The scent of rain and mud. Who does it not appeal to?
For so, it’s nostalgic, for so, it reminds them of the best monts of their life, and for so, it marks an ending.
For Ymir, this scent was the mark of his end.
The rain fell steadily, drumming against the leaves of the manicured oaks that lined the park. Evening had bled the sky to a grey, and the tall iron gates of the neighbouring villas glowed faintly with porch lights, but no one moved along the walkways.
The park behind his house was empty. Ymir sat motionless on the slatted wooden bench as rain soaked his dark purple shirt, clinging to it heavily on his chest and shoulders.
Black trousers, and shoes stained with mud, his wrist classic watch glinted as water beaded and slid across the crystal dial glass.
His right hand was resting open on his thigh, holding a dical report, pinched between thumb and forefinger.
Subarachnoid Hemorrhage (SAH), Grade III.
Prognosis: terminal. (Untreatable)
He takes in a deep breath and sighs.
"Am I a Prince, or one of the people?" he mumbled.
He takes the watch off his wrist, wipes the rain from the crystal glass with his thumb, and puts it back on.
He rose from the bench, folded the dical report, and tossed it into a bin beside the crosswalk as he walked past the iron gates that separated the public park from the roads.
After a short walk, he entered his own property, a two-story building with dark glass and matte-black steel framing, looking austere, with walnut panelling behind the glass.
His girlfriend, Freya Larsen, used to handle the library wing as he rembered; she kept the original 1920s crown mouldings and paired them with warm lighting that made the room feel like a relic.
He didn’t glance at the library windows, just stepped onto the wide stone porch, opened the front door with the soft hydraulic hush of perfect hinges.
His shoes left the wet prints and clots of mud on the pale listone floor
He crossed the foyer to the left, and the open living room stretched away. A long leather sofa faced a fireplace that had not been lit in months.
On the far wall hung a single large canvas by Michel Boutboul, acquired at the auction the year before.
He kept walking.
The corridor to the study ran along the restored library wing; LEDs ca on automatically at ankle height. A small digital panel on the wall displayed temperature and upti in white nurals: 99.998%
Entering the study, his gaze moved across the bookshelves. The Prince, 1962 translation; Clausewitz’s On War; Greene’s collection; Mythical Man-Month; all of the books he had were either strategic lessons or situation assessnt. Not a single storybook.
He walked to the desk, and a shallow drawer on the right slid open. Inside lay a single key fob, the logo of a German hypercar embossed in silver and blue.
The heavy door closed behind him as he walked out.
At the end of the walkway, the garage door opened with seamless panels of the sa dark glass and steel. It was an open-roof garage with a single vehicle.
A black custom-built Praga Bohema.
He thumbed the key, and the butterfly doors rose in unison. Lowering himself, he got in his seat and pressed the start button as the wipers swept once across the windshield.
The Praga rolled forward as its tyres hissed over the wet concrete.
He drove for over an hour before arriving at the end of the cul-de-sac, a 1800 three-story structure.
Ymir stopped his car at the curb, the headlights washed over the gate, focusing on the simple plate that read ’Larsen’.
He killed the engine, rose from the gull-winged doors, and walked to the gate.
Pushing the iron fra open, he moved on the path to the front door.
At the oak door, he stopped and placed his thumb on the fingerprint lock. The gate clicked open as he pressed his thumb to the sensor.
He headed inside and started roaming around, observing the house. Since she wasn’t ho yet.
On the low coffee table in front of the sofa lay her art book. Large, cloth-bound, creased from years of handling.
It rested exactly at the centre, as though she had set it down that morning before leaving.
Ymir sat on the edge of the sofa, lifted the book with both hands, and opened it.
The pages were thick, heavy stock. The first spreads showed early sketches; pencil and ink drawings of a modest brick house in a provincial town, her childhood ho. Every window fra and roofline was drawn precisely.
Dates in her neat hand at the bottom of each page: 2008, 2011. Then a series of university years, the soaring iron frawork of an old railway station being restored, cross-section load-bearing walls, and close-ups of mortar joints.
Page after page of places she had visited and studied across continents.
Venetian palazzos, Scottish stone towers, colonial bungalows in the hills, each one with a similar art style.
There was not a single person in her drawings until a few more pages were flipped.
There it was, a full-page sketch in the softer graphite. Ymir is standing at the tall glass wall of the sa library, back to the viewer, one hand resting on the shelf.
He turned the page, and there was another sketch. The two of them are at a restoration site, then a photograph... pinned to the page in actual print.
The final spread before the bookmark ended was blank except for a single new pencil line started at the top left corner.
Ymir closed the book and set it back on the coffee table exactly as he found it.
He leaned back against the sofa, closed his eyes, and ditated to the soft clicks of the clock hand on his wrist watch resonating in the silence.
He tried to sense it, but he couldn’t. He wasn’t able to feel any power. Couldn’t use perception, or even feel the slightest of aura.
He knew this was akin to reliving his past, the end of his life, his relationships he had previously built, but to relive those monts was worse than them occurring once.
He was starting to hate himself, and couldn’t get the thought of this life to continue for as long as he wanted, but he knew he couldn’t.
After a long minute, he stood.
He crossed the room to the long, low console of blackened steel built into the wainscoting.
This was her collection of artefacts.
He began at the left end. A heavy brass door pull from a demolished 1890s bank, three 17th century dutch tiles, a section of iron grillework from a Parisian hotel particulier, mounted on black velvet.
A tray of antique drafting tools, a brass T-square worn smooth, silver callipers, each labelled in Freya’s hand with date, building, and reason for salvage.
He moved slowly along the line.
And then he reached the far end.
Suddenly, he noticed sothing. Behind the final vitrine, almost hidden, stood a small statue no taller than his hand.
A rabbit, carved from wood... sitting upright on its haunches. Eyes polished in golden discs.
"Was this ever here?" he murmured.
Ymir stopped. His hand hovered a centitre from the glass.
"A rabbit with golden eyes... Why does it feel nostalgic..." he mumbled, but couldn’t put his mind to the right thought.
It felt as if he knew it, but couldn’t recall it.
Then the front door opened.
A rush of cold, rain-scented air swept down the hallway as the security panel beeped once in recognition.
Wet footsteps crossed the parquet with the sound of heeled boots.
Freya stepped into the living room archway, hanging the wet umbrella on the wall hook.
She had long black hair, fair skin with Asian features, a long charcoal coat over a cream silk blouse paired with high-waisted trousers and cream coloured heeled boots.
She stopped mid-step the mont her gaze swept the room in one glance.
The muddy footprints leading to the door, the dark wet patches on her sofa, the open vitrine lights.
She followed the steps and peeked into the room to find Ymir standing motionless at the far end of the console, hand still hovering near the rabbit statue.
"Ymir?" She called out.
Her voice was low in concern as she walked to the nearest closed door and grabbed a towel.
"You’re completely drenched, what the -" She draped his shoulders with the towel and leaned to the front, but Ymir didn’t glance at her.
He wasn’t able to.
Freya’s hands paused for a fraction of a second as the towel settled over his shoulders. Sothing about him felt wrong to her.
His eyes were fixed, not unfocused, and she noticed that.
"Ymir," she called out again. Even softer this ti.
Her fingers moved from the towel to his wrist in a light touch. His skin was cold.
She tightened her grip slightly.
"You’re freezing," she murmured. "What happened?"
"Ymir, look at ."
He glanced at her for a mont, staring into her light brown eyes and then looked back at the statue.
"I don’t rember putting that there," she frowned slightly.
He closed his eyes and sighed.
"Necabo te." He said.
User Comments
0 comments from readers