re:

The university janitors took very good care of the school hospital.

There were no traces of black mold in sight.

If one looked out the north facing windows, they would see an army of orange bulldozers. Half of the Bergerac Building had been flattened already. The other half was scheduled for next week. Men and women in yellow hard hats laughed and ate in the shade below the lindens.

Several officers patrolled the hallways. A few detectives in fedoras whispered in private. Two policemen were stationed at a door at the south end of the hospital. Inside were several women, a few of them were unconscious, but both Professor Andrea Marea and her accomplice Valerie, battered and bruised with broken arms, were wide awake and answering questions from the investigators.

The other injured had been wheeled to the east wing of the hospital.

Here, William Caraway looked outside his second floor window. He didn’t look that old in the end, but the detective probably figured he had lost several years after everything had happened. At least, that was how he would explain all the new white hairs and saggy cheek wrinkles to his children.

It hurt for William to sit up in bed. Not that he was old, but maybe it was a premonition for things to come.

He glimpsed every once and a while at the television playing a movie in the background, but his primary focus was on the sunrise that morning. A swift breeze entered through the windows. Despite what the gleaming golden horizon suggested, the heat of that July summer had simmered down to a temperate cool.

It felt good just to relax.

William sighed.

Then he turned to the door and looked at me with butter brown eyes.

“Hi Rosalyne,” he said.

“I’m here to deliver you the good news,” I flashed a bouquet of flowers in my hands. “My parents tell me that you’re officially fired.”

“Great. What’s the good news?”

“That was the good news,” I said. “What is that you’re watching?”

“Just an old movie,” William said, flipping the television off with his remote. “You didn’t have to come, Rosalyne. I would’ve heard from them eventually.”

“Don’t be so glum about it,” I laid the bouquet by the bed. “How long were you living off their paychecks for? At least a few years right?”

“Another few months and I could’ve fully paid for my daughter’s college bills,” William murmured. “Well, now that I’m off the hook, maybe you could tell me where your brother really is? I promise I won’t tell your parents.”

“I already told you everything I know,” I rolled my eyes. “He went up in smoke, just like all the stories say.”

“The police never found a body.”

“Fire has a tendency to make them disappear,” I shrugged. 

"You know," William said. "The investigators might still ask you about your avatar."

"They're welcome anytime," I smirked. “When do you get discharged?”

“Once the bandages stop bleeding,” William winced. “The nurse who replaces them is quite pretty. Maybe I can stretch a bit. Snap the stitches by accident and stay a little longer.”

“You could’ve died,” I said.

“And a lot more would have if I hadn’t intervened,” William replied. “I’m just happy they chose the film club room. It’s a bit of a fall to the ground floor, sure, but we’re lucky nobody was actually killed this last time. A few broken bones will heal in time.”

The detective grumbled something beneath his breath.

“What was that?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “It’s just a shame about Andrea. She was a good kid. I think if I had reached out before she fell back into the cult, things might’ve turned out differently.”

“Well, if my brother hadn’t gotten involved–”

“Now don’t start there,” William frowned. “That’s why I didn’t want to say it out loud. There’s no point spending your life stuck in the past, Rosalyne. The past is passed. Gone. Obliterated. Plenty of bad things happen because of what happened back then.”

“...That’s quite philosophical of you, Mr. Caraway. I couldn’t agree more.”

“Don’t patronize me kid,” William craned his head to look behind me. “Who’s that?”

“Who’s what?”

“I thought,” William murmured. “I thought I spotted someone looking in at us. Maybe just that nurse checking in on me.”

It wasn’t the nurse.

I was sure he saw someone else.

There were two patients that had been recovering in the west wing of the hospital. They had been found on the rooftop of the Bergerac, both knocked unconscious by the same cause: unknown bludgeoning to the forehead.

When they awoke, the investigators performed their usual antics. They split the two into separate rooms and asked the same questions about what had happened in the film club room that day.

The investigators were baffled and promptly surrendered when the two professed the same exact experience, that they had not been to the film club, that they had shared a beautiful afternoon conversation on the roof that day, philosophizing about what it meant to share a life together in this wonderful, beautiful World.

I smiled.

“It's destiny, Mr. Caraway,” I said. “She’s waiting for me.”

End.