#bow writes

She crossed her arms. "You said you brought him back." Asra blinked, confused. "I did." It had been months since the resurrection, but after Marcel's death, Symonne had disappeared. He'd only just found her. She'd only just met him again. Symonne sighed. "Oh, maybe you think you did." She stepped closer to him, shoulders squared as she looked up at him. "But that?" She waved a hand toward Marcel, sitting at the far corner of the shop, staring vacantly at nothing. "That is not him. That looks just like him. But make no mistake, it is not," she hissed. "My brother was French. This can barely speak English, and not a word of French. Hell, even his accent is gone! My brother remembered Jaques, and Colette, and..." She turned away. The name had flown from her tongue. A name she seemed to regret speaking. Colette, her aunt. The aunt who had caught the plague, not long before Asra moved in. Neither sibling really spoke of her. Asra had gathered that she was Jaques's sister, and that Symonne was close with her, but beyond that he knew little about her. Symonne regained her composure. She straightened her posture once more, a newfound fire in her eyes. "My brother- my Marcie- was was the best pianist this damned city has ever seen. And I had to sit and watch that-" she pointed at Marcel again "-stare at the keys, then back at me. Then back at the keys. Marcie loved that piano, do you hear me? That piano was his life. It was home." "I did what I could!" "And was it worth it?" She stepped back, a coldness surrounding her. "Like it or not, that is not my brother. That is a hollow shell. One that you're desperately trying to fill. But-" she chuckled bitterly- "What do I know? I only grew up with him." Anger started brewing in Asra's stomach. "That's not what I-" She raised both hands, turned on her heel. "I don't want to hear it. You brought back a corpse, a corpse that you're trying to remake in his image. But you're just going to build what you want of him, right? Well, I'm not staying for that. I'm not gonna sit here while you defile my brother's memory." She strode to the door, grabbing her cloak in a snapping movement. She yanked the door open, and turned to look over her shoulder. "You keep 'fixing' Marcie. I'll be finding a way to actually, y'know, do something good." And she vanished into the night.

When she returned the next morning, he was surprised. Judging by her exit the previous night, she'd had no intention of returning. And yet here she was. Of course, surprise gave way to curiosity- and guilt. "Symonne, I... I'm sorry. About last night. Maybe you were right." She looked at him, confused. "What are you talking about?" "What you were saying about Marcel." She rubbed her temples. "I... really am at a loss here, Asra." He was about to respond, when he heard something. He stilled, listening. It sounded like... a piano? No, he thought. Marcel's resurrection had cost him many things, and his knowledge of piano was one of them. But... that was piano. He couldn't deny it. One of Marcel's favorite melodies, one that Asra had seen him play countless times. Asra climbed the stairs, Symonne following suit, and creaked open the door to the piano room. The melody stopped, and Marcel looked up from the keys. A smile- a genuine smile- lit up his face. "Morning, Asra!" Symonne strode past Asra. "Marcie!" She sat on the bench next to him, and the two started to chat and carry on, with an ease Asra hadn't seen in years. It was as though nothing had changed. He had a strong suspicion Symonne had done something. Her returning without any memory, on the same day Marcel made a miraculous leap in recovery, was too strange for a coincidence. But, he supposed, it was a good thing. She hadn't been herself since Asra had left, when the plague was sweeping the city. She'd gone with him, but the guilt of leaving Marcel had quickly overpowered her. She had returned to the city alone, but Marcel was gone by the time she arrived. Asra didn't know what had happened from there, but by the time he'd come back, his guilt leading him home, she'd vanished. And he was alone. But truly, it had begun years earlier. Ever since Colette, really. Since the plague's descent on the city, her cocky grins and witty comments were gone. She'd seemed tense, her aura dark. He had lost her years ago, if he was being honest. But now she was back. The twins were speaking French, now. He hadn't heard that in years, either. Marcel's accent may not have been there in English, but he still had that little lilt when he spoke French. It was comforting, in a way, hearing something so familiar.