#wrhq.task

She floated her way through the final six performances; she was sickly, shamefully satisfied by the way the heat moving through her cells made everything feel better, exactly like she knew it would. Who had she been to try and pretend that she could suffer through a lifetime of white-knuckled restraint? Not every unloved child could grow up into somebody who’d been worth saving. She was, after all, her mother’s bastard daughter: an aberrant footnote at the end of somebody else’s better story. Why not drink?

After a few minutes, the shot settled, Reece’s cranium loosened, and all of the rest of it went away, leaving behind only the simple, salient question, something that didn’t make her sad at all: Why not drink?

Through Naomi’s knife-throwing, Vikram’s recitation of Pi, Natalia’s dreary Debussy, Reece floated, and she thought, Why not drink? And she didn’t know that she was going to sneak another shot until she did it, and she didn’t know she was going to take the stage again once everything was over until she did it, but once she was up there again, blinking against the light as if she’d woken up there, mid-sleepwalking, Reece understood that the entire evening was irreversible. She’d already stood up in front of everyone again, which meant that the worst thing she could possibly do would be not to make it count.

“Actually, wait, can I go again?” Reece interrupted what might have otherwise been the end of the talent show, not waiting for anyone to grant her permission—she was flailing in the focus, looking out at all of those sets of eyes, spilling irradiance like headlights, auspicious of roadkill. “Because I think I did it wrong, before. With the song. He didn’t even like that song,” she explained, with a derisive snort, as if she and Richard’s ghost and all of them in the room were in on some kind of inside joke at Reece’s own expense. “

I actually have a confession to have instead, if that’s cool, ‘cause I lied before, the other day. Mickey started talking about the last time she saw Richard, and I said the last time I saw him was July—I did see him then, on my grandma’s birthday—that story was true, I mean—but I saw him again, too, after that.”

Frankie clapped her hands. "Alrighty! Let's give a round of applause for fencing! You're going to have to show me how to do those moves, Mick." She dropped a wink in her direction. "I think I have a few exes where they could be put to good use."

With a press of the play button on a small CD player resting on a stool at her hip, the dreamy strings and first warbling notes of Judy Garland's Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas started up. Frankie turned back to the tea table before her and picked up a bottle of grenadine, pouring it into a metal shaker.

"So, you all know that Richard was–" her pour slipped, splashing a bit of sticky liquid onto her hand. "Sorry!" she said quickly, shooting an apologetic look at Mrs. Tristan. She took a steadying breath, "You all know Richard is, like, super old. Spiritually, I mean. Old books, old scotch, old movies. TCM's biggest fan."

There was a bucket of crushed ice next to the glasses, and she dumped a large scoop into the shaker with a light laugh. "I remember I tricked him into seeing Clueless with me because I told him we were going to see an Emma adaptation. He was so pissed after, but you know, in his Richard way. Instead of grounding me, he made me read the book."

She grabbed a can opener and affixed it to a can of pineapple juice, chattering all the while. "Anyway, the only old movie we both like is The Wizard of Oz. Which Judy Garland is in, but we don't have a CD for that; I could only find Meet Me in St. Louis so we're listening to that instead." She gestured vaguely as she poured the pineapple juice into shaker as well. "But I feel like it still works."

The vodka bottle was cold against her hand, which was helpful, because Frankie was feeling increasingly hot, particularly behind the eyes. She swallowed thickly as Judy sang about golden days of yore.

"We would watch The Wizard of Oz, and omg he loved to talk about what a technological feat it was, doing the movie in color." One splash of vodka. On second thought, two. "That's why he thinks I liked it so much as a kid."

Grabbing the blue curaçao, she smiled at the room, a fragile, close to shattering thing. "It was the color, but it wasn't because it was cool."

Someday soon, we all will be together–

"It 's because that's how it felt coming to Woodrow House."

–If the fates allow–

"Like everything was black-and-white wherever I was before, and suddenly my life was technicolor."

Blinking quickly, Frankie added the curaçao, topped the shaker with a strainer, and one by one, filled the clear teacups with color. Blue. Green. Yellow. Orange. Red.

Until then, we'll have to muddle through somehow.

For a moment, all Frankie could do was stare down at her work, lips pressed thin, eyes dangerously wet for someone wearing a thick application of mascara.

Then she inhaled sharply and lifted her head with a forced smile, spreading out her hands in a ta-da gesture. "'Somewhere Over the Rainbow Shots'. I thought everyone could use a pick-me-up to make things more fun. That's my talent."

on her eighth birthday, eliza got an assortment of things: a summer dress and accessories for her samantha doll, a stuffed rabbit, various vhs tapes of disney movies. the most inconspicuous was perhaps a copy of the secret garden, bound in green cloth with golden detailing. as things tend to go when you’re a little girl, it immediately filled eliza’s mind with ideas about old abandoned victorian manors and beautiful gardens. when waiting for a robin to show up outside and guide her to a magical hidden place didn’t work out, she decided to content herself with the next best thing: her own little garden.

she could probably just claim a small part of woodrow’s gardens as her own. no one would care much about that or bother her. in fact, mrs. tristan would probably be happy if she was contained within a smaller part of the propriety. but eliza wanted to make things in the right way, and such she marched into richard’s office with all the determination of the world. 

“might i have a bit of earth?” she asked richard, who immediately laughed at the quote taken verbatim from the book. eliza frowned. it was quite a serious request.

“you can have as much earth as you want… but maybe we should ask mr. davis for some help?” that would be good, eliza supposed. the secret garden filled her with enough excitement, but no actual tips on how to garden. 

“may i grow roses?”

“and whatever else you’d like.”

“may i have a piece of candy now?” the amusement in richard’s eyes as he gave her a piece of toffee was clear even for a child.

that’s how eliza found herself deep in dirt the next day, helping mr. davis dig holes with a child sized trowel. 

“now, most flowers are best planted during autumn, but we can still seed some stuff right now. marigolds, primroses, pansies-”

“and roses too?” asked eliza excitedly. mr. davis laughed good-naturedly.

“yes, roses too. though they may not bloom the way they would later in the year.”

eliza barely heard the warning, already dropping seeds in their respective holes and humming a song. she wrote the names of each flower in little plaques with the loopsides writing of a primary schooler, doodling little representations of them.

mrs. tritan’s mouth was a tight line when she saw eliza in the entry hall covered head to toe in dirt, her pastel yellow overalls almost brown. “i’m growing roses.” she said proudly and the woman sighed.

“i suppose that some manual work outside is good for you.”

eliza spent the rest of that summer focused singularly on the small patch of earth that she thought of as her garden, watering, weeding or just observing very carefully, as if she would one day see the flowers erupting from the ground magically. in a couple of weeks, there were some small green plants emerging. in a couple more, a shy combination of yellows, purples and pinks. one day, eliza took a polaroid camera to the garden (that probably belonged to one of her older siblings) and took a dozen pictures of her flowers to display proudly in her room. there was just one problem…

“no roses.” she said morosely to mr. davis as he taught her how to identify what is a weed and what is a flower. he simply smiled at her.

“just give it time.”

eliza gave it as much time as a child is able to - three more weeks, just one week before school was set to start again and her time would not be spent entirely on the garden anymore. by then, the entire gardening project seemed hopeless. why have any garden at all if she couldn’t grow roses, the one plant every proper garden seemed to have? that night, instead of going to dinner, eliza hid outside, petulant and childish and heartbroken over what seemed like a lost summer. 

the sun had already set down when richard found her by the swings, tear streaked face staring into the pond.

“you know, my mother also loved roses.” said richard, sitting by the second swing. eliza didn’t acknowledge him, though her frowned deepend a bit more. “she was a very good gardener, but i don’t think that’s why her flowers always grew impossibly tall and beautiful. it was because she loved them, and because she loved this place, as much as you do. just let things grow in their own time, lizzie.”

she sniffed loudly, and threw herself at richard muttering little sorries and let’s go home now.

that night, richard was the one who put eliza to bed, turning on the bedside table’s lampshade and pulling out the green book wordlessly before he started reading it. "a bit of earth," he said to himself, and mary thought that somehow she must have reminded him of something. when he stopped and spoke to her his dark eyes looked almost soft and kind. "you can have as much earth as you want," he said. "you remind me of some one else who loved the earth and things that grow…” 

Though, the looming number up ahead gave him pause. He still lived in the same apartment he did at twenty-three, he owned two sets of dishes— and bought paper plates every now and again when washing the dishes felt like an insurmountable challenge. He had one of each utensil, Chinese takeout at the back of his fridge from last Christmas, and didn’t own a dining room table. His only friends were his old college roommates who now sent him holiday cards of their wives and babies and sun soaked holidays. His last serious relationship was a three week stint in middle school, and he had been a junior lobbyist for five years where his last, and only, promotion had been from assistant to his current position. His only assets were his apartment, the contents of his safe deposit box (which held mostly sentimental things from his late father) and, maybe the house in Virginia, but he wasn’t really sure because no one ever called him about it.

It felt a bit like Groundhog Day. Except it wasn’t a day, it was a year. Maybe even five. Nothing's changed, he looked the same as he did ten years ago barring some new permanent under eye fixtures and a disc in his back that tweaked every now and again. Shouldn’t he have done something by now? Traveled Europe, ran a marathon, wrote a book? Maybe those ideas were slightly grandiose but the point still stands. Even a promotion would feel metamorphic. The three guys he started with had all already surpassed him, one of which even left to lobby for Wall Street— which in evil lobbyist speak was practically Valhalla. Sure, comparison was the thief of joy but jeez, would somebody throw him a bone? He did the fancy prep school thing, the great college, he even had the last name! That used to mean something! It got him this far, but it was like the ride had run out of time and he needed to put in another quarter.

Realistically, the only person to point the blame at was himself but, Reuben had never done so before and wasn’t about to start now. So he needed to find someone else to blame, not needlessly— that served no purpose. Someone with even a semblance of responsibility for his current sorry state of affairs would do. He contemplated on the bus ride home, white wired headphones playing Nine Inch Nails. His mother? No, too easy and unrealistic— Reuben loved her dearly. For everything he wasn’t, he was still her little star. Never made to feel any less as she held him close. Plus, as a man, hating your mother was untoward. He rifts around for keys in his pocket as he stood at the front door of his apartment. What about his father? He lived in his shadow all his life, then was swallowed by it after his death. He resents him for never teaching him how to drive, or for never seeing him graduate. The man never taught him how to tie a tie, or change a tire, or how to be the most charming motherfucker in a room and grease palms with the best of them. Those were the things he needed, the sort of advice you got from a patriarch on his back deck with a cigar and a whiskey. Instead, he got shipped eight hours upstate and fielded whispers in the hallways and insane conspiracy theorists who saw no qualms in approaching a child. Realistically, a therapist might tell him that having a chat with a gravestone in Macon, Georgia would be cathartic. Right now, he wanted a target.

A Budweiser is opened on the edge of the counter. It sends a metal bottle cap clinking across his kitchen floor. He shuffles around the apartment, a mix of anger and resentment simmers within him. There was only one other person he could channel this frustration towards. He’d spent so long silently resenting Richard, it felt almost a given. Everyone, nearly everyone, who came into Woodrow went through a phase like that. Though they eventually grew out of it, growth and accountability were things Reuben sorely lacked. He had never received an apt apology or restitution for what happened to him. Though his first couple of days at Woodrow were not the axiom of the issue, they certainly didn’t help. It was a pre-existing condition that was only stoked along at Woodrow. He never fit in, then the world he once knew ceased to exist and with the chance for tabula rasa, nothing changed. He was still fundamentally the same kid. Awkward, overlooked and forgotten. Though it may not be the axiom, it was a memory that hurt deep enough to cause tears to well. He allows himself the luxury of painful reminiscence so long as there is still beer in his bottle. Then he will compartmentalize and store those wretched memories in a shoebox in a closet of his mind. To be dusted off the next time he wishes to be reminded of his lonesome.

The next morning he is called in to his boss’ office. A not uncommon occurrence but, it catches him off Guard none the less.

“Sharpe, you can have a seat—” a heavy sigh of a man who’s out of options accompanies the request. “Thank you, sir.” “I need someone to meet with Imperial in New York and Watts is in London with BAT and Evans is off on vacation, I’d send quite literally anyone else, but there isn’t anyone else and you’re my last junior so…I guess you’re representing us in New York.”

Almost reluctantly, two boarding passes are slid across the mahogany. Reuben stares down at the offer in awe. He’d been away on business before but more so as a lackey. Never given the reigns. There are a few too many beats of silence in which his boss sorely regrets bringing up the whole ideal. He might just be better off having the meeting notes and documents faxed to the office.

“I’d be happy to, sir.” His hand lands atop the passes and shuffles them over to his side of the desk with some resistance. “Sharpe, these talks are important okay—” Not entirely true, but he’d tell Reuben these were nuclear armament talks if it meant assuring he’d actually get the job done. “I need you in there, representing us well,” “Have I ever failed to do that before?” “Do you want an honest answer?” “No, sir.” “Then I’d get out of my office and on the way to Reagan, your flight leaves in three hours.” “Yessir.”

With that, he headed home to pack a suitcase. It was as though the universe delivered him the opportunity on a silver platter. Comped travel, comped accommodation, no travel points— darn, and an excuse to visit Woodrow for once. He rarely if ever thought about returning unless explicitly asked. He was hardly ever asked. Just an occasional quarterly digest slipped into his mailbox of all the children they’d helped and how their work impacted the community. He wondered if he was supposed to be donating.

He took a cab, opting not to trust public transport on such a time-sensitive matter. The security line snaked, and he felt an immense level of scrutiny from the TSA guards before navigating to the business class lounge to not only look the part but feel it too. Stuffing mini muffins and bread rolls into his pockets for later. He wasn’t very fond of flying, it felt more akin to a game of chance than a practiced science. However, the attendants in their little blazers certainly eased tensions. LaGuardia is a mess of corridors, other disgruntled business passengers, and small children to trip over if not paying attention. Another taxi is written off as a travel expense, and he checks in at a Manhattan hotel he isn’t entirely sure the company could afford. It was growing more evident by the second that he wasn’t supposed to be the one on this trip.

There wasn’t even time to settle into the room before the start of the meeting. He just left his suitcase and headed back out with a messenger bag that had a pad of paper and maybe a pen if he was lucky. Despite the windows of the cab being rolled all the way up, it was as though the city’s volume was turned up to eleven. So many concurrent people, sounds and smells too. Even just standing on the corner felt like it drained him off all his energy. A tall glimmering office tower awaited him. Marble floors and packed elevators. He wondered how these people did it. Where they hid at the end of the day after passing about 10 000 people on the street. If being invisible in a city of seven million ever felt challenging. Though, he doubted the men in blocky charcoal grey suits and women in pencil skirts thought about things of that nature so intently.

The meeting was by all accounts boring. He sat in the far corner against the wall and listened to c-suites regurgitate information someone six floors down had spent months gathering then took another team a few weeks of rewording to sound strong and definite. He had gotten distracted by the view from the conference room windows. He looked north and wondered how far north he could see. Somewhere out there was his childhood home. As they moved onto upcoming legislation they heard was coming down the pipeline, Reuben had decided he would make the drive. Two and a half hours was manageable with a couple gas station stops for soda, Airheads and Jolly Ranchers. Then he’d drive back and see if Dante was on any fight cards, go to sleep and head back to D.C. the next morning.

Something like two hours later, though it felt like nine— they were finally set free. Coming up with an excuse to ditch the power luncheon and find a map with the location of a car rental place near enough to the edge of the island. There were some papers signed, license inspected and exchanging of a credit card before he was saddled with a new car for the next 24 hours. He white knuckles it out of the metro area, only relaxing slightly when it’s just him, the highway and a top 40 pop station. It is the second gas stop when the bends start growing increasingly familiar, and the friendly stop in starts to feel like an opportunity for the internal conflict he was dealing with yesterday to wage on. The things he could no longer vocalize to his birth parents had the opportunity to be heard and digested at Woodrow house, for better or for worse.

113568 is the code punched in at the gate not waiting for Beau to let him in. The conviction he had was a sort of now or never thing he wanted to take advantage of while it lasted. He parks and slams the car door with a ferocity he wasn’t even expecting himself to possess. As he pushes open the grand front doors, he is greeted by the entry hall and suddenly feels very small again. He stands in its vastness, chest rising and falling. There’s a faint sound of activity, which is both odd and comforting. He almost thought the place would freeze once they left. Preserved in a glass jar to be revisited when the embrace of childhood could be deemed comforting.

Without him telling them to, his feet take him to the sunroom first. There’s a smell of potted soil and leafy green in the air though it is empty. The early afternoon sun shone in making the air thick. It had at one time been one of his favourite room in the house though that memory can’t even prevail through the red mist. He’d try the library next, almost prolonging the inevitable. If he wasn’t in the sunroom, then he wouldn’t be reading in the library. He checks anyways, opening the door with a creak. It, too, had not changed. How was expected to be an adult here? He had always been a child within the confines of its walls. Like immaturity permeated the foundation and shot straight up through his legs.

Like lead, or if his shoes had been filled with cement— he begrudgingly drags himself up to the second floor. There’s an office door at the end of the hall that is ajar and whatever confidence he once had has disappeared like grains of sand through his fingers. His ears are already hot, but there’s a courtesy knock before he opens the door.

“Richard?” Hearing his name, Richard looks up from the catering contract he's reviewing for the upcoming gala. "Reuben?" His brows knit together in confusion, but a tentative smile tugs at his lips. "This is a surprise. You should have given us a heads-up. I'd have asked Mrs. Tristan to whip up something for you." He stands awkwardly in the doorway, hands dug deep in the pockets of his slacks. “There’s no need, I’m in the city for work. I can’t stay so, I just wanted to stop in for a minute,” “Then what brings you here, shouldn’t you be preoccupied with work?” Though his tone is light it’s the exact sort of thing the strike a very fragile part of Reuben’s ego. “I mean I would be if I did anything of value ever—” he starts with a shrug. “But I don’t, which is confusing because I should be. I should at least be more than a junior lobbyist. I don’t want to own the whole damn company, but I want to do something. Be somebody. I did everything you told me, I did Woodrow, I did the prep school with kids whose parents own small micronations. I did the good college. I did what you asked of all of us, so why isn’t it working? Why am I the only one out of all of us that’s going nowhere? Some of them are building rockets to fucking Mars or working with multi-millionaires, or running around on Broadway or writing the things that are turned into award-winning stage plays. Natalia is galavanting around Paris making a bigger impact on culture through a god damn magazine than half the politicians out there, Celia helps fucked up people in some deep genuine way, and Naomi is a fucking Michelin star chef in a restaurant I’ll never even get the chance to step into. Some of them are doing the hard, important, political jobs that don’t make the front page headlines, while Dante’s handing someone’s ass to them in front of a live audience for a purse that is more than some people will make in their entire lifetimes. They’re all out there doing fucking great, accomplishing things, and what about me? Where was my guidance? When were you gonna’ notice if I was a chess prodigy or head delegate or fucking, anything. Everybody’s got their thing and I don’t even have you, I never did. What did I have to do to get your attention? Has it worked— will it ever?”

Towards the end of his diatribe, his voice cracks and betrays him. He didn’t want to cry. It felt like such a silly thing to cry about but, with nothing concrete, these were the sorts of things that he felt his entirety being revolved around. “You forgot me, like I meant nothing. Just another name on a list. I don’t think I can ever forgive you fort that. I’m not sure I want to.”

There’s a long silence, where Reuben can her the blood rushing in his ears. Everything he was wearing felt too tight, his palms held pins and needles. The tears that once threatened now leak over his cheeks. He’s a kid masquerading in front of the dad he wished loved him. He wished he’d say something. Anything. It didn’t even have to be sorry. The sadness is quickly replaced with anger the longer the silence.

“Fuck it, it’s fine.” He mutters as he turns to leave. “Reuben- I—” “What, you what?” He turns back for one final acknowledgment but still, nothing could be produced. With that, he left. Determined to never see Woodrow again. It was cathartic in a way. Validating. All this hurt he held inside, it wasn’t for nothing. Richard didn’t care. He couldn’t acknowledge the things he had done, let alone Reuben’s feelings surrounding them. The distinction between him and them had been clear. He was a tether cord trailing behind. His hands curled into tight fists and unfurled repeatedly. He willed himself not to hit anything in the house, leave a mark that he’d even lived in it at all.

He steps out into the courtyard and it takes a few moments for his eyes to adjust. It had took so much conviction to get here, to confront Richard. Only for the world to keep spinning, the birds chirping, the smell of fresh cut grass on the air. He had ultimately changed nothing. If he was a little less sane, or maybe more, he’d laugh. Double over with laughter. Because it was honestly hilarious to think he’d walk out of there feeling anything different.

Turning the engine over he turns in the driveway and starts back towards the highway. There’s no radio this time, opting for the sound of a wind flitting past his open windows. There’s an overwhelming feeling as though he’s made a mistake. A tightness in his chest that flows down to the rest of his body. As much as he wanted to sever ties, they were all he had. It was better to exist on the outside of something than be a part of nothing. Almost instinctively, he breaks into sobs. Loud, uncontrollable, childlike, can’t see the road sobs. He slows to a halt in the deserted shoulder. Blond curls fall over the steering wheel as he puts his forehead to the leather. He had to go back and apologize and, say it was all just one big misunderstanding. He needed them more than they needed him and for right now that was okay, for he was nothing without his neediness. He dries his eyes with the arm of his suit jacket and pulls a U-turn. He had not got more than 45 minutes down the road.

He could accept not being a favourite. He could maybe learn to love the hands-off-ness of their relationship. Perhaps if Richard was too involved it would’ve of been more detrimental than beneficial. Maybe he’d still be living here, without a job. Coddled by the comfort Woodrow afforded. He’s prepared to say I’m sorry, and thank you and I love you and I tried my best and you did too. He reaches the second floor landing and the door is exactly how he left it, wide open. A clear look directly into Richard’s office.

Except it wasn’t Richard. It wasn’t his office. It wasn’t even Woodrow. It was Virginia in 1989. Photos littered the walls— his dad’s naval tours, his mother with Mary-Beth and Adelia. Summer nights, holiday parties, the pair before he entered the picture. He walks slowly, as though approaching a mirage. Like if he moved too quickly the reality of the situation would appear to him. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again. He could do the right thing for once. He couldn’t lose two people the exact same way. Time felt like a flat circle. He was in the past and present simultaneously. A gentle hand turns the slack face before him in his direction. He screams for Mrs. Tristan.

Mrs. Tristan answered first, as she always did, but she wasted precious little time on pleasantries before leaving to find Richard.

“Sama, it’s such a relief to hear from you.” To his credit, the relief was palpable in his voice. Sama knew Richard cared for each of his wards, even when it wasn’t always the way they might want him to. 

“I’m fine, Richard. I wasn’t even in Baghdad.” Sama couldn’t not cut to the chase, given how long her day had been. 

Or maybe it was because she didn’t know what to do with Richard these days. When she was a child, he’d been an invaluable source of support, and as a young adult she’d often turned to him for advice. But the older she got, and the more time she spent in the world, the less she needed his counsel. Every time she spoke to him, she couldn’t escape the feeling that the scope of her life now was very different from his, larger even. It seemed callous, and ungrateful, to cast him aside now that she didn’t need anything from him, but more and more she let his calls go to voicemail and took her time sending short replies to his emails. 

“Well that is good to know. You do so much running around I can never be sure where you are these days. You’re almost as bad as the Charmer.” There was laughter in Richard’s voice, an affability that Sama didn’t entirely appreciate. The work she did was hardly comparable to the Charmer’s galavanting around the world. 

“The UN does keep me busy.” Sama chose to lick more whipped cream off her spoon rather than continuing that line of thought. She didn’t need to prove herself to Richard, to remind him that the work she was doing was valuable, that she was valuable. 

“So busy that you won’t be able to make it home to visit this year?” 

The privacy of a phone call meant that Richard didn’t see the face Sama made into her whipped cream. She hated when people tried to call Woodrow House her home. It was a place she’d lived, and it was no more her home than any of the other foster homes she lived in or the high school she attended. She also hated that Richard kept inviting her back, despite the fact that she hadn’t visited in over ten years. Maybe he was trying to be optimistic, or to make sure that she knew she was always welcome. It felt condescending, or dismissive, like the choices she made didn’t matter as much as what he wanted.

“It’s a long trip.” It was the least committal thing Sama could think of to say, something that Richard couldn’t argue against or take as encouragement.

“Yes. It is.” Sama could hear the disappointment in Richard’s voice as clearly as she’d recognized his relief at the beginning of their conversation. 

She let the silence stretch between them long enough for Richard to break it. “Well, I’m sure it’s late for you, I should let you go.” 

“Yes, today was a long day at work, for obvious reasons.” Sama’s tone was dry and tired. “Have a good night, Richard.”

“Good night, Sama.” Richard’s sorrowful tone was almost enough to make Sama feel guilty, or maybe it almost makes her feel guilty enough to say something back.

the night before she had tried, in vain, to think of what to say. she had scribbled line after line but all her scraps of paper had ended up on her bedroom floor. she wanted to say thank you, but it felt wrong when she had chosen to turn away from the life he had given her. she wanted to say goodbye but she didn't feel ready yet.

"thank you all for coming today," she said, echoing the sentiments of her fellow wards. she was amazed at how steady her voice sounded, how clear and strong it carried across the rows of mourners. her years working for the woodrow foundation had taught her how to address a room, a crutch she could lean on in this moment. maybe it would be enough to see her through these agonising minutes.

one minute, maybe two, that was all she needed to get through.

"i don't think i need to tell you all what a wonderful man richard woodrow was. the fact that so many of you are here is a testament to that fact. i'm sure we'd all describe him the same way, we'd talk about his kindness, his empathy, his intelligence..." she paused, giving herself a moment to breathe, a moment to steel herself to see this through to the end.

"the story of how i came to know richard is not unique, it's much like the stories you've already heard, and will hear, from my fellow wards. but that doesn't make what richard gave me any less important, any less special. he gave me opportunities and chances i probably would never have got otherwise. he gave me the gift of a future, and for that i'm eternally grateful."

she knew this was the moment she ought to speak about the foundation, about her intentions to continue richard's legacy. she recognised a number of people in the crowd in front of her from her work and knew they were all assuming that with richard now gone, she would be stepping in to take over. but she could not lie. she couldn't tell the truth either.

her voice caught in her throat, her composure wavering at the last moment. curling her hands into fists behind her back, she let her nails press into the soft skin of her palms, the sharp pain diverting her attention from the impending wave of anguish.

"if i had the chance to speak to him one last time, i'd want to tell him that i won't waste that gift. i know what a privilege it is and i intend to honour that. even if how i use it is different to what he imagined."