"October thirty-first, two thousand and twenty. The first time in nineteen years, since a full moon has a fallen on All Hallow's Day." The Curator announced. His voice travelled across his repository of stories for you to hear. The completer of stories, who had guided the fate of a lost soul, previously stranded in the bleak town of Little Hope.
Hands clasped behind his back, the curator called for you, his colleague to join him at his vantage point of a moonlit window to the left of the room, containing vast amounts of untold stories.
"Why don't you come join me in witnessing such an exceptional event?"
That's different. You thought, surprised by his request. Though your interactions with the curator had improved as of late, growing from tolerable to generous. A lingering doubt remained in your gut in the face of the amicable gesture. Sensing your reluctance, the curator chose a different approach.
"'I see the great moon rise. The fields are flooded with shine, And my soul with surmise.' By Bliss Carman."
Hearing the Curator crediting the author of the soulful poem, you smiled. Amused by his repertoire of relevant quotations at any given moment. I'm fortunate. You thought. To be given the chance to create better chapters in people's lives, under the guidance of an enigmatic, yet obliging gentleman. Feeling your wariness ease, you took your place beside the curator and asked him a question that was pressing on your mind.
"Do you think Anthony will be able to move forward in his life?"
The curator raised his chin, his eyes remaining fixed on the pale blue orb in the sky. You had been doing well so far, joining him in his moonlit vigil, but then you had to ask a question that was beyond his capacity to answer. His hands were tied now. All he could do now is steer towards an answer, he knew you would be able to find on your own.
"Knowing the paths, he chose which lead him here, would you say he has the capacity for change?"
"He became a bus driver. And in 'another life' he was a college student. If he had the will, I know he could do it!" You exclaimed. The identity he had imagined for himself, filling you with confidence.
"Therein lies your answer."
Hope igniting in your body after hearing the curator's words, your head swam with ideas for Anthony. Publishing a book inspired by his experiences. Meeting a nice girl at a pub after work, while trying to get back on his feet. These were all within the realms of possibility. But as easy as it was to envision a meaningful future for Anthony, the knowledge that his story had once ended at the back of a police car, cast shadows on your joyful mood.
A do-over had corrected the major deviance in what was supposed to be a promising ending, but how were you supposed to prevent such mistakes from happening in future efforts?
"Can I ask you something?"
The curator remained silent. As reluctant to answer your rule pushing question, as the first. But as collaborators in stories of life and death, the curator felt bound to listen to your queries.
"How can tell what choices are going to be less than optimal before they happen?" You finally spoke up. Taking the curator's lack of an answer, as a cue to proceed.
The curator took much time as he pondered your question, giving you the impression that it had peeved him in some way. Was your question too beneath him to answer? Or was he finding the words to politely decline answering? The thought of his judgement made your stomach churn. After careful consideration, the curator finally gave his answer. An evident, yet redundant answer, but an acknowledgment of your question, nonetheless.
"You don't. At least not the first time around. You see stories, much like life is a game of trial and error. The lessons are only imparted, after the mistakes have been made."
Despite knowing full well that the curator was not at liberty to divulge much information on the process of decision making, his answer still managed to disappoint you. Everyone knows that. You frowned, after hearing the vague, evasive response that could have come from a politician's mouth.
Seeing your displeased expression, the curator's lips pressed into a tight line. But before you could notice, the curator recited a poem that sounded strangely familiar, like the missing piece of a puzzle.
"'What if this tender fire, in my heart's deep hold. Should be wiser than all the lore, of the sages of old."
The curator watched as your eyes softened, before revealing the poem's author.
"That would be the rest of Bliss Carman's poem 'Moonrise'. I found his words to be particularly relevant. Though deciding with your heart to protect Vince by shooting at him sowed distrust. Following your heart may prove to be useful in another journey."
Touched by the curator's validating words, you turned to him and thanked him for the affirmation that your tender feelings would not go to waste.
"Thank you."
"I think it's about time that you returned home, wouldn't you agree?" The curator answered, giving you the gentle hint of not overstaying your welcome.
I don't write very often, but Little Hope made me want to write a story where the Curator discusses the events of the game with the player over a special Halloween Blue Moon.
I know it's short, but I wrote this in a mad rush to get it done at least one day after Halloween.