edited 27 Dec 2017

As the oldest child of three, Harold Wilson had learned and made the habit of loving, caring, and sharing at a very young age. Whereas he used to get to share everything with his brothers, it transferred to his young-love-turned-wife once they were married and building a smaller family in a humble ranch. It was hard for the couple to have children, a couple of miscarriages packed in heartbreaks and tears, so it was a joyous event when they finally got another chance even when her age might be a hindrance in the long run.

So when his beloved Katherine had died during childbirth, all his love was transfused to his son and to his family, given time. It was a small family of three, an almost exact replica of Harold's own with Katherine, except in place of the son there was a daughter. A little bundle of joy called Bridget when they first saw her, wriggling and crying in her soft yellow blanket. Harold couldn't stop bringing her yellow flowers and asking tailors to make her tiny yellow dresses ever since.

As his small family in America expanded, so did his ranch. It kept him busy, filling the time and counting down to the moment he would meet his Katherine again. His equestrian interest honed from his younger days as the son of a wealthy expat traveling Europe was quenched when he built stables and filled the stalls with beautiful mares, his own heart lifting every time he got to show it to little Bridie whose eyes lit up at the sight of the beautiful steeds.

The news had come like a punch in the gut he received when he knew he wasn't going to win a brawl. It was shy a week after little Bridie's sweet sixteen, where he knew his daughter-in-law turned into a fairy godmother to make sure Bridie's party was as perfect as she had wanted it to be ever since she was eight. It was his little Bridie who gave the call, her voice shaking to the point he almost didn't understand what she was trying to say. The conversation had been cut short when Bridie started crying then and there, wrenching out his stomach and turning them around. Harold had to take twenty to calm himself enough to drive himself to the city hospital.

He couldn't recognize the girl sitting on a metal chair outside the emergency room. Her hair was still her mother's, her eyes her father's, but it wasn't the girl who cried for her Pa on the phone an hour ago. It was an emptier, straight-faced shell of a familiar stranger. It was never easy having to get to know a person all over again.

But Harold has long since accepted reinvented Bridie for who she was, so he was pleased to remember that today was Friday, which meant that his granddaughter would be driving up to his ranch for a weekend and most probably a scolding.

"Billie," he called out. A middle-aged woman walked into the quaint living room he was currently sitting in, holding a recipe book that she wrote in herself. "Did Bridie call?" Being a caretaker, Billie had taken into doing more than just taking care of him, but also the ranch house itself.

"She did and she's coming for dinner," Billie informed, her tone borderline snappy as it always was, her free hand swinging around the floral apron she was wearing. "Get up and walk a bit, you've been sitting and reading that book all morning."

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"Thanks Billie, dinner's delicious," Bridget smiled at the caretaker, which was reciprocated "Jade had to cancel last minute, she'd love to come but her boyfriend arranged a surprise date," she told Harold.

"Well, she knows she can visit anytime," Harold smiled at the memory of the exuberant young woman who was one of the very few of Bridget's friends that he has met. There were ones that came for school project, ones who were eager to court his granddaughter, but only a handful who were there for a true lifelong journey. "What's new this week?"

She tapped her fingers on the table, grappling with her own thoughts. The first thought that appeared wasn't the one she wanted to share, but oh well. "There's a new transfer this semester, and it's a he."

"Where's this he from?" Harold leaned forward in his seat at one end of the table. It was a table meant for a small family, one that he had carved out himself, a hobby he picked up from his own grandfather who was a carpenter back in the days.

Bridget shrugged. "Never asked." She hadn't even thought about it, as if Edward had probably appeared in Dexter magically. Funny. Of how much she had thought of his oddity, yet never even thought of the simplest details.

"Maybe you should."

She peered at Harold, groaning when she saw the glint in his wrinkled eyes. "No, don't even think about it."

"I'm just saying, if you think of him a lot, you should probably try to get to know him," Harold suggested.

"You're postulating on nonexistent statistics," she grumbled, shrinking ever so slightly in her chair.

"Then collect the data for me, or better yet: invite him to dinner," he cajoled. He chuckled when Bridget started looking at him like he grew another head. She started telling him what she could recall of her and Edward's meeting, especially of how he quite literally finished the poem she recited.

"It could be kismet, for all you know," Billie proposed.

Bridget almost choked on her drink. Kismet? Oh Billie.

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Originally a ranch with actual horse stables, Bridget's Pa owned a large proportion of land to support the equestrian hobby. The majestic mares were all gone now, sold to another family that ended up opening a place for equine therapy when Pa fell sick and unable to tend to them as well as he used to, especially in the winter. Pa had built a hammock in the veranda that overlooked the barren land when she was eight so she could take watch whenever Pa needed her to. She had claimed the hammock to be hers ever since.

Carrying a blanket from her bedroom, she settled herself down into the hammock, Streetcar in hand. He had rushed through editing for Jade all yesterday and today, and she deserved a break from all the sappy poems and stories.

Whoever you are–I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.

This game is seven-card stud.

Closing the book, she stifled a yawn before steadying the hammock to step out of it. Glancing at the time in her phone, it was time for Pa to head for bed. She found him in his room, a combination of dark furnitures and dim lighting to create a cosy respite, Billie tucking him in and placing the mask that attached him to the oxygen tanks to ease his breathing while sleeping. She leaned over the side of the bed to kiss Pa's cheek, their little ritual for Bridget to return his sentiment. "Do you want me to play the piano?"

Harold nodded, patting her hand.

Pa had shared a lot of things with her throughout her lifetime. His love for tending to horses, his love of devouring knowledge through extensive traveling and books, and his love for classical music. As Pa's father used to say: time changed, music changed, classic will always be classic. An old Steinway grand stood in the middle of the living room by the window, given down from Pa's mother. The case was rosewood, a beautiful color that was resonated throughout the house. As much effort put into keeping the body pristine, the keyboard had yellowed a smidgen naturally over time.

Sitting herself on the stool, she flipped up the fall and her fingers hovered over the keys before playing the set of songs she felt like playing to lull Pa to sleep. She leaned closer to the keys, ceasing the volume, eyes leaving her fingers to look out the window.

I don't want realism,

I want magic.

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