21 Dreams
Twenty-One : Traces
Olivia Dunham is all alone in the world as she takes in a full moon, luminescent tulips and a melodic breeze.
She sits down for hours, waiting for someone who doesn't exist.
And when the time comes to wake up, she knows she will not return for a long, long time.
He watches as she slowly sits down, wonderstruck.
How can she not remember him?
How can she remember him?
Why is she here?
Why isn't she here?
She had predicted long ago that they would be separated by a world and a broken heart, and she had been right. He longs so badly to comfort her, pick up the pieces but how can he do that when she doesn't even know him?
When he doesn't even know himself?
She sits down and he takes his rightful spot next to her but he waits for hours, knowing that her head will never again lean against his chest and her eyes will never again shine with the thrill of a stolen moment and her heart will never again have the chance to be whole.
It is entirely too cruel – the way he had been offered a second chance; the way it had been ripped right out of his hand the moment he had dared to trust in it.
And now it's too late. Traces remain, yes, but they are nothing more.
Traces don't matter to her.
She simply sits and watches and waits and he wants to shake her and tell her that he's already here, but he is and he isn't and it's entirely too painful to comprehend.
It is the saddest thing in the world when two people are meant to be together but something else intervenes, and right now he's convinced it's also the most painful.
The wind teases her hair and a phantom ache in his hands only serves to highlight what he wants most: just to be able to touch her at this very moment, to soothe her. He runs a hand down her bare arm but she merely shivers in response.
He can see her path now. She will move on, and though she will never fall in love again, she will make herself. And they will have perfect children who won't have his hair and his mother's name. She'll move on and he'll be here, in limbo, cursed to an eternity alone, knowing that even when her time comes they will not be reunited.
She leaves soon after, and though he forms the three words he's told her countless time, they morph into the light breeze and all she hears is a light whistle.
He thinks his heart might never beat again.
Olivia Dunham wakes up to the early morning sun and goes for a jog, her usual routine from before Fringe Division.
She goes home and makes herself a crappy breakfast of coffee, coffee and fruit, another pre-Fringe Division routine.
As she sips on her fourth cup of coffee, she pulls out her sketchbook and waits for the sun to hit it just right before she finds herself with a tentative arc of an eyebrow, the warm set of deep, blue eyes and a face so familiar she feels that phantom part of her heart ache. Traces of small things are coming back to her and she wouldn't mind a slight trace in every single memory she has, if only to pretend that the loneliness hasn't always been there.
But she knows this will be the missing part of her, the one she will carry with her forever, knowing that she will never have him and he will never have her, just like her empty dream where she waits and waits for a ghost of a dream.
How can a dream hurt so much?
THE END
Yes, so you see, we're back to square one right now. I imagine this is the morning she gets called in for last week's case. Her sketch was fairly recent – no notable creases – so this is how it fits for me. Does this work for you? Why not let me know – I love it when stories that are long finished continue to be reviewed because it shows that you left an impact, not just a current trend.
Thank you to everyone for making my first Fringe experience so pleasant. I still can't believe we made it – 21 thousand words in 24 hours – but you guys are just amazing and this has been an absolute dream. I hope I'll see you around.
E Salvatore,
October 2011.