Page 56 of Florescentia

The small clock on my wall said exactly eight o’clock.

Just one more minute, I told myself, sinking back into the couch.

More ringing, delayed chimes echoing throughout the house.

I slipped out of my reclined state, not even static catching my skin as I gathered on my robe. Absinthe and Tonic zipped between my legs, racing across the floor and in among the banisters. Their energy was high. I could swear if they touched me, they’d zap me with electric currents.

After so many days of low, somber energy, this change of pace was nice.

More ringing at the doorbell, even as I opened it.

Maxim was at my door, his finger ready to press the bell again in his eager state.

“Lucia!” A sigh of ease. “Look what I found.” He smirked and pulled a folder from under his arm.

“My proposal.” My fingers lunged for the papers, as if they’d run away again. The weight from my chest was lifted, like being reunited with a lost child. “Where was it?”

“At the front desk! Though, it was mixed among some other returns as well.”

“That witch didn’t even check for me like she said!” My tongue snapped against the back of my teeth. “She’s a terrible secretary.”

“She’s a librarian.”

I waved my hand dismissively while clutching the folder to my chest. “Thank you,” I uttered, my shoulders slumping as I looked his way.

“Of course.” He had that sad look, like a puppy’s. Always wanting to be helpful.

“What is it?” I pressed. “What is that look for?”

“Nothing,” he said, shrugging it off, “but since I have you . . .”

“Here it comes.” I crossed my arms over the folder.

“Will you check on Papà today?”

“Where’s Mom?”

“She has to run some errands.” He rubbed the back of his head. “I told her I could watch him, but something came up at work. And I’ve already been absent helping with the funeral arrangements—”

I cut him off. “I’ll stop by. I’ll head over now.”

“Lucia?”

I glanced up at him.

“Are you all right?”

I took a deep breath before I considered my answer. Something about the air was different. “Yeah,” I said thoughtfully. “I will be.”

Luckily today, my father was quiet. We set up a game of Scopa and some good food for bored minds. The minute the coffee dripped from the siphon pot, the entire room filled with the scent of a toasted dark roast.

Father was in his chair facing the street, absently picking at the blanket over his legs. Despite having a book in his lap, and his spectacles low on the bridge of his nose, he didn’t end up opening it.

Assembling the tray of coffees before bringing it over to the parlor table, I collected a cup, saucer, and spoon and placed the tray on the drink table beside his chair.

He was mumbling, mostly to himself. Maybe he thought he was talking to someone out on the street, or even just commenting on what he was viewing.

Among the room were visitors, just as before. Shadows crept forward, ready for something. Hidden behind paintings, inside shoes, tucked behind keyholes or under carpets. They would always give themselves away, because unlike real shadows, they couldn’t stop moving. How could you when you were made of pure energy?