes. "The board stays as it is."

"OK, great. I'll see you tonight."

He watches her as she gathers her jacket and her bag and walks out of the diner, and worries as he recalls the expression on her face. He then looks at the board and thinks about his nephew again, the same way he looks at it and thinks about him first thing in the morning when he comes into the diner and last thing in the evening, before he locks the place up for the night.

...............

The house is quiet as and the sound of the doors closing only makes the silence louder. She takes off her shoes and hangs up her jacket; then she walks into her room and drops the backpack by the door. It's six in the afternoon and the shadows are growing longer, and she feels like pajamas and ice-cream, so she finds them in the mess that is her bed and tiptoes to the bathroom. She peels her uniform off and stuffs it in the washer, adding some random pieces of clothing to get a full load and starts the machine. She puts on her pajamas and decides she'll be cold, so she heads back to her room to find her Harvard sweatshirt. Halfway there, she changes her mind and goes upstairs to her mother's room where she digs up a thick black sweater she knows since she's been four and puts that on instead – immediately, she feels warm and safe, and she smiles as she thinks of her mom.

She then walks back down to the living room and thinks about putting on some music, but she can't decide what she feels like listening to and so she gives it up. The answering machine light is flashing so she checks the message and listens to her mom inform her that they'd arrived safely but the hotel they're staying at is horrible, that Sookies's already had a fight with the cook and that she'll call again in the morning. She smiles and heads for the fridge to check for ice-cream and is happy to find there are several flavors to choose from, but somehow the moment has passed and she doesn't want any right now. Standing there and looking at the closed door of the fridge, she realizes she's gone through all the motions and that the time has come to go and get started on the book. As soon as the thought comes into her head, she feels her resolve waver and her mind begins to present a million alternatives – homework, television, phone-calls, dish-washing, vacuuming… anything but the book, but she shakes them off and purposefully walks to her back-pack, afraid that if she postpones this any longer, she won't be able to do it at all. She takes the book, walks to the sofa and settles on it, then hugs Lorelei's sweater closer as she looks at the book in her lap. She studies it for a long moment, thinking how best to approach it in a Rory-like, organized and analytical way, but there's no order at all in the emotions that she's dealing with, just like there was never any order in anything that concerned him. That is what always scared her the most, that is what scares her now – the complete loss of control that always comes with him. One word, one smile, one touch, and all logic and reason would somehow just disintegrate and there would be just feelings, a world of feelings that were chaos and bliss rolled into one.

She opens the book and starts to read.
"I still remember the day my father first took me to the Cemetery of Forgotten Books for the first time. It was the early summer of 1945, and we walked through the streets of a Barcelona trapped beneath ashen skies as dawn poured over Rambla de Santa Monica in a wreath of liquid copper…"

The pages turn one after another, and soon she is lost in what promises to be a wonderful story. The very first note of his that she comes across is the same one she's already seen, scribbled beside the passage that she first read when she opened the book on the bus:
"Once, in my father's bookshop, I heard a regular customer say that few things leave a deeper mark on a reader than the first book that finds its way into his heart. Those first images, the echo of words we think we have left behind, accompany us throughout our lives and sculpt a palace in our memory to which, sooner or later—no matter how many books we read, how many worlds we discover, or how much we learn or forget—we will return."

She whole-heartedly agrees with the quote; the feeling it describes is familiar and close to her heart. There is one particular book she always returns to that she read as a girl, a story she sometimes finds naïve and shallow now that she's older but that she loves nonetheless. She likes how this short passage has so perfectly captured the essence of that love. Somewhat unwillingly, she turns her eyes to the note scribbled neatly beside it: It's the same with the first person you love.

She stares at the words for a long time but somehow doesn't really take them in; she understands the parallel he's made but as straight-forward as it seems at first glance, she senses there's much more hidden in that short sentence than what she can read into it right now. It's a curious feeling, like coming across a thought too complicated for her current level of knowledge yet still intriguing, so she leaves it be for now and makes a mental note to come back to it later.

She goes on with the story and is quickly swept up in an amazing world colored with mystery and love and obsession, lovingly laid open for her with immaculate phrasing and vivid imagery. It is easy to get lost in it and she happily does so; at first, his notes in the margins are like little needles that poke at her heart every few pages, but soon, as she starts to appreciate them in relation to the story and not herself, they add wonderful new volumes to the whole experience. Sometimes, they are in forms of questions and make her appreciate a new perspective; sometimes they are little comments, witty, somber, deep or casual; always, they relate to the story and nothing else and because of that, she can enjoy them. As the story progresses, she finds that his scribbles help her understand it on a much deeper level than she would if she read it without them. Suddenly, again, an immense sense of loss washes over her as she remembers the conversations and discussions about books and movies and life that they used to have, and the profound sense of being richer for having been a part of them. His reasoning was always down-to-earth and practical, his arguments usually flawless, his imagination unrestrained and vivid and his mind inquisitive and alert. He could talk about a book he's read for hours and often, regardless of whether he was critical or appreciative of it, he would express himself better than the author himself. He read a lot and would pick up anything; he usually finished even the books he later rated to be worthless. She always found this surprising because he was not nearly as generous or tolerant when it came to people and was usually too quick to judge them; she remembers how it always disturbed her that he had so little interest, so little need for people and how comfortable and confident he was in his solitude. Too comfortable… She knows it is this glorified image of himself, alone and indifferent, untouchable and self-sufficient, that finally took him away from her, from Luke, from Stars Hollow… they had started to care too much and it had changed him, a change that scared him and he ran. It was easier than having to return the sentiment, she thinks bitterly.

She's not sure at what point it happened, but suddenly she realizes that there are tears on her face and that she's staring into space. The book is on the floor, forgotten, and she's alone in the dark room, alone with these thoughts that have come alive and then given way to feelings that she's been fighting for what seems like forever, feelings that hurt so exquisitely and reach so deep that there is just no end to them. And as her body starts to shake, she wonders again if it will ever stop, if she will ever be able to think about him for longer than a stolen second and not arrive in this place where she is now, where she just breaks down and wants to be someone else.

Hours have passed and it's late, but she doesn't notice that at all – it's like the world outside her has disappeared and there's only this dark, dark place inside her that still exists. She hears the church-bell sound and counts eleven chimes, distant and removed, little reality checks that she resents, but they bring a subtle change into the atmosphere – the tears slowly stop, her eyes dry and begin to sting so she gets up to wash her face. She kicks her leg on the coffee table as she wanders around in the dark room, so she turns on the table lamp and starts for the kitchen. She barely makes two steps and nearly jumps out of her skin as the doorbell rings. Forgetting herself for a crucial moment, she walks to the door and pulls it open.

"Hey, it's your favorite meals-on-wheels service, sorry we're late but there were circumstances that couldn't be helped", says Luke as he steps inside and hauls the big box that smells of hamburgers into the kitchen. He sets it on the table and is already turning around and switching the kitchen light on as she scrambles to remove any traces of tears from her face with her sleeves. When he looks at her, his expression changes to panic so quickly that she knows that she's failed miserably.

"Rory, what's wrong?" He grabs her by the shoulders and studies her face intently. She attempts a smile but can't pull it off; she tries to speak but can't manage it so she just shakes her head and crosses her arms on her chest. They stand there for a long minute, and she summons every bit of strength she has left to think of something to say that will reassure him and make him go away.

"Is this about the specials board?"

The words sound so absurd as they come out that Luke can't believe he just said them out loud, but curiously, they make her lift up her eyes and look at him. She's not ready for this level of insight, for such precise recognition of her pain; she feels her throat close again and her eyes begin to sting and there's just no strength left in her to fight the tears. Luke's heart cringes – the look she gives him is one of such profound sorrow that it feels like it belongs on a face of a very old woman and not this young girl whose smile he's known for years.

"Rory…please, just talk to me." His tone is so gentle and fearful that she wipes her eyes and smiles a little.

"It's a little about…the specials board", she says quietly, "but mostly, it's about a book."

He's so relieved that she's said something that he doesn't register it properly and so he just repeats after her, "A book."

She nods her head and moves away from him, wiping her eyes with her sleeves, and sinks into one of the kitchen chairs. Feeling completely out of his depth but determined not to leave her like this, he follows suit and sits down opposite her.

"It arrived yesterday," she says to the table-top. "In the mail." Her voice quivers again and the last part of the sentence is just a whisper. "With notes inside." She looks up at him again and clears her throat. " In the margins."

An abrupt, familiar image appears in Luke's mind, an image of a dark-haired boy leaning against the counter in the diner, with pencil in hand, scribbling away in a book. Numerous others follow, of countless situations, in which he noticed the same thing and she can see he understands what she's saying. She looks back to the table. He's not saying anything and she's grateful for that; she knows she doesn't have to say anything either, but somehow she wants to, although she's not sure if it's for his sake or her own.

"It's just hard," she breathes and her voice is a little less shaky. She clears her throat again. "It's just hard to think about him."

He nods. "I know." A beat of silence follows. "It's hard for me too."

Her eyes shoot up and she feels genuine surprise, immediately followed by shame for not realizing sooner that Luke has lost him too, and she suddenly feels closer to him because of it than she has felt to anyone else lately. Her heart suddenly jumps as a tiny new possibility enters her mind.

"Have you heard …" She starts the question timidly, but he immediately shakes his head. "No, not a word since he left." He looks up at her softly. "Sorry."

She just nods and looks at the table again and there's another stretch of silence.

"I just think it would be easier if I knew why he left", she says after a while, in an even tone that reveals that she's asked herself this question a million times before.

A sudden feeling of guilt hits Luke hard; she looks so small and miserable in that chair and it's all Luke's doing. It was Luke that sent him away and now she's hurting because of it.

"Rory…" He takes a deep breath and looks at her. "He left because I…well, I told him he had to go." She lifts her eyes and frowns. "He failed school, he lost a year, he said he wasn't going back, we had a fight and I said that if he wasn't going to return to school, he'd have to go." He shrugs. "And he did." Shaking his head, he adds quietly. " I should have known he would."

She thinks about this for a while but then she shakes her head and smiles sadly. "That's not why he left, Luke. That fight just gave him a convenient moment to do it in." The look in his eyes tells her that he doesn't believe her. "Think about it – even if you kicked him out, he still could have stayed. He had a job, he could find a place to live and if he decided not to go back to school, who could make him?" She shakes her head again. "Trust me, that's not why he left – he left because he wanted to."

Luke ponders this for a moment and allows that she might be right; after all, she understood him better than anyone. She might have been the only one who actually knew him at all.

She's quiet for a long time again, but there's composure and purpose in her silence. Her eyes are dry and her voice was strong and clear although quiet when she spoke, and he hopes she's feeling better. Relieved, he takes a moment and marvels how he never noticed how upset she was – how upset she still is – over Jess leaving and wonders if Lorelei knows there's so much sadness there.

"I thought he cared", she suddenly whispers. "I thought he cared more."

He's so surprised to hear her say that that he replies without thinking. "He did. I'm sure he still does." It is such an obvious truth to him that he's amazed that she's so clueless. "If he doesn't, then why send this book you mentioned?"

She looks away from the table and meets his eyes as soon as he mentions the book, and she does it because he's voiced something that's been lurking in the back of her own mind but also, she suddenly doesn't want to talk about this anymore because she's not really ready to admit even to herself that she hopes he's right, let alone betray it to him. Luke sees the change come over her face and for a moment she looks ashamed; he knows immediately it's time to move on to something else so he looks away from her and starts opening the box he brought with him. He pulls out a cheeseburger and sets it in front of her.

"You should eat. It's a couple of hours old, but knowing how long food usually sits in the fridge here, it's still a gastronomical delight."

She cracks a smile and takes it from him, unwrapping it quickly, and takes a huge bite. "Are there fries?"

He grins and relaxes for the first time since he flipped the kitchen light on.

............

Luke stays the night; after they had eaten and bad-mouthed Taylor for a while, she starts to yawn, and he just clears the table, walks into the living room and settles on the sofa. He never says that he's staying – he just takes off his shoes and turns on the TV. She goes along with it wordlessly; after she brushes her teeth and washes her face, she comes back into the living room to collect the book and he is already asleep. She watches him for a moment and smiles; she somehow feels safer because he is there.

She crawls into her bed with the book, but turns the light off and hopes to sleep. Some time goes by in tossing and turning before she realizes that although she's tired and emotionally drained, she is wide awake and sleep is unlikely. She flips the light back on and shuffles the pages until she finds the one where she left off and goes back to the story. The next comment he wrote down is funny and she laughs; the phrasing is so familiar that she can almost hear him say it and see the expression on his face as he does. It somehow seems that finally talking to someone about him has made him materialize in her head so clearly that every attempt to push him out is a lost cause and his presence is so strong that she wouldn't be surprised to look up and find that he's sitting at the foot of her bed. He's not – and right then, for the first time, she wonders where he is. She looks out of the window and into the sky, and although she knows it's corny and lame, she wonders for a moment if stars are as clear tonight in his sky as well. She wonders if he ever looks at them and thinks about her. She wonders if he ever regrets leaving and then she wonders if he'll ever come back. Does she even want him to? She has no answer to this question, not really – she can only get as far as wishing he'd never left to begin with.

She goes back to the story and the notes, and the hours fly by; as the pages turn, he slowly settles in her mind, settles comfortably and easily, like he's been there all along, like she's never evicted him as furiously as she did. Just as this story she's reading unfolds, the memories unfold as well – the good, the bad, the forgotten – and there is a precise moment in which she feels the damn break and the walls that separate the past from the present in her heart come crumbling down and suddenly, inexplicably, she feels whole again, like she's found that lost piece of herself that she's been missing but didn't dare look for.

As the dawn breaks and first traces of sunlight spill into the room, she finishes the book with a smile; just before she drifts off to sleep, she remembers the quote from the first chapter and the note next to it. She doesn't have to look for it; it is forever imprinted in her mind: "Once, in my father's bookshop, I heard a regular customer say that few things leave a deeper mark on a reader than the first book that finds its way into his heart. Those first images, the echo of words we think we have left behind, accompany us throughout our lives and sculpt a palace in our memory to which, sooner or later—no matter how many books we read, how many worlds we discover, or how much we learn or forget—we will return."

It's the same with the first person you love, he'd written next to it; suddenly she understands the meaning behind it that escaped her before, and finally all these feelings she has for him are given a name, a name that's frightening and glorious at the same time. For the first time, in that one moment between dreams and reality, she knows this presence of him within her, it is forever. It will always be there, unchanged, and she will always return to it, just like she always returns to that old book she read such a long time ago.