When old lives die

by LouiseWolff

She's skin stretched over steel. Even her eyes, once so eager and alive, are now cold and hard. She's all metal. Nicked, scratched, bent and broken steel, mechanic. She's alive till the sun sets, dead when the moon rises. (Sam's musings post-Yamatai.)

8. Fire

The fire.

There is just something about the fire.

Sometimes I find her sitting in front of one of the fireplaces, the most secluded one she can find, burning the newspapers filled with speculation about her and Yamatai.

I can understand the satisfaction, I cannot understand the fascination.

She just sits there, staring, for hours on end, even if there are just smoking ashes left.

Maybe the fire makes her forget, I realize one day when I find her there again, and then nausea swirls in my stomach.

Or maybe, maybe it makes her remember.