#teddyiisms

*mun is torn between screaming cause TEDDY and sobbing cause Robin Williams*

Have this to make up for my derping:

               Well the night was starting again- same goes for every night; the tours begin, and the museum came to life much like it always did but of course, couldn't forget about the new exhibits since the tablet was brought back to New York.

{{Is there supposed to be a link? :( }}

yourhappinessismybusiness

emollitumgrex

euphoricpuppeteer

teddyiisms

               Well, can't say you've run into more people this week than anything else. Not that- running into new people is a bad thing but, hey you're an awkward dude. Though you weren't a rude guy, you'd introduce yourself.

Again she had found herself returning to the window at the end of a hall that was usually empty, once more with her hand pressed to the glass and staring out at the frozen landscape. At the sky.

The last time she had stood here, she had felt peace. It seems that she has always felt peace at night, under the moon and stars even before the tablet...

 Yet tonight, though the peace is there... so too are the memories...

 So many people. People she had been friends with. People who she knows almost their entire life stories...

 There’s Gavril, who had been the leader of their little band of misfits, of the ‘gypsies.’ He protected them all. Even if it meant putting his own life in danger, he would do so if it meant the others would live, whether that meant leading off the guard or carrying out some equally ridiculous – and brave – stunt. He was a performer by trade, always telling stories, even to the gadje children... He had hoped that even just by memory of that Romani storyteller, he might make a difference. That maybe the children would remember that ‘gypsies’ weren’t all cutthroats. Weren’t all thieves and liars. Weren’t what they were portrayed as by people too close-minded to look beyond their appearance and way of life. Sometimes they were just simple storytellers.

 Then there was Gavril’s son, Arman. The young man had a great ability to tell stories. He had taken after his father and had a way of just drawing people into a story. His enthusiasm and imagination, his... wonder with what he was telling never ceased to warm their camp better than any fire ever could. (Perhaps that is one reason she had been so fascinated by Ahkmenrah... He had that same sense of wonder about him...)

 And Tala with her kindly nature. She was almost a mother to Mirela, always looking after the girl. She taught her about medicine and healing, taught her how to sew (though she’d never quite taken up on that one) and how to cook. Tala made certain that she ate enough – even if it meant the older woman did with very little or even without any at all – always had a smile and a kind word when everything else seemed for naught...

 So many others she remembers.

 But she doesn’t know them.

 She never has.

 Yet there is that ache in her chest. Where her heart should be.

 And it just feels... hollow.

 How can you miss people you never even really knew? How can you feel the loss of what you never had?

 How?

 She doesn’t even know when the tears had started, only absently notes that the night sky has become blurred. Without a sound, she moves to lean against the wall, not a moment later, sliding down it to sit on the cold floor and drawing her knees up to her chest, arms wrapped around them...

[ She'd been staring at the statue for what felt like hours.   The sky outside had gotten quite dark in what felt like   a blink. Myrtle looked down at her sketchbook, biting   her lip before erasing part of his eye. Her paper   needed visuals and it felt wrong to take a picture with   her cellphone. At least she was using the three   semesters at the art school back home. 

  She sighed when she simply could not draw any more,   her eyes pulling back up to Roosevelt's face. Myrtle   paused to see if anyone was around before turning her   book to face him. ]

' I think I captured it, don't you? '

[ Standing, Myrtle turned away from him. ]