#original work oc

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Maren sat on the rail shuttle still braiding her hair, her third attempt now at a neat enough braid to wrap a ribbon around. On the seat beside her was the pile of her things: her school bag, her jacket, her flute, and under it all was Salis. Each turn the shuttle made, he held a little tighter onto the multiple bags, pre-empting her bodyweight slamming against his side where she hadn’t expected the shuttle to turn.

“Ribbon,” she commanded, and Salis held out the blue silk for her to grab.

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Handwriting practice had always been Salis’ least favourite class, becausw of how slowly time seemed to move. Instead of pretending to participate, he watched the clock as every minute inched by, counting them down until he’d meet his sister for lunch. He tapped the soles of his stiff shoes on the ground in sporadic rhythm, occasionally kicking against his bag, the metal lunchbox inside providing a solid surface to resound against. Still half of class to go before he and Maren got lunch. His friends had started making fun of him for it, that he was too old to be hanging around with her still. Every excuse he gave of making sure she was okay, worried that she was struggling to make friends, was only half the truth.

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The sun shone brightly, the sky as blue as the ocean, and the grass Salis sat in was greener than he’d probably ever seen it. The thick headstone he leant against held his weight right back. And he knew when he finally did move, his whole body would protest it in a series of stiffness and aches. Each heartbeat of his own resounded in a shockwave of pain through his head, his eyes so swollen that they were hard to keep open, but after nearly two weeks he’d accepted this was his existence now. For he couldn’t remember one without his sister.

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The dishes were cleaned. The side too, wiped down until it sparkled. The floors were mopped and hoovered, every piece of kitchen equipment returned to its reflective silver state. His parents had long left the dining table, it was dark outside. Salis sat. His most formal shoes pinched his feet and felt far too firm on the floor, but they were still. His fork had slipped onto his plate, the handle submerged in gravy, while he rested the side of his hand on the wooden table, fingers outstretched as if he was still holding it, but they were still. Maren wouldn’t be coming back downstairs to join him. But still, he waited.

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“What’s this?” Salis asked, his tone almost accusatory. It certainly seemed that way. There wasn’t a reality in which the Water Keeper  wouldn’t recognise a fish pie.

“We weren’t able to source only one species of local fish,” the attendant apologised. Beside him, Salis felt Zephyr tense at the conflict, almost reading the plea to just leave it from his mind. There was so much he didn’t know.

Salis forced a deep breath, rephrasing a refusal of the meal over and over in his mind for the least offensive option, but all the words blurred together.