Prologue (2)

Ria's choked sob echoed, sharp and fractured. Victor slumped to a chair, burying his face in his hands like he didn't want to breathe anymore. And Cedric?

He stood apart, and his dry eyes darted between them all. He rehearsed the grief like a poorly written script.

Marco didn't cry. He could still hear the endless, constant, steady beep of the monitor, as if the sound was circling around him.

It should've been me. It fucking should've been me.

Even his thoughts were shaky, like his voice.

Without another word, Marco turned away. He didn't look at Victor or Ria. 

He couldn't bear their grief. His own felt so raw, so selfish.

Ria watched him walk away. His footsteps had little to no sound. "Marco…"

As he walked out of the hospital, he didn't look back. He clutched the journal tighter than ever, he made a promise to himself.

I won't see her again.

It was reality.

—

Three days passed.

A crowd of black suits and teared–up faces. The sky was gray, as if mother nature knew when to rain and when to shine. The cemetery was quiet. It was just the occasional sniffle and pattering of raindrops swaying in the wind.

Victor stood by her grave, and his shoulders were hunched like it was carrying the weight of the world.

Ria clung beside him. She held a bouquet of the same flowers Marco had once bought for Arlene, from the same bouquet shop, but it never felt as vibrant as before. She glanced around the crowd, her eyes searching for someone who wasn't there. Because something was off.

Meanwhile, Cedric leaned against a tree. His expression was unreadable, like always. His polished shoes still gleamed despite the seemingly undying rain.

He watched the proceedings with detached interest, as if he were looking at a scene from a play he'd written himself.

"Where is he?" Ria muttered under her breath. Her voice was barely audible over the pleasant yet irritating patter of raindrops. 

She hadn't seen Marco since that night at the hospital.

No calls, no messages, no contact. Just pure emptiness where he used to be, where he started.

"He's not coming," Cedric interjected, his tone casual yet it was enough to cut through the silence. "Figures, don't it? Always running away when things get hard."

Ria shot him a glare, but deep down, she wondered if he was right. 

Why hadn't Marco come? Didn't he care? Or was it something else, entirely?

He stayed in his apartment, staring at the journal in his hands. Its pages were so worn from countless flipping. Night and day.

Every entry she wrote, he read.

But he'd gaze at the last line she wrote in her journal.

I just hope he can forgive me.

"She forgave me," he thought bitterly. "But I can't forgive myself."

Attending her funeral felt so wrong, like intruding on something forbidden. 

How could he face her family, knowing he'd failed her? Knowing he hadn't been there when she needed him most? Knowing that he'd been such a failure, a burden to all of them?

As the first shovel of dirt covered a part of Arlene's casket, Ria closed her eyes and whispered.

"I hope you're happy now, wherever you are."

Miles away, Marco dropped his pencil. His sketchbook lay open, the portrait of Arlene staring back at him. 

For the first time in almost forever, tears streamed down his face.

Outside, the rain stopped. A single ray of sunlight broke through the clouds, illuminating the city skyline. But Marco didn't notice. All he saw was her smile. 

One last reminder of the girl who had taught him how to live.

And so, the days that followed were a blur.

Marco moved through the days like a ghost. He spent hours in the NICU, watching Arwyn sleep. His tiny fingers curled and uncurled like he was searching for something, or someone to hold onto.

At night, he sat in the dim light of his apartment, her last words reverberated back at him, accusing and comforting.

"Don't… stop drawing. Draw for Arwyn… Draw for us."

He picked up his sketchbook for the first time in weeks, though his pencil trembled as it flew over the blank page. 

But the lines wouldn't come. Every stroke felt hollow, every shape lifeless. His passion was… shrinking as the days went on.

He slammed the sketchbook shut, his chest heaving.

One night, as Marco visited the hospital, Arwyn slept inside his glass cradle. Marco pressed a palm to the warm surface, tracing the shadow of his son's face.

Coincidentally, Victor would come as well, visiting Arwyn as often as Marco did. They just weren't on the same schedule, and Victor ran late that same night.

But Cedric never came when he visited Arwyn. Not even once.

Victor stumbled upon Marco, who sat beside Arwyn's small bed. He walked closer, to the point where Marco would notice.

So, Marco expected Victor's anger, regret, guilt, denial.

"He has your eyes." 

Victor murmured behind him. The old man's voice was softer now, frayed at the edges. He didn't express any of those four things, but he showed something else, the polar opposite.

Acceptance.

Marco didn't turn. "Hazel. Like hers."

Victor's hand hovered, then settled on Marco's shoulder. A truce, unspoken.

---

It'd been two months after her passing. Victor's truce led him to have contact with Ria. His drawings finally recovered, though his passion wasn't as big as it was before.

The hospital bills arrived in white envelopes. Marco paid them without hesitation.

His signature slashed across all the checks funded by gallery sales of his portraits.

Crimson in Morning Light, Hazel at Dusk. 

Collectors called them "raw," "haunting." But they didn't know the woman in the frames laughed at such bad puns and hated raisins.

At the day when Arwyn was finally getting discharged, the hospital slept. Marco sketched just beside Arwyn's incubator. Charcoal smudged the pages. 

Arwyn's tiny little hand, the curve of his squishable cheek, and the way his brow furrowed in sleep, so much like Arlene's.

"See?" Marco whispered, pressing the sketch to the glass. "I'm still drawing."

The doctors soon went inside and unhooked Arwyn's wires and tubes and swaddled him in a soft, white blanket. Marco cradled him, and Arwyn's weight was extremely light, but impossibly precious.

Ria stood outside the room, wearing a casual t-shirt and unusually large pants. Her smile was soft, shining as Marco walked outside the room. It was him. Arwyn.

They strolled down the hospital in the middle of the night. Ria parked her car right in front of the entrance door. It was particularly a new car she bought. It was a result of her share of Marco's income.

"Ready?" Ria then asked as she held the car door open.

Marco glanced back at the hospital, its windows glowing like distant stars. "No," he said. "But let's go."

The drive was quieter than he thought. He'd expected Arwyn's cries, but Arwyn was fast asleep, partly because of the nice air-conditioning of her car. But he never minded.

The city was always the same. Neon lights, skyscrapers, night markets, Ria took the long way to Marco's apartment.

As they arrived, Marco got out of her car.

"Wait!"

He glanced back at Ria, confused yet his face was too tired to express it. "What?"

She chuckled, still unsure if Marco could take care of Arwyn. But, she had faith. "You'll do great."

Marco looked down. He was smiling. Arwyn's smile made him smile, even if it wasn't that deep. "I don't know."

"You will. Trust me."

And after that, she closed down the car window and revved up her car, speeding through the street like a highway. The engine of her car slowly faded away, but it still echoed.

And so, he opened his apartment once again, with a new housemate by his arms.

The apartment was too quiet. Marco placed Arwyn in a bassinet he bought in advance, back when Marco and Arlene planned for the future one day.

Arwyn slept there peacefully, just beside Marco's bed. His breaths were soft like the occasional gust of wind you'd get on a sunny day.

Marco stared at the ceiling, and Arlene's journal was open on his chest. He flipped her journal to the last of her pages. She left a small, final note.

Final Entry: Name him Arwyn. After the stars we used to watch. I love you, Marco Delacroix.

Outside, the oak tree rustled. Somewhere, a star flickered.

Marco closed his eyes.

Hope. Revelation.