Restoria I

Nigh silence. Kick of the air conditioning blows a neutral wind through the pipes of the office. Hums of life from outside would sneak in on occasion. Yet, only the two inside remain quieter than a mouse hiding from the hungriest of cats. Just the clock on the wall spoke its eternal truth.

Tick. Tock. Minutes had passed. Dozens upon dozens. The doctor checked his watch every so often— even rechecked his notes on occasion. Regardless, the one across from him avoided his eyes every time he would look up. Their eyes always wherever the other’s wouldn’t be; a swirl of index fingers accompanying each jolt of her eyes whenever the doctor looked up.

She looked everything down and up. From the decorative rugs to the multitude of books in the shelves encompassing the room, she must have examined everything in the room ten times over. Collections of achievements cover the wall behind the doctor. Huge paper certificates in frames clashed with the tiniest of newspaper clippings that would mention the slightest thing of his existence; it’s more of a monotonous blob than anything exhilarating the longer a person would look at it. These internal excuses expiring one after another. The signs were clear, and each passing moment made the room heavier to be in. The doctor stopped looking at her. His eyes now trained downward. Her nervous twitches are accumulating too many to wave away. Time couldn’t slow down any more than it already has in this once therapeutic room.

An hour has passed, and nothing much has changed. This stagnation has rot away any sort of patience a doctor once thought he had. Even with a full day’s schedule cleared for something as miraculous as this, he had his limits. “… Ms. Sinclair,” Dr. Tarsh rubbing the bridge of his nose, “do you purpose that Miss Lutèce is—“.

Before the doctor could finish, she shoots to her feet with all the nervous energy of a spokeswoman with stage fright. Not a peep and her purse in hand; she waves her hand and points towards the door entrance into the office. Suddenly, she excuses herself out of the room. Haphazard in the same way as her sister before.

It all happened in a blink of a tired eye. Slack-jawed, “What?” That is all the doctor could muster in this uneven flurry of events— or lack there of— in this long moment of silence and hurry. Just like Lutèce an hour and a half before her.

Stomps can be heard receding away from the office the doctor sits baffled within. The sound of slingback sandals thundering across the warm oak wood flooring as she travels down the narrow hallway. Further and further away she jogs towards a different room— a specific room. Until the claps of the sandals stop. Not to be left in isolation, an encore of knocks soon succeeds them. “Hey, Luè, are you ok?” The sister’s voice worryingly sings out. Yet, an answer does not come quickly.

The door closes. Rapid in the sound, the doctor jumps as his worry grows as well. A worry, and more.