The sound of the rain against a window woke him up. Victor's eyes remained closed as he exhaled a long sigh. His nose and ears were cold.
Eyes opened. A plain white wall stared back at him. Victor was alone in his own bedroom. Victoria had made her own bedroom in the guestroom a long while ago. Sometimes Victor would awake in the night and reach out by his side. When his hand felt the empty air, his throat would clench and he would quietly return to a restless sleep.
"It's never going to stop raining," said Victor aloud. He sat up in his bed and looked out the window. The moist air clung to the glass and it made it hard to see outside. It was a light rain but the clouds far away were dark and purple with storm.
Pulling the blankets off of his legs, Victor swung his feet onto the floor. The wood was cold and it seeped into Victor's skin. He quickly left his bedroom and walked to the bathroom across from the staircase. He grasped a pitcher of water and poured it into a white basin. Victor put the pitcher down and cupped the cold water in his hands. The liquid reflected the pale sky from the window. Victor brought his head down towards the water and scrubbed his face.
After he toweled off, Victor returned to his bedroom and dressed for work. Every day had been the same since his father's death. For the past three weeks it had been the same as any other day. Victor had expected something to change. But nothing did. He went to work. Sat in his office. Filled out forms. Added or subtracted numbers. Watched the town outside his window. Nothing different.
Victor fiddled with his tie as he walked down the stairs, briefcase in hand. As he passed the living room, Victor could hear Victoria sewing. The pull of the thread through the material. Victor never knew what she was sewing. He never saw any new clothing or sheets around the house. It didn't really bother him.
A black umbrella rested on the floor, leaning against the wall. Victor picked up the umbrella and pulled a scarf around his neck.
"All very much the same," whispered Victor and then louder, "Goodbye Victoria. I'm leaving for work."
"Goodbye," said Victoria.
Victor shut the front door behind him and opened his umbrella. It was sprinkling and he could barely hear the rain hit the ground. Victor started to walk towards town, but then, with a resounding "hmph", he began a trek to the cemetery.
The clock on the wall hung plainly. Its second hand ticked around and around, minute by minute. Rustling cloth. Pulled thread. Victoria sat in a chair turned towards the window. The glow of the sky outlined her features. Over the past couple of years, Victoria's face had become sharper. Her cheeks sunk in instead of curving out. Her eyes had dark circles surrounding them. Like Victor, Victoria did not sleep well either, but for different reasons.
Thin fingers pushed a sharp needle through the cloth. Victoria's hand reached under the cloth to pull the needle all the way through. A quick inhale of breath, Victoria tensed up. She raised her hand and a drop of blood slid down her index finger.
The sound of a hot kettle whistled into the living room. Victoria stood from the chair and put her needlework down on the cushion. She walked out of the living room, down the hallway, and into the kitchen. The kettle sat on the black cooking stove and steam blew out from its spout. Victoria grasped a hand towel off of the table and placed it on top of the handle of the kettle. She opened a cupboard and took out a teapot. Hot water poured into the opening of the teapot as Victoria tipped the kettle over. The steam tickled her nose.
Victoria stared at the water, deep inside of the porcelain container. The steam silently swirled around in the air and quickly evaporated. Victoria held the kettle in her hand. She stood and thought.
A glassy eye watched as a man stood in front of a grave. Its pupil black as night, its feathers shiny as gloss. The raven flew away.
Victor stood in front of his father's grave. The umbrella hung over him, his hand tightly gripping the handle. Already the first hints of moss collect at the top of the stone, making it look like it was hundreds of years old.
Victor cleared his throat, "So, um, Father. How is the afterlife going for, uh, you?" One of his hands reached nervously to his tie and wrung it. "I'm sure the weather is much better – oh, this is silly." Victor looked down at his shoes. They were scuffed and old, the laces frayed at the end.
A murder of crows flew over and passed his head. Victor watched them as they descended into the distance. His line of sight finally rested on the grave that sat next to his father's. It had aged mold on it and there were tiny cracks around the edges. It had been there for a couple of years by that point. The engraving read: Charlotte Van Dort.
Feathers slid smoothly across dark wood. Victoria brushed the feather duster across the surface of the chest of drawers once more. She moved across the living room, dusting various tops of things as she goes, and entered the hallway. She passed by one closed door, refusing to look at it, and opened the door to her bedroom down the hall.
Victoria put her hand on top of her bed and felt the material. It was soft. Leaving that, she dusted the surface of the hope chest at the foot of the bed. Then the nightstand. Then the chair that she would sit in during the middle of the night. None of it was lavish, although she knew that Victor could afford it. But she never asked for it, nor did she want it.
Finished in her bedroom, Victoria walked upstairs. She turned to the right and walked into Victor's drawing room. It was overflowing with books and papers. She began to dust.
The rain stopped for a moment and Victor closed his umbrella. He meandered around the new cemetery, looking at various headstones.
"So many graves for such a small town," said Victor aloud. He walked along on top of the grass. It was crisp and new, just sprouted from the rain. Victor looked over towards the bridge and passed that, the church. It was almost as tall as the trees in the forest behind the building. The stain glass reflected the sun that peaked out behind the clouds.
As Victor walked while he was not looking where he was going, he tripped over an uprooted branch from a tree nearby. Victor tried to put his hands out in front of him, but it was too late. Clothes completely muddied, Victor sighed. He rubbed at his eyes and left streaks dirt on his face. He looked up in front of him. There was a grave planted firmly before him. It looked very old and its writing was covered by years of grime. Victor crawled up to the grave and began to pull away the rot. As it cleared away, Victor started to make out what the name was.
Victor gasped.
Victoria dusted everything in the room except Victor's desk. She walked up to it, its stacks of books and papers daunting. She started clearing things away when a sketchbook fell down from the desk with a heavy thud. It fell open, face down on the floor. Victoria leaned down and picked it up. She turned the book over and looked inside.
Victoria gasped.
Victor's hands scrambled to wipe away all of the dirt and mold away from the lettering on the grave. Finally, the grime was gone and Victor could see the engraving clearly. He could not believe his eyes or what it could possibly mean.
The grave read: Emily Galswells.
Victoria slowly started to turn the pages. One after the other, the pictures were all the same. Faster and faster, she flips through the sketchbook. Tears blur her vision, but the lines of the drawings still come through. Burned into her memory. The very familiar wings. The stark whites, the brilliant hues of blue and purple. But especially the white. Hundreds of them. Thousands of them. All over every single page. Butterflies.
White butterflies.