her eyes move around the room as she talks, fingers picking at one another. it's strange how much this place reminds of her home. shirley's funeral parlor is stale; its' harsh lines and edges rounded with scratchy upholstery and fake flowers just enough to be considered comforting. but this place, this place breaths.

' oh, i um. i'm terribly sorry. ' at once that book slapped shut, the sound a little louder and more abrupt than he would have liked, before he is standing at his desk. the pads of his fingers rub little circles in the wood, and damp knuckles press against the grain. there was no sudden cure-all of grief, and ezra had never been very good at the more socialized aspects of his career. he knew much about the dead, but not so much about what might placate the suffering of a loved-one after the dead had passed. ' you. your sister. a funeral home? oh she, yes.... yes she runs one as well ... i ... '

his mouth is so dry. a hand lifts, then reaches down to turn the untouched glass of brandy until the logo faces the other side. she is pulling at her hands, yes. a very pretty woman, but nervous. so is he. ezra can see the way her fingers pick at the nailbed, the way her eyes drink in the nicotine-stained wallpaper, the familiar footfalls of her little shoes against the wood. he does not like having people here. the receptionist was nowhere to be found.

finally, he's bursting: ' counseling. '

“ you’re fine. it’s an easy mistake to make. i’m sure you see a lot of people in this line of work — you can’t be expected to remember everyone. ” eleanor is used to it — her words floating through others as if they are, themselves, a apparition of someone long dead. even in grief, the phrases of worry, concern, confusion, have no weight to them at all; instead, they disappear between cracked book spins and floorboards without so much as a whisper. she doesn’t even look defeated. simply sad. though, her face has always been a little sad. “ tea would be nice. ”

she studies him, as he sinks into his chair, hand covering his face. he’s — nell cannot find the word she wants to use. very different from shirley. shirley is cold with an overbearing sort of mothering that comes from deep set insecurity and a need to make everything perfect. it bleeds into her work, into the funeral parlor, into every crevice of her office. ezra is … nervous?

-* I THRUST MY TORCH WITHIN, BEHOLDING A BLACK TUNNEL WITH THE ROOF ARCHING LOW OVER A ROUGH FLIGHT OF VERY SMALL, NUMEROUS, AND STEEPLY DESCENDING STEPS. I SHALL ALWAYS SEE THOSE STEPS IN MY DREAMS, FOR I CAME TO LEARN WHAT THEY MEANT. - the nameless city.