"the briefest moment
shared with you-
the longest
on my mind."

I woke up from my sleep quite ungracefully the next morning.

Ungracefully, as in, I rolled off my bed, just narrowly missing the edge of the nightstand that would have banged against my head--and probably would have given me a concussion--and fell down on the floor.

I could only groan in response because,

a) I had just woken up to be wanting to speak anything.

And b) I was still somehow tangled in between the bedsheets and the duvet, both.

I wasn't expecting a response to my unhuman-like falling, but I did hear a small snort of amusement from behind me. Where in the room, I wouldn't know since I was face-planted on the floor.

"Are you all right?" Alastair asked. I think I heard a slight hint of concern in his voice, but really, I couldn't tell. I had just woken up, for God's sake.

Why was he up so early?

"No," I mumbled with another groan, before reaching out my arm towards my bed above me and dragging down my pillow, stuffing it beneath my face. The floor wasn't comfortable even in the slightest.

"Are you hurt?"

My head throbbed a little and my eyes too behind my closed eyelids, but I'm pretty sure that wasn't because of my fall.

"Yes," I told him, which came out mostly muffled. I didn't even care. "My pride's hurt." And then, since I had no self-dignity left within me, I pulled the duvet over my head and tried falling back to sleep.

"Don't sleep on the floor, Ophelia."

Like I fucking cared where I slept when I had just woken up.

I responded to him no further, because I was exhausted. I was exhausted and I needed sleep just for a few more minutes.

"Ophelia?" He spoke up again. I would be pissed off at him, for trying to wake me up again, but that softness in his voice did not let me do that. Be mad at him, I mean. My life wasn't fair at all.

"You'll catch a cold." Which, now that I thought about it, he was right. The floor was freezing.

I mumbled an incoherent response, something along the lines of 'I don't fucking care' and snuggled further under the warmth of the duvet. It was just silent for the next few seconds. I realized that Alastair might have probably decided to let it go, maybe because I would've done the same.

However, that was not what happened the very next second. He did not let it go like I had been expecting (and hoping).

My breath froze halfway down my lungs when I felt him leaning down beside me. I didn't see him, I felt him. I felt the heat radiating from his body. Then he slid one of his arms beneath my head, and the other under my knees, picking me up just as swiftly. Even before I could've reacted, he was dropping me down on my bed.

All gentle, like always. He was never not gentle with me.

Naturally, when I couldn't feel his hands anywhere near me, my face, my neck, and my ears started warming up, so much so that I had to pull down the duvet from my face. Because I was boiling inside. Too hot.

I looked up at Alastair through wide eyes, trying to keep my cool.

"I was waiting for you to wake up," he told me, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

I sighed heavily and sat up, bringing my hands up to my face and trying to scrub off the sleep. "But it's so early in the morning."

"It's not." He pointed out before picking up my pillow, which was still on the floor, and tossing it at me. I fell back with the force of the pillow being smacked at my face, which wasn't much, but still.

Not so gentle after all.

"It's way after noon right now." He added. He was smiling. I didn't even have to pull away the pillow from my face to see it. I just knew.

By the time I lethargically pulled down the pillow from my face, he wasn't standing by my bed anymore. Instead, I saw him walking off towards his own bed, looking quite dressed for such an early morning. He was even putting his leather jacket on. For what, I don't know.

"Where are you going?" I asked him, staring at the back of his head.

I saw him lightly rolling back his shoulders as if aware of my stare, though he probably did that because he was tense. Then I saw him dragging a hand through his hair, disheveling it, and I realised that yes, he was tense about something. He did that a lot whenever he was stressed.

"I, uh..." He trailed off, then looked at me. There was a small furrow in between his brows. "I was hoping you'd come with me."

"Where?"

"The cemetery."

"Oh." I furrowed my brows too, not too eager anymore. Not that I wouldn't go with him. It was just that cemeteries made me a little uncomfortable. I didn't tell that to him though.

"Let me freshen up," I said instead, before finally getting out of my bed, trying not to stumble as I picked up my clothes, and then walked towards the bathroom. "I'll be back in a while. Don't go anywhere without me."

As I showered, I found myself wondering about two major things. The first one was pretty obvious, especially since now I was thinking about cemeteries.

If Alastair was going to visit his parent's graves today that meant today was the day they had died eight years ago. I couldn't help but wonder whether this was the first time he was visiting their graves.

The second thing I constantly kept wondering about was my clothes. I wondered if this baby blue halter neck dress, coupled with my black leggings, was too bright for a sad place like a cemetery.

Not that I was to blame really. I had never gone inside a cemetery before. I had never wanted to. And even though I knew I was making a big deal out of nothing, I just couldn't not do that. My brain needed something like that to hold on too amidst the whole serious situation--something that shouldn't have been a problem to me if I were normal.

To make things simple, I wouldn't have worn that dress at all, but it had been sitting there between the rest of my clothes (all hoodies and sweatshirts), taunting me all along. Because yes, it was beautiful even if it was a simple, plain dress that Luce had forced me to buy when I came across it--back when we had gone shopping at one of her favorite malls. It was a dress I knew I would look good in if I didn't think too much about the whole sleeveless part.

That's exactly why I was fidgeting a little when I came out of the bathroom, not really looking over at Alastair, who was probably just waiting for me, and pulled on my black trench coat, relieved when it enveloped me whole. Truth be told, I wasn't a fan of showing off my skinny arms (or my skinny anything).

As I clipped my shower-dripping hair into a loose bun, I suddenly grew overly conscious of Alastair staring. I could have felt the heat of it drilling into my neck.

Why was he staring?

God, I knew I shouldn't have worn this stupid, stupid (and beautiful) dress.

"I'm ready," I spoke up a bit too loudly, which was fine since the silence around us was becoming a bit unbearable. Then I turned towards him, swallowing heavily when I noticed his gaze raking down my outfit, and not really on my face--which, let's be honest, was worse.

Then, finally, his eyes coming up to my face, he stood up from the bed. "Let's go then."

I nodded and put on my shoes, breathing out a little sigh of relief when I walked out of the room and away from the heavy tension in the air. Alastair got out after me and closed the door--or, he was about to. Close the door, I mean.

But then he faced me and as I stared up into his beautiful grey eyes, I realized that I had been standing right behind him, and he was a little too close. Close enough for me to see the silver flecks in his eyes. Way too entrancing.

And then he was leaning forward.

I thought he was going to kiss me and I panicked. Only if his eyes had not held me frozen like this, I might have really had a panic attack right then and there. And it was actually concerning when I realized that it wasn't even a lie. I might've even slapped him, who knows.

But then I saw his hand reach out towards me, behind my head, his fingers sliding into my hair and pulling away with my clip in his hand. When my hair, still wet from the shower, fell over my shoulders, all I could do was stare at him with wide, questioning eyes.

I really thought he was going to kiss me.

"That's better." He smiled at me, really smiled at me, before tossing the clip back inside our room and closing the door for good this time. "Come on."

And then he was walking away from me towards the elevator, and I was still there, frozen and wondering why my heart was racing so fast.

Perhaps I knew the answer to that, but it didn't stop the fear from slowly clawing at my chest.

Because I knew what this would lead to. Nothing good.

******

It was strangely a lot colder than any of the mornings I had spent in the town of Knightsridge. It was almost satisfying and annoying, both, when I saw my breath clouding in front of me as we neared the cemetery gates.

The sun was somewhere up there in the sky, not really giving off much heat, but enough to keep the weather pleasant. It felt nice to take walks out in the townsite when the weather was like this. The only thing I would like to omit from this walk would've been the cemetery.

Alastair had been quiet the whole ride here. I didn't try to initiate a conversation either, because I felt like he needed space. Even if he didn't care much about his parents, which I think wasn't really true judging by the way he had reacted back at his parent's mansion, it still wouldn't be easy to visit their graves.

At least he wasn't going in there alone, I told myself.

"Should we buy some flowers?" I asked when my eyes trailed towards a small flower stall, right on our way to the cemetery gates.

"Should we?" He stopped when I stopped, staring at me cluelessly.

"We should." I nodded, passing him a small, encouraging smile. "I think your parents would like that."

He stared at me with that same uneasy look, like he didn't really get why he was doing this all. "Okay."

When we reached the flower stall, I couldn't help but silently appreciate the numerous colorful flowers spread all around the cozy-looking stall. There were all kinds of flowers here, some that I couldn't even recognize.

A smile formed on my lips when my eyes stopped at a bunch of gardenias, a light shade of blue just like the dress I was wearing.

Mum loved gardenias. Every time she was wrapping them up in a bunch, Mum always had this secret, loving smile on her face. I didn't know what that was about when I was a child, just wanting to hang out at the shop. But as I grew up, I found out that my dad used to buy a single red gardenia just for my mum, almost every time they met--after Mum got divorced from Luce's dad, which she never really talked to me about--before they got married.

I once asked her why gardenias and not roses (I was a typical child and I loved roses). She told me that gardenias represented a secret love between two people. It was Dad telling Mum each time, with that red gardenia in his hand, that he loved her more than anything.

I blinked and looked away.

But now they fight most of the time. If only those gardenias had lasted a little while longer.

The kind lady asked us what flowers we would like. I looked over at Alastair and he seemed pretty lost, so I pointed at some white familiar hawthorns, the ones that I remembered from Mrs. Murphy's hospital room. It made me miss her.

"We'll take two of these," I told her.

I took one of the bouquets while the lady handed Alastair the other one. The sweet smell of the flowers hit me out of nowhere and I inhaled it with a small smile. When I looked up, I found Alastair staring at me. I raised my brows in question.

"Go ahead," he told me. "I'll meet you by the gates in a sec."

I nodded after a little contemplation and left him with the flower lady, slowly walking towards the cemetery gates alone. Maybe he didn't like the hawthorn flowers. Maybe he was picking up some other ones.

I looked down at the bouquet in my hands. At least I have one of them here.

Alastair met me right when I stopped by the gates, not wanting to go in there alone. When I looked over at him, I noticed no other flower bouquet in his hands, just the one with the white hawthorns. Before I could've asked him why he had stopped at the stall, we were already walking inside the cemetery.

A small shiver ran up my spine, and not because of the cold, but mainly because of the numerous graves all around us. Later when we stopped by the two identical graves--his parents'--Alastair asked me why I chose those specific flowers.

"Why not?" I asked with a shrug, my eyes trained on the two identical-looking headstones.

He was silent for a while as he stared down at the ones in his hands. "They're...plain."

They were. Just a bunch of small white flowers.

"They're called hawthorns," I told him.

His gaze found mine and he seemed a little taken aback.

"They represent love and hope."

Griffin Hawthorne and Imogen Hawthorne.

The headstones were just as plain as the flowers in our hands.

We both stood there in silence for the first few minutes. When I glanced up at Alastair, he wasn't really looking at the graves like me, rather his gaze was at the tall pine tree a few feet ahead of us, its leaves lightly swaying along with the wind.

"Ophelia."

I looked away from the tree, back at him. This time his gaze wasn't at the tree or the graves. His gaze was fixed on something in his hand, something that he wasn't holding a few seconds ago. I recognized it as one of the pale blue gardenias back at the flower shop.

Why did he buy that?

He looked up at me and there was something sad in his eyes. Or maybe it was just me. Everything looked sad in this cemetery.

"It matches your dress," he told me.

Oh.

Then he held it out to me and I took it, holding the beautiful blue flower in my free hand. He smiled then, a sad smile, with a soft look in his eyes. When he looked away from me, back at the graves, I let out a shaky breath, still staring down at the flower in my hand.

He could have bought any other flower. There were so many blue ones back there, just like my dress. I'd seen them with my own eyes. But he'd bought a gardenia for me. A blue gardenia. Surely it can't be because--

It's a sweet little flower, Ophelia, I remembered Mum telling me, it's like saying I love you if you give it to someone.

I turned away from him, back towards the graves. I hoped he couldn't hear my heart thudding so loudly in my chest. Because I could. My heart was drumming against my chest, racing in my ears. It was all I could hear at that moment as I held the flower in my hand.

It's stupid, I told myself, don't be stupid.

There was no such thing as love. Even if there was any such thing as love, it wasn't there for me. Or anywhere near me. Dad loves Mum, I thought, but look at them. They fight all the time. They look at each other like there's only hate left in their relationship. Look where those red gardenias got them.

When Alastair leaned down to place the bouquet over his mother's grave, I did the same. Only that I placed the blue gardenia along with it too, beneath the bouquet of the white flowers so that Alastair wouldn't notice. I didn't think he would have noticed it anyway. He already looked too distracted.

I sighed once again.

Flowers die. Love dies too.

"What am I supposed to say?" He sounded lost. Confused.

I opened my mouth, just to close it shut again. I didn't know what to say to him. What were you supposed to say to someone who was already dead?

"I guess, you don't have to say anything." I murmured, looking up at him. "They loved you. And...they wouldn't want you to be uncomfortable." That seemed to work a little, so I added, "We can just be silent." A gentle breeze flew by my hair. "Silence can convey heartfelt messages too."

He lightly nudged the back of his hand against my own and I didn't really pull away when he slid his fingers between mine, squeezing just a little. I didn't mind. My hand felt numbingly cold anyway.

We both remained silent after that. I don't know for how long, though. I just kept standing there by his side, watching as the very few leaves fell down the huge pine tree in front of us, filling the ground with color.

Alastair kept staring down at those graves, distracted. This was as close to closure he'd ever get, I told myself, and I was fine with that. I'd stay here for as long as he needed me.

The silence was, however, interrupted when I heard soft footsteps behind us. Apparently, I was the only one who noticed since Alastair still kept his gaze fixated on the graves in front of us. I looked over my shoulder and saw a person, an old man, standing a few feet away. It would've been normal if he hadn't been staring over at us--at Alastair.

When I didn't look away from him, and when he noticed me staring at him, he raised his brows just a little before offering me a polite smile.

I turned around fully, my hand pulling away from Alas's in the process, and smiled back at the man, though it must've come out confused. Who was he?

"You must be young Mr. Hawthorne," he spoke up in a low, gravelly voice as he walked towards us.

Alastair tensed a little at that and turned around as well, finally noticing that there was someone standing behind us. I glanced over at him, expecting some kind of recognition to cross over his face, but nothing like such happened.

"Am I supposed to know you?" He didn't even care to sound polite. I just stuffed my hands in my coat pockets, staring at the old man in front of us.

"I don't expect you to." He shook his head. He had that same heavy, yet recognizable Irish lilt in his voice. "But I do remember you, even if the last time I saw you, you were...quite young."

I raised my brows in surprise, glancing over at Alastair. He just frowned in response. "I don't fucking know what you're talking about."

I grimaced, wishing he'd stop sounding so rude. He was being mean for absolutely no reason.

"Do you work here at the cemetery?" I asked the old man, adding in a small apologetic smile on Alas's behalf.

"No." He shook his head. "I come here from time to time, but I do not work here."

"Oh," I said. "So who--"

Alastair cut me off. "Were you following us?"

The old man seemed surprised. I was too. Alastair must've taken his silence as a yes since he grew even tenser.

"Why the fuck would you follow us?" Angry. He sounded angry. Maybe being here, a few inches away from his parent's graves, was finally taking a toll on him.

"I wasn't following you, young master." The old man seemed almost offended.

"Stop calling me that." Alastair hissed and I frowned. When I nudged him lightly on the arm, his eyes momentarily found mine and I passed him a glare. Just so he'd shut up for a few seconds and let the man speak.

"I wasn't following any of you." The old man repeated, "As I said, I come here from time to time. No one really visits those graves behind you." He jerked his head towards the Hawthorne graves. "But I was hoping you would come by today. The day of their anniversary. I was here last year too, and the years before that. They were good people."

It confused me, the way he stated that last part. Almost as if he didn't quite believe in that. Almost as if he thought that Alastair's parents were anything but good.

Alastair clenched his jaw but didn't say any more harsh things.

"I've noticed that you do not visit often," the old man added, a bit more softly this time. I noticed the gentle, almost fond look in his eyes when he looked at Alastair. Almost in a fatherly way.

"Why do you bloody care?"

"Who are you? If you...don't mind us telling." I passed Alastair another anxious glance.

The old man nodded understandingly. "I worked for your parents for years at the mansion."

"That's bullshit," Alastair spoke up in disbelief. "I haven't even seen you before."

"Yes, you have." The old man had not yet wavered his gaze away from us. He looked almost sad when Alastair said that. Some tiny absurd part of me told me that he couldn't be lying. "You've forgotten a lot of things, son."

The silence after that almost felt a little too...suffocating.

I glanced at Alastair questioningly, wondering what he meant by that, but Alas seemed just as confused. And well, frustrated too.

"You've forgotten your life back at that mansion." The man said. "You wouldn't be here if you remembered."

I blinked in surprise. What the hell was he talking about?

"I haven't forgotten anything," Alastair said, almost forcing out the words with some sort of pent-up anger. The stone-cold expression on his face told me that it might just be too late to calm him down. "I'm leaving. I don't think I need to be here any longer."

Then he looked at me and I was a little taken aback by his blank, emotionless stare. "Come on, Lia."

No Ophelia. Just Lia.

And he didn't even wait before walking away, not even caring to notice whether I'd be following him or not. I looked back at the old man.

"I'm sorry." I rushed it out. "He isn't...he's not usually like that. It's just that this place--"

"I understand." He nodded, smiling sadly.

I should've left too. I should've followed Alastair. But I didn't.

"What was it that you just said?" I found myself asking him. "Were you...telling the truth?"

He shook his head. "I mean it when I say he has forgotten most things."

"Why do you think that?"

I saw him look away uneasily, before stuffing his hand in one of the pockets of his dark coat and taking out something. It was a leather wallet of some sort, looking almost worn out. Then he took out an old folded photograph from inside and passed it to me.

I didn't hesitate before taking it and unfolding the photograph.

It was a family photograph.

I noticed the man and the woman first, in the picture. The man looked like an older version of Alastair, with the same defined cheekbones, and the same distinct jawline. And the woman, even if it wasn't a close shot, I noticed the beautiful grey eyes of hers.

They both looked incredibly happy, smiling as they sat together on the grass. They were having a picnic. A lovely picnic on a sunny day, judging from the picture.

And then my eyes darted towards a young boy, a five-year-old, perched upon the man's shoulder, laughing. A small, involuntary smile formed on my lips when I recognized him. It was Alastair.

A picture of his family. When his parents were alive.

The Alastair in that picture, the young boy with that beautiful laughing face, looked so happy to be with those people. His parents. Alastair was happy with his parents.

Then why did he always seem so unexpressive, so cold, whenever he talked about them?

And then the smile left my lips right when I noticed that there was a fourth person in the picture too. Another young boy, looking exactly the same age as Alastair, hiding shyly behind the woman. He wasn't smiling, but I noticed the bright, happy look in his eyes as he stared up at the camera.

His eyes held a striking resemblance to Alastair's.

And then my throat went dry.

Because both the young boys were identical. They looked exactly alike.

"Twins," I murmured, then looked up at the old man, my eyes suddenly wide in surprise. "What...what is this?"

"Their family, miss." He still looked sad. "This was the only picture of them all together. They...didn't take family photographs after this one."

I looked down at the picture again, staring.

"He deserves to know that too." I heard him add in.

"What..." I looked up at the man, highly bewildered. "What do you mean? I don't really understand." Then something clicked. A broken piece of the puzzle that had just been confusing me before, but not anymore. "Are you Mr. Smith? You're the one in that article, the one who said..."

I fell quiet, a little stunned.

The old man, Mr. Smith, nodded slowly. He looked dejected. "I tried. They...didn't believe me."

I remembered that article out of all the other articles I had read back when I was surfing on one of the library computers.

"Why wouldn't they believe you that the Hawthornes had two sons?" I asked, frowning in disbelief. "You could have shown them this picture. I don't see how hard that actually is."

He shook his head.

"You don't understand, miss." I saw the dark, scared look in his eyes as if he was silently trying to convey some message to me. "I was just an old, poor servant who left that family years ago after what...after what I saw them doing."

I blinked at him. "After what?"

There was that look again, the silent one. I was starting to hate it.

"What I say to those town journalists doesn't even reach their ears," he said, totally ignoring my question.

"But you can show them this picture."

"I can't." He shook his head. And I was left confused more than ever. "This picture isn't supposed to be with me."

What?

When I just stood there staring at him in surprise and confusion and a little bit of frustration too, he spoke up again, "He needs to remember."

I could only shake my head. "Needs to remember what? I don't think I understand what you're saying. Alastair told me he doesn't have any siblings. I don't think he would have lied to me."

"He isn't lying, miss." He looked grief-stricken for some reason, almost as if remembering things that were just too sad. "He just doesn't remember."

The look of disbelief remained on my face.

"Show him this picture. He might remember if he sees this."

"Why doesn't he remember?" I asked him in a rush and then frowned. "And what do you mean show him this? He's always so tense and fidgety when he talks about his family. What if showing him this picture makes him..." I trailed off.

What if he has a panic attack like that night in the sanitarium?

"You'll find out soon, miss." He said. Then he started backing away, ready to leave, almost as if his work was done here and there was nothing more he could do. "You'll find out when he starts remembering."