Note: O-kay, so I had a lot of issues with this chapter; I wasn't sure if I wanted to do first-person in present tense or third-person in past tense. So, I wrote both chapters, and the former was better. What that means for you all is that this story will be told in alternating chapters: one in Celia's POV, the next in Marlin's, then Celia's, and so on.

(PS: I'm sorry I was so vague about who died. Oops. You'll know for sure this chapter.)

Chapter Two:

Celia

From what I've always been told, love is supposed to be like fireworks: a sparkling, vibrant, and passionate explosion of lights and sound. But for me, I suppose you could say love came more like a shooting star: quiet, beautiful, and unforeseen. You don't expect to see one shooting across the sky every night, just as you don't expect the first man to hold your hand to be the soul mate you've prayed to meet all your life.

What's frightening is how quickly that star can dim, how rapidly everything fate has handed you can be snatched back into the dead of night.

I place one more basket in the refrigerator with a sigh. The delicious scent of curry wafts from under its blankets as I push it between Romana's gift of a Meuniere set and Ruby's present of an apple pie. Food had flooded into this house with a torrent of apologies and tears—upon arriving home, I had been barraged by well-meaning visitors with their offerings of sympathy held high. Smiling, I had taken them all with quiet thank-yous and awkward conversations, appreciating their goodwill but at the same time longing for a moment to myself.

And now that the moment has presented itself, I'm no longer certain that being alone is what I truly want.

It's funny; you never really think about just how beautiful everyday life is. How blissfully simple it is to pick up dull white plates and set them on the table, two chairs ready for the inevitable opening of the door and the "What's for lunch?" that will follow. The sweet peck on the cheek before the blessing is spoken, a quick thank-you for just being there. The gentle laughter that presides over a simple, ordinary meal.

The agonizing silence that's forced to replace it.

I'm almost afraid to eat. I'm hungry, certainly, but as I hold my fork suspended over my salad, I can't help but feel strange as the sound of metal clinking against the plate's edge resounds in the empty room. Even as I chew the soft, juicy tomatoes buried in dressing and lettuce, my cheeks are burning in shame as I stare across from me--the vacant chair just barely hidden from view by the salad bowl, but still lingering in the corner of my sight.

And suddenly, it's so much harder to concentrate on the taste of fresh ranch dressing melting in my mouth.

I drop my fork dejectedly onto the plaid tabletop, watching it clatter from the white and blue design to the sturdy wooden floor. "Honey, what's the matter? Not hungry? Is it the baby—is the baby kicking again?"

It's only a meal. It's only a bite of food. It's an ordinary occurrence in an ordinary world, where ordinary people eat every ordinary day.

And yet…

"Haven't got a few crumbs to spare, have you?"

Startled, my head snaps towards the dark silhouette in the doorway. He turns to look at me, and I stare right back at his furrowed brow and impassive gaze as my heart pounds. Then, as I slowly begin to recognize his weathered features, my breathing relaxes. "If you're hungry, Mr. Takakura, there should be some salad left," I manage, forcing a smile. "There's…well, there's enough for two people."

Too late I realize what that statement implies, and immediately I wish I could bite back those ill-chosen words. But Takakura says nothing, and my slip-up is forgotten.

He nods, taking the seat across from me casually as he picks up his fork and spoon and begins to dish out the green stuff on his plate. "I didn't see you this morning," he begins, picking up the salt and pepper shakers. "You got up mighty early today."

"Oh, I just needed some fresh air," I explain, eyeing him as he begins to eat his meal. There's a method to his madness I discover as I watch him add to his creation: pepper, salt, stir. Pepper, salt, stir. He does it once more before, satisfied, he stabs a forkful of the salad and prepares to bring it to his lips. "Um, aren't you going to…?"

"To what?" he cuts in brusquely.

"It's nothing," I assure him hurriedly, my cheeks burning as I fold my hands in my lap. "You just didn't say the blessing, is all."

My naïve comment earns me a long, hard look. Slowly, the fork is put down, and Takakura crosses his arms, nodding. "You're right, Celia; a harvest earning such a good meal deserves a blessing. Care to do the honors?"

"But wouldn't you rather--?"

"To speak plainly, Celia," the farmhand sighs, "I can count the amount of times I've prayed for anything on one hand. It'd be much easier on me if you'd just say it."

I draw in a slow breath; to count the amount of times I've prayed in the last twenty-four hours would be like counting the amount of stars in the sky. I wonder what I'd do without those heavenly pleas. What I'd do just wandering aimlessly in a sea of emotion, struggling to find my way all by myself.

But this is a simple blessing, and I shouldn't be thinking about this now.

"May this food be blessed so that it may nourish our bodies, so that we may do your will," I recite, hands folded as well. "For only by trusting in your will may our souls be truly nourished as well."

My companion waits for a moment, and as I start to pick apart my meal again, he accuses, "How can you eat yet?"

"What do you mean?" I ask innocently, food inches from my mouth.

"Well, I don't pray much," Takakura admits, "but I do think you're supposed to say Amen."

Of course. Amen, the closing of all prayers. The final words that make everything you've just spoken worthwhile, that say you actually believe everything you're rehearsing. The words that stop making a prayer just a cluster of syllables, and turn it into a belief.

"How silly of me," I laugh hollowly. "Forgive me; Amen."

But sometimes, no matter how hard you want to believe something, you're forced to accept that there are times when no matter how desperately you pray, you'll never receive an answer.

To a farmer, the seasons—not the months—rule the calendar. The earth is a fickle creature; she chooses which seeds to nurture and love, and no matter what the farmer chose to plant, it's she who decides which crops deserves fruition. Vesta had taught me this law of the land well, and now as I search the tool shed, all the farmhand knowledge I had picked up in my previous home comes flooding back to me in a steady stream of names and dates.

"Tomato: Spring, Summer, Fall. Sweet Potato: Fall. Carrot: Fall…and…and…" I eye the faded label on the packet of seeds and sigh as I deem it unreadable. "Fall, and…"

"What are you doing in here—trying to freeze to death?"

The accusal shoots at me from across the room, and soon the familiar sound of stilettos against wood echoes as I find a blonde young woman standing by my side. Long curls of gold tumble down her shoulder as she places her hands on her hips, her ruby lips drawn into a displeased pout. In reply, my pale lips curve into a smile, and I say, "Muffy, it's so good to see you."

"I look all over this farm for you, and you're in here? Why aren't you resting? What are you doing in here?" she repeats, emerald eyes staring me down.

"Oh—I'm working."

"Working? I don't think so, honey." She raises an eyebrow as she inspects the place, scoffing at the pile of sharp tools leaning sloppily by the corner. "How did you not manage to trip and scrape your legs up on this death trap?"

A giggle rises in my throat despite myself, and I answer, "I didn't farm here too much before. There was no real reason for me to come to the shed. And besides, a little mess never hurt anyone."

"Not yet, anyway," she corrects me, her finger tracing the shelves and returning to her with a fresh layer of dust. "How can you breathe in here? When was the last time Jack cleaned this place—honestly, would it have killed him to tidy up once every blue moon?"

She turns to me, grinning, expecting some sort of laugh in response.

I know she means well. I know she's trying to help. But the name stings, causing me to flinch involuntarily, and just as suddenly Muffy's grin fades.

"Oh, God—I said his name, didn't I?" she whispers, covering her mouth in shock as she sits down on a large wooden box. "I didn't mean—Celia, I swear I never—"

"It's okay," I murmur, cupping the bag of seeds in my hand as I idly pull the drawstrings. "It's—it's fine. I don't mind if you say his name. I don't see why it should bother me, you know?"

"But it should bother you, Celia," the barmaid insists. "I mean, it only happened the other day, and already I'm trying to—I don't know—get your mind off him for awhile, and here I am doing the exact opposite."

"Don't be silly; it's fine." I examine the bag a moment longer before I remember it's Fall and Winter, and pocket it for later. "Could you see if there's a hoe in the corner for me?"

Muffy practically falls out of her chair. "A what--?"

"It's a tool—um, with a long wooden handle and flat sheet of metal at the end, making the whole thing sort of shaped like an L."

"Honey, you do not want to know what I thought you said," she whispers, shaking her head as her hands search through the pile. "This thing?"

I glance at the object as she struggles to lift it off the ground, and nod. "Yes, that's it. Thank you—I was afraid for a moment that I'd have to squat down and pick it up myself. You see, I'm going to be planting the fields later, and—"

"You're doing what?"

"I said I'm—"

It's then I realize that the question is rhetorical, and soon Muffy is standing again, her expression that of disbelief. "Here you are, pregnant, and you think you can handle a whole farm? And if that's not enough, you want to tackle it alone?"

"But—"

"But nothing." She tosses the hoe to the floor, and to my horror, it clatters to the ground—out of my reach, and requiring at least fifteen-minutes-worth of squatting on my part to lift it up again. "Don't worry about working. Right now, I want you to worry about you; Takakura can handle Jack's responsibilities--God knows you've got enough on your mind as it is. You're pregnant, Celia, and I don't think Jack would want you to work yourself to death."

Just like he had.

This time, Muffy doesn't apologize for the trance her words have placed me under, and I struggle to gaze at her head-on, to keep my smile plastered on. But it's getting harder to stand without trembling, it's getting more difficult to speak without exploding into a fit of sobs, and that's not what I need now.

Because the one thing I need…is the one thing I can't have.

It takes a few moments, but her glare softens, and as her arm wraps around me she whispers, "No one expects you to adjust so soon, Celia. No one's judging you. Take as long as you need to steady yourself. I just…I don't want you to…I don't want you to stress anymore than you have to. I don't want you to worry."

"But, Muffy," I speak timidly, my voice cracking somewhat, "I…I want to worry about it. If it's okay with you, I want something to do—something to help time pass. I'd rather not spend too long…thinking. I can't very well steady myself if I'm only thinking about what's confusing me, can I?"

Muffy's grip on me lessens, her eyes fighting to remain level with my own. Silently, I plead with her, my hands placing themselves on top of her own and pulling them away slowly. She laughs hollowly, and wipes where mascara has leaked its way across her cheeks with the back of her hand. "I suppose that's true. It's good that you want to work; it's good that you feel ready to move on. But please--for your sake, Celia—don't overwork yourself. Don't carry that huge, stupid tool around to till the soil; go to the barn instead. Milk the cows, feed the animals. If you must do something, anyway."

A smile breaks out across my face, and I nod. "I'll do what I can."

She laughs again, and dabbing her tearstains with her jacket, she says, "I didn't mean to go off on a lecture—honestly, I just came to invite you to dinner with Griffen and I tonight. My treat. I mean, it's a big empty house and I don't want—I don't want you to eat all by yourself, okay?"

"I'll come," I assure her, fumbling about my pocket for a hanky and handing it to her; the last thing I had expected when taking this with me this morning was finding someone in more need of it than myself. She took it gratefully, and smiling, began to leave.

"We'll, uh, see you tonight, then."

I return her smile with one of my own. "I'm looking forward to it."

The door closes behind her, and I stand alone in the shed for a few moments, staring into space.

"Hm," I sigh to myself, crossing my arms. "Ready to…'move on'?"

Such an interesting choice of words. When is one ready for anything—ready for such change, such a sudden blow to one's heart? No, I don't feel ready. I'm not even sure what I'm 'feeling' anymore. This gnawing emptiness is more…more…

No. I'd promised myself I wasn't going to think about this anymore.

Taking slow and steady steps to the barn door, I open it wide to greet a small cluster of animals. Upon seeing a slumbering cream-colored cow, I start towards the heifer and pet her fondly, my cold hands startling the drowsy creature. "There, there, girl. I'm not going to hurt you."

But as my icy hands stray to the utter, a startling cry comes from the cow as she kicks over the bucket in surprise.

"So sorry," I apologize hurriedly, picking it up and proceeding to try again, and fail just as before. I purse my lips in thought; how had Jack done it, again?

"Put your hand here. No, not there, here. Celia--"

The cow cries out again, and once again I try to grasp her utters, struggling over and over again in vain. When at last I can't take it any longer, I stand and wipe my hands on my apron in frustration and shout, "Well, I am sorry! I'm sorry that I don't know what I am doing, and I'm sorry that I'm hurting you!" What's this strange feeling—this prickling sensation stinging my eyes? I can feel my body tremble, but I don't want to fall; I can hear my voice wavering, but I want to scream. "I'm sorry that he never taught me anything, and I'm sorry that I'm not him! He's who you want, isn't he? You don't want me. Well, I want him, too. I probably need him more…and believe me, I am sorry that I'm not him! I'm sorry, okay?"

Despite my best efforts to stand, I slump down to the ground, shuddering, and place my hands to my face, covering the river of tears running down them in shame. "I'm sorry…I'm sorry…"

I'd promised myself this wouldn't happen. I'd prayed it wouldn't. And how I had prayed last night!—never before can I remember showing so much devotion to the slumbering deity of the lake. In the quiet of the night, I'd begged the heavens for some sort of strength, some remnant of courage. That after two days, I could do something—anything—besides melt into a puddle of tears.

That I could stop feeling so…helpless inside.

Helplessness. Yes, that's the name of this gnawing feeling.

But giving it a name only admits that this pain is real, and what I wouldn't give to pretend it never existed.