One
Sarah
The sound of pounding footsteps echo down the corridor. The smell of smoke hangs heavily in the air, the acrid taste burning her throat.
Shouts and cries ring loudly around her. Everyone is running or screaming. The ground is shaking beneath her feet, but she keeps running.
A single light shines amongst the rubble, drawing her eye. She stumbles towards it, flames licking at her heels. People are still screaming.
Her legs are burning, eyes watering as the smoke thickens. The light is within her reach.
Her fingertips grasp the tendrils, feel the heat pulse as the loud voices fade to a whisper, as the world whirls then changes.
And then she was falling, and falling, and falling.
And then she was nothing at all.
Sarah startles awake. It is pitch black, but her fingers feel out the familiar feel of the duvet, down along the divots to a cold empty space.
She recoils.
For a moment, she forgets where she is.
Sarah returns her trembling hands to the vacant side of her bed – tries to remember what it was like when he slept there. His grumbles as she tucked her cold feet between his warm calves, how he liked to hog the covers to himself; sometimes when she wakes early in the morning, she pretends she can remember the scent of him, gunpowder and clean soap.
But soap doesn't smell like that anymore.
She sighs, and reluctantly removes herself from the bed. She feels around the bedside table towards the window and yanks up the blind. Early morning gloom lights up her room; a subway rumbles past, the floor beneath her feet shaking. From her fourth floor flat, she can see a few grey-suited commuters, alongside the early morning trickle of traffic.
The clock in the corner blinks red numbers at her, revealing that she has a precious few moments before the alarm goes off.
She turns back to the window, the sprawling suburbs of Queens as it slowly starts to awaken. She inhales the dissipating quietness, lingers on the thought of him.
Then she exhales and lets him go.
#
"Tuna Melt and a decaf latte for Sarah!"
"That's me!" Sarah shoves her hand in the air and waves.
"Sarah! Tuna Melt and a decaf latte for Sarah!"
She pushes her way through the thickening morning crowd towards the counter, digging her sharp elbows into a few stubborn, solid customers to get through. She hates New York sometimes.
"Order for Sarah!"
"Hi, yes, that's me," she stumbles into the counter, "I'm Sarah."
The bored deli worker stares at her, "Tuna Melt and decaf latte?"
"Yup."
They shove the greasy paper bag and cardboard cup at her across the counter. She fumbles to grasp it before they fall. When she looks up the deli worker is already gone.
She grumbles to herself as she tucks the bounty safely into her arms before escaping the shop, squeezing between folk, and ducking under stray limbs. Outside the deli isn't much better, the crowds are already dense. She slips into them, allows them to drag her along a few blocks until she reaches her destination.
She pauses outside the building, looking up at the others surrounding her, the landscape that is at once so familiar and yet so alien.
Autumn has swallowed the city whole, leaving a fiery trail in its wake. It's one of the most beautiful things she's seen.
"You know Brooklyn is one of the best places in the world."
"I wouldn't know, I've never been."
"Never been to Brooklyn-? Way to break my heart, doll."
"Don't call me doll."
"What should I call you then? Sweetheart? Babycakes? Sweet cheeks?"
"You know what, I take it back. If you don't say any of those again, you can call me Doll."
"Whatever you say, doll."
When she arrived here, she could see traces of him everywhere, but her first Autumn was the worst. He managed to wrangle it out of her one long Italian night when the purple twilight blossomed across the blushing sky like a bruised peach, and the air stuck in their lungs. She held his hands in hers as he waxed poetic about Brooklyn in the Fall, how those words caused her to snort and poke holes in his memories, denied him the satisfaction of winning their hour-long debate on the best Autumn trees - how that night was knocked loose the moment the trees shed their leaves in Brooklyn just as bright and fiery as he'd said, the moment she caught the scent of pumpkin-spiced lattes (how the sugar buzzed about her mouth, all at once too sickly and too sweet), the first rain on the city.
She hated it (she loved it, a reminder that he was still here even if it was only in the back of her own mind).
Sarah shakes the memories away, resumes her trek towards the building. The entrance heaves open as she approaches it, and she lurches into the building.
The door slams shut.
"Wong!"
Her shout echoes in the silence.
"Wong!" She cries, stepping further into the grand foyer of the New York Sanctum. "I've got your Tuna Melt."
Her footsteps echo as she starts to climb up the steps.
"Wooooon-"
"I think you'll find he's not here."
Sarah jumps, almost dropping the greasy sandwich bag and her coffee.
"Master Drumm!" The stoic wizard stands behind her with a smile. "I'm so sorry I didn't see you there."
"Sarah," he nods in greeting. "Wong was called back to Kamar-Taj."
Sarah sighs, "Any chance you're interested in a Tuna Melt?"
Drumm shrugs, before taking the proffered sandwich. He peeks inside, "Delmar's?"
"Antonio's," she replies. "They make better coffee."
"Don't let Delmar hear you saying that."
"I would never," she says, retreating towards the door.
"Heading to work already?" Drumm asks.
"Work doesn't ever stop, Master Drumm," Sarah smiles at him.
"Do you, Sarah?"
She pauses on the bottom step. The circular window shines down on the foyer, looming clouds drift by lazily and are lined heavily in grey - threatening rain.
"No," she says. "Because every time I close my eyes, I'm back there. The concrete splitting underneath my feet, people screaming and crying. The sky is on fire."
A hand touches her shoulder. Sarah turns to see a sombre Drumm.
"The war has been over for a long time, Sarah."
"Not for me, Master Drumm," she says. "Not for me."
She pats his hand, before moving out of his reach towards the door. Drumm watches her leave solemnly.
He was at the London Sanctum when she crashed into the foyer, bloody, ash-stained, and terrified. Her gaze wild with confusion, the drums of war still beating in her head.
He wonders if she can still hear them.
"Sarah."
"Hm?" She looks back at him.
"Let's keep the Tuna Melt between us," he motions to the bag.
She laughs, golden hair shifting with the mirthful shake of her shoulders, "Of course, Master Drumm."
As Sarah steps back out into the cold, her smile slips. The gloomy New York skyline is tinged with the warmth of the morning dawn. A new day beckons.
...
A/N: *pops out* hullo there!
This little tale took root in my brain and wouldn't get out! Aiming for bi-weekly updates while I'm still writing A Stitch in Time.
Hope you enjoy! Mac x