John and Manfred
Itās morning.
He can hear the distant bustle of the city gaining in volume from outside his windows.
He sees odds and ends, piling on his windowsill.
Little charms, tokens. A toothpick model of a guild hall he designed once.
Once.
The sunlight creeps in, slowly. If you can call it sunlight.
Itās just light.
You canāt see the sun here. The skyscrapers blot it out.
But, Manfred feels the world outside growing slightly hotter.
Ā He rolls over in bed, and looks beyond the windowpane.
Itās early. Earlier than usual.
He hasnāt seen the city lightening for weeks.
By the time he usually wakes, itās already started to grow dark again.
A tinge of something briefly passes through him.
He missesā¦
something.
Ā The knock on the door dully reverberates throughout the house again.
Thatās what woke him up. A visitor.
A visitor.
Probably a door-to-door salesman,
or a prank caller,
or someone who found out his address
just to throw shit at him
or hire a bard to sing an insult to his face.
No need to answer.
But it still woke him up. Dammit.
Ā He pulls the sheets off his body.
Theyāre sweaty. Somewhat sticky.
Maybe once, heād have thought it gross.
But thatās what sleepless nights will do.
It seems as if heād only just finally managed to fall asleep.
Ā The knocking again.
There is always someone bothering him.
Except, this time, it isnāt himself.
God.
Ā He stands up, and grabs his dressing gown off the floor.
Silk. Embroidered with āMMā.
A relic of a different time.
A silly purchase. Not his purchase. But silly of him to accept it.
He pulls it on, it sticks to his skin. The sweat makes it uncomfortable to wear.
Ā Another knock.
Theyāre not leaving.
And itās become, if anything, more pronounced. Louder.
Someone really wants to bother him.
Ā He descends the wooden stairs, on autopilot.
He knows what will await him on the other side.
Some little, extra heartache to start the day with.
He does not know why he does it, but he does.
As if he has resigned himself to proving, daily, to himself,
that he isnāt worth it. That he deserves no peace.
He fumbles, half-awake, stiffly, toward the door, bracing himself.
Ā The hallway is strange and new in the dim morning light.
He has not seen this for months, not noticed it for years.
And he realizes now that he has missed it.
Old books, yellowing piles of papers, dioramas, and half-dead plants line the hall from floor to ceiling.
One plant, a withered, yet living Sabal Sinensis, glows only in morning light.
Its soft orange, shimmering petals catch his eye, soothing him, for perhaps a millisecond.
He creaks open the wooden the door, bracing himself for the tirade.
Ā And itās only John.
Older, unfamiliar now.
But still John.
His hair greying, thinner than he was in school.
Posture even worse than before, bright blue eyes still twinkling.
He is the same age as Manfred, but looks older. So much wiser.
The spark shining in his eyes no longer boyish, but weathered.
Yet still, joyous.
He wears clothes that look too modest for his income.
Heās beaming.
Ā John was just his classmate.
Never his friend.
Just another acquaintance from school.
Same class, same year.
Both famed. One rose,
one fell.
āManfred,ā
He says, stretching out his hand.
āRemember me?ā
Manfred nods. Of course he does.
āI need to chat.ā
Ā āRemember that favour you promised?ā
