You are the night-time fear
He's a ghost: pale, silent, pulled along by his guide. It is odd, how quickly the tables turn. Now she is the one whispering follow, follow, follow and he the one who heeds. The night passes them in unbroken swathes, white and pure, and it seems too quiet, somehow.Her whispers fits right in, and he nearly doesn't catch it at first. She's just another predator lurking in the lifeless dark, a voice not yet firmly entered into his core memories. His hushed answer comes late on a white breath. "Aamu." Once more, now less. His tongue runs along the inside of his teeth. That other name pushes into his thoughts again, but he still can't place it. It was someone he was close to, though.
"And you?" For he knows only the name of the missing sister—she, who should've been in this rundown corner of the world. It is obvious she has not been here for some time, and that it is even longer since loving hands repaired these bent and bowing timbers. Aamu's hands itch for tools he had never mastered in the first place, for memories of the sun scorching his pale back as his warm hands feel their way across wood and nail. He blinks, taken aback by the unexpected reminder of his childhood.
Once less, now more.
He steps across the threshold without pause, letting his eyes adjust as he moves out of her way with grace, allowing her to shut the windswept door. He does not remark upon its desolation, and what that means for Evelyn. Why would he? Obviously she knows this, too, and part of him feels guilty for dragging her back here for something as inane as a bath.
But either Evelyn's fine somewhere else, or she's dead, and in either of those cases she can afford her sister the time of a bath. Aamu itches to explore, to map out the signs of the (considerably larger) family which once called this their home, but he is a stranger in her house. So, he waits.
You are the morning when it's clear
AAMU
