His Crimson Rose
Disclaimer: I do not own Crimson Peak.
:::
Synopsis: Though lovely, every rose has its thorns. Alan and Edith return to America in hopes of a fresh start, while Allerdale Hall sits (mostly) vacant for the first time in decades with only the wind rushing through its ramshackle walls. Yet, even for ghosts, there is life-both bitter and sweet-after Crimson Peak.
:::
Again, the late Sir Thomas Sharpe found himself more easily distracted in this Afterlife of his than he had ever been alive.
For nearly four days, he had been traveling since disembarking on the piers in the West Side of Manhattan. Really it was remarkable he had made it all this way, given how little time now meant to him as the days ran together. He drifted from pier to street to train car to carriage to street and so on... He barely knew what he was doing, but it was as if the actions were second nature.
And though his thoughts were fading now and again, Thomas realized he had made this journey before, and that being, he was unavoidably repeating the journey now. The ether that made up his flickering, ghostly figure was being drawn forward like fluid compelled through a straw with only one path to traverse – upward and ahead, automatic and without dissent.
Still as he progressed, he felt a change. At first he wasn't sure what it was, but slowly, he sensed it. Was that the hardness of the train car's bench beneath him? Was that the cool fluidity of a raindrop falling from the awning of the carriage station splattering against his cheek? And that, that was whisper of the warmth of the woman seated beside him in the streetcar against his pant leg.
Slowly, something about dead Sir Thomas Sharpe was fortifying ever so slightly, and it was when he was drifting through The Park of urban Buffalo, beside the rippling green pond of the Gala Water, that the memory hit Thomas hard.
Most likely it was the way that the midday sun streamed through the branches of the trees that first set the scene. The way the golden rays dappled the early-spring porcelain-like complexions of a group of young women. So familiar was the way their tidy trimmed hats perched on their curls, chatting politely on a picnic blanket as a pair of yellow and black swallowtail butterflies fluttered past.
But it wasn't the familiarity of the butterflies or the women that truly stole Thomas' attention, but the man in dark spectacles who sat reading a book.
Suddenly, the breeze blew, and the pages under the man's gaze ruffled. The crinkling flipping of the printed paper captivated Thomas, as he rushed forward, unbeknownst to the man who merely tsk'd and flipped the pages again casually looking to regain his spot...
And then the words came to Thomas, seemingly echoing about the park in his mind:
"I think every time I read it, it gets better and better -"
Whose voice? Thomas thought wildly, wondering where these words were coming from to him.
It was his voice – This is my memory, Thomas recalled, stricken. And then soft and delicate she had told him:
"Let me know what you think."
"I'll finish it now," the old reply instantly fell from the late baronet's mouth, completing the memory of what he had said to her.
To Edith.
The thought of her had stopped him cold, directly before the young man who had resumed his reading, but now looked around confused, calling "Hello, hello?", having believed he heard a man's voice beside him, though he could see no other man there. However, Thomas was too distracted to notice the effect he had on the young reader.
Edith. Oh, Edith – how could I have forgotten? Thomas panicked. But I could not have forgotten, because I am here, I am in the same park in Buffalo. If there is a God, then I should thank him for this fate? This happy accident? that without thinking I brought myself back to where it all began: Edith's home.
Watching the young, fashionably dressed reader return to his reading, sprawled before him so much like his former self who had sprawled and read Edith's own writing in this very place, Thomas held his own face in sudden happiness, for the first time able to ignore the tendrils of smoke-like blood ever seeping from his dreadful face wound. The almost warmth of the sun radiating through his body, he realized with renewed vigor, Edith would have gone home, right? I can go to her – see that she is well, see that she is able to carry on with her life since I saved her!
Perhaps this is what I am meant to do... before I can leave this world, Thomas Sharpe assured himself.
And with that, the late baronet drifted off in the direction of the otherworldly pull that told him the way to his beloved widow's home, determined to fulfill posthaste what he believed must be his last will on this strange and fascinating Earth.
:::
Note: Hey readers had a little bit more to add for this story. A bit angsty, but generally, I can't help myself from it, ha! Hope you all enjoy and are keeping well out there. Origamikungfu.