Rain cascaded down the tall windows within the parlor. Thunder rolled in the distance. Rinoa curled up by one of the windows with her cheek smooshed against the glass. Through the rippling sheets of water lied Deling City—mere fractured lights lost in the storm. She eyed the streets and waited for a car to turn into the driveway. No one even drove by the mansion.
Julia was to be home late. She said so over the phone. Something about the rain congesting the urban streets and slowing everyone down. But there was a promise of music when Julia left that morning; she intended to record them in the studio. That meant new CDs in Rinoa's room along with fresh melodies in the parlor.
"I promise I'll play you a few when I'm home," Julia had told Rinoa.
But Rinoa longed to accompany her mother to the elusive studio. Anything to witness her mother in her element. Frustration contorted Rinoa's face; she couldn't play the piano like Julia. Not yet. Maybe one day, or so her mother insisted. With a sigh, she dragged her knees into her chest and watched the rain consume the world.
Rinoa shoved unwanted veggies about her plate with a fist propping up her cheek. Fury cleared his throat once and Rinoa reluctantly removed her elbow from the table and sat up tall, like a lady, or so she was told. More like beaten into her head. But her father's abrupt disapproval was the first sound to crack the silence residing in the dining room. Rinoa held back a yawn; she needed to stay awake, for when Julia arrived, then they could play music in the parlor.
She promised, just as Fury promised Julia would be home momentarily.
With sleepy eyes, she gazed to the empty seat at the end of the table with a plate of untouched food. Julia loved chicken, too. It would be cold by the time she sat down to enjoy it.
"She'll be home soon," Fury interrupted her thoughts.
"But when, Daddy?"
"Soon."
Not soon enough. Rinoa hated that answer. How could he utter such a thing when he was always the first to remind Rinoa of his distaste for tardiness? Soon meant uncertainty. Soon meant the unknown.
After managing half of dinner and outright refusing dessert, Rinoa excused herself to the parlor. Flicking the lights on, the golden glow washed over the vicinity. Rinoa smiled at the spectacle. She giggled and twirled towards the piano. In the back of her head, Julia's voice rang with caution. Rinoa slowed down, carefully unveiling the piano keys and dragging the bench out.
Sitting center, Rinoa eyed the countless black and white keys. A devious grin pulled at her features as she smashed her open palms into them, laughing with the nonsensical sound. Such fun lasted but minutes.
It wasn't her mother's music. It didn't feel right.
So she played the first measures of the eye song, the one she loved. Julia's motions were fluid, smoother than silk, and created a sound richer than the yummiest of desserts. When Rinoa played, it was like a child tripping over their first steps. She frowned and struggled with the notes. This wasn't music; this was more an insult to her mother's creation than a compliment.
Julia's guidance resurfaced in Rinoa's mind. With a deep breath, she straightened her back and relaxed her hands. But her arms weren't long enough and her fingers slipped into other keys and her feet couldn't reach the pedals and none of it sounded right.
Scrunching up her face, Rinoa slammed a single fist into the keys before crossing her arms. It wasn't fun without her mother. No one there to guide her or to ease the frustrations which came with learning. The song burned into Rinoa's memory for all eternity, but duplicating the melody left her mind and fingers frozen.
She stared at the piano, unmoving. The once violent rain softened to a pitter-patter by the time Rinoa retired from the parlor. Shuffling towards the doorway, she skidded to a halt upon recognizing her father's voice in the hallway. Rinoa peeked around the corner and found Fury on the phone. Interrupting him while on the phone was far more serious than elbows on the table—something about business stuff being important and what not. No luck convincing him to play with her, either. Frowning, she slinked back into the parlor, turned off the lights, and curled up by the window.
The sun faded, but the night was illuminated by the city itself. Rinoa perked up each time a car drove by the estate, only to sigh when they continued down the road.
She'll be here soon, Rinoa thought with every passing car.
Her eyelids dared to fall shut, but her father's voice down the hall snapped her awake. He spoke in a rush, then silence fell. Rinoa climbed down from her perch and traveled out into the hallway.
Fury's regal posture and crisp uniforms etched into him, regardless if he was amongst military peers or family. As Rinoa approached him, she found her father braced against a wall. He offered single, curt words as responses over the phone, his voice cracking.
Rinoa's eyes widened. Fury never noticed her, even when the call ended, even when she tugged his pants. His eyes only fell when she clung to his leg.
"Daddy?" Her voice was but a soft squeak. "What's wrong?"
And when he told her, Rinoa wished she had never asked.
They showed up by the gates. Only a handful of people, at first, but by noontime, a crowd lined outside the Caraway mansion. Vivid bouquets flourished against black attires. Framed pictures nestled against the asphalt. The flowers piled there beside lit candles until the photographs were buried.
Security thinned out the swarm come sunset. Please allow the Caraway family some space, was what they said. Strangers on radio stations echoed the sentiment—please respect their privacy. From her bedroom window, Rinoa lost track of those who continued to arrive at the gates. More flowers decorated the metal barrier separating the public from the mansion. None of them smiled. Some cried, some hugged others. All of them left with their heads hung low.
Despite the flood of visitors, the interior remained immaculate as always, albeit with flowers. The sight alone left Rinoa in awe. Did so many flowers truly exist? She couldn't count the endless blossoms even if she tried. Fury did remind her not to touch them, for they were gifts and thus not hers. Instead, Rinoa sniffed as many as possible, either humming with delight or sneezing from the aromas. She loved them all.
It was all the black she didn't care for.
Her father picked out several outfits for her, each one drowned in the drab hue. She slipped on black dresses with black headbands adorning her hair. She walked in black shoes which clicked against the wood floors—just like Julia's high heels. Rinoa even had a little black purse. What for, she didn't know.
"Young ladies love purses," he offered, tucking every last strand of hair behind her ears and smoothing out wrinkles even Rinoa couldn't find.
She fidgeted with her headband. "What do I put in it, Daddy?"
Fury clenched his jaw while fixing her hair—a bit more forceful this time around. "Whatever makes you happy."
Her mother had a purse. Rinoa loved exploring through it, though she couldn't recall the particular knick-knacks. Something that makes me happy, Rinoa repeated.
Turning the purse over in her hands, Rinoa never placed anything inside.
What was worse than her outfits was when more people in black arrived. Faces she didn't recognize, all with similar solemn stares. They shook Fury's hand, said hello to Rinoa, complimented her purse, and apologized for what happened.
But none of it was their fault. Why were they sorry?
They all stood around, speaking with one another in hushed voices while a picture of Julia sat in the middle of the foyer. There were no more flowers burying her mother's image; they were long gone. Candles surrounded Julia's smiling visage, but her joyful face outshone every flickering flame in the mansion.
Fury kept Rinoa by his side as people filed up to them. She swayed back and forth, not even entertained by the twirl in her dress.
"Oh, how lovely you look, sweetheart!" some had said to her.
"You look so grown up!"
"So cute! Look at that matching purse!"
Rinoa wanted it to end.
Another function took place and another black dress draped her bed. She longed to scream and throw it across the room, but she also wished to evade another lecture from her father about how this wasn't about her.
"Stop being selfish," she could hear him say.
There was no solace in the company of old friends and family members before a casket. Piano music rang through. Not Julia's, but someone else's. Rinoa eyed the painted ceiling, covered with winged women and fluffy clouds. Everyone meandered about the strange house, exchanging hushed words or embraces. There were flowers there, too, much like the first time, though the warmth from their colors did little to raise spirits.
All those present cried. Some welcomed the tears in silence while others doubled over in hysteria. Rinoa eyed her father; his face remained dry as he stared at a wall amidst a conversation.
Surely it had to be the end. Rinoa hoped it was. But their car never brought them home, instead traveling outside of the city. Along with a pack of cars, they arrived at a patch of land with a smattering with stone slabs. Rinoa squinted at the names marked on each one.
"Daddy, what is this?" she asked.
"This is a cemetery."
"Oh. Okay." She ignored her fluttering heart. "Daddy, what's a cemetery?"
He never answered.
In comparison to their previous location, a thinned out group gathered around a particular grave looming over a deep hole—the perfect shape for the casket beside it. A familiar casket, at that. Tears flowed freely from those sad eyes. Even Fury's glossed over. Not a tear marred Rinoa's face. She stared at the casket as it was lowered into the earth to be covered up. Her father explained all of this on the car ride over. She already forgot the name of what was happening, but he promised there would be more flowers to decorate the surface once it was done. And there were—dozens upon dozens of them.
But flowers wilted over time—nothing ever brought them back.
Julia didn't need all of this. Everyone spoke similar words to Rinoa: Mommy was sleeping and couldn't wake up. That was silly. Rinoa knew better than all of them that a running jump into bed was enough to wake her mother. Who would even want to stay asleep forever? Nap time was the worst when all she longed to do was play, but an eternity of sleep? What if Julia encountered nightmares? Who would save her from them? She needed to wake up and play more music. She needed to have her chicken dinners she loved so much.
She needed to come home.
"Daddy?" Rinoa asked, finally alone after everyone else departed. "Is... Mommy ever going to wake up?"
He didn't respond immediately, nor did he eye her. "No."
That word came up far too often in Rinoa's life for her liking. No to cookies, no to another toy for her collection, no to staying up late, no to running down hallways, no to helping with dinner. Always no.
She gazed over the gravestone; the words freshly etched in the stone were foreign, but she recognized the letters which made up her mother's name. "But..." Her eyes fell to the mound before the grave. "But why not? What if she has bad dreams?" Nothing. "Who... who will wake her up when it gets scary?" Still silence. "Daddy." This time, Rinoa reached out to tug on his arm. "Why—"
"Rinoa, she's dead."
Dead. She heard this word before. Or she thought she did. Some boys screamed it during their games of war whenever she and Julia visited a friend. Rinoa played along, imitating gunshots while aiming her fingers at them. Those games ended in laughter. And then there were the endless stories about the sorceresses, always a favorite of Rinoa's come bedtime. A sorceress was eternal and couldn't die, though in order to rest when they no longer wished to live, they had to bestow their magical gifts to another, so the magic could live on.
But this wasn't a game nor was her mother a sorceress.
"Dead?" Rinoa echoed. Again, Fury said nothing. His eyes cast elsewhere. "Is she... not sleeping, Daddy?"
"She was never sleeping."
Her hand clung to his arm, yet it did little to stabilize her. "What happened?"
Fury spoke of a fatal car crash and what it meant to die. Nothing painted a peaceful place where Julia floated off to once severed from the physical world; she was but a lifeless body rotting in the ground. Nothing more.
The sun beat down upon them. Not a cloud blotted the sky. The occasional breeze sifted through colorful flowers and trees. People retreated from their homes to bask in such warmth. Nothing radiated within Rinoa—only a hollow chill chewed her up. Tears blurred her eyes until she surrendered to them. Her sobs echoed past the open skies, never dying once they returned to the mansion. There, she curled up beneath the grand piano.
All she yearned for was the beautiful melodies from the instrument. If only she knew how to bring them back.