Her hands crossed on her chest. “What is it?”
“The cure. Well, part of it. Give it to your father, I bet working in this shop you can understand if it's poison or not. Look how his health changes throughout the night and thank me later. I'll visit you tomorrow and you'll tell me if you want to help me or if you want to see your father in a coffin soon.”
Such a prick,she thought.
“I don't think it will change my mi–”
She raised her head. Gone. The man vanished as suddenly as he had appeared. Her gaze lowered to the little vial left by him.Such nonsense.Did he really believeshe would do it? Was it just a joke? She didn't care… maybe, a little.
Tick tock.
Violette lifted her head to the big wooden clock on the wall. It was louder than usual, the sound bouncing through her mind.
“It's a sign I need some sleep.” She shook her head.
The situation seemed so ridiculous. Maybe she was just going crazy? This thought made her gasp a short laugh and with it, she left the shop.
The house smelledof herbal tea and honey. The room she entered was poorly lit, barely lighting the place where her father dozed off again. She froze in the doorway to the living room, her hand clenched. Should she say hello? They barely talked nowadays, but she missed him and their long entertaining conversations. He loved to tell her different stories about his adventures when he was young or some legends and other things he heard from wanderers while he was traveling. Being a writer, he loved to share the ideas and stories he came up with, and she loved when his eyes were engulfed with excitement.
When she was little he always read her his new works, sometimes unfinished ones, though she was still listening as if the whole world depended on these little stories. She kept asking him about his characters and what will happen next but her questions were not always answered, some of these character's lives stayed a mystery for her. Evennow, when she's grown up, she still sometimes thinks about heroes from her childhood.
A lot has changed since then. They had always been close, but since her father fell sick, everything turned gray – in their house and in their lives. Everything felt pallid to Violette, even if she never showed it. She couldn't let him know how worried she was and how painful it was to see him like this – once vibrant and lively, now missing his usual spark. He was the heart of this house which she couldn't call home if he will… if he will leave her like her mother did. Violette still remembers how the colors drained after her death but her father… he made everything easier; he was always there for her. She knew he was mourning; she knew he suffered after her mother's death. He loved her. But he also loved his daughter and wanted to save the light his wife once brought to this house for her. His laugh made Violette believe life didn't end with her mother's last breath; the moment the doctor said it was over. The moment she knew she would never hear her voice or touch her hand. Life didn't end then. But it could now.
She didn't step forward, instead turned around to go upstairs.
“Violette?” A raspy voice brushed her ear.
“Dad, hi…” She entered the living room. An awkward wistful smile appeared on her face. He knew this smile, like she was scared to look upset.
“How was your day? Have you already made a great discovery in the potion world?” He asked and rose heavily from his chair.
Violette quickly ran up to help him.
“It's not necessary, honey. I can walk by myself.”
“Yes, I know. Of course you can.” She smiled again, though he wouldn't fool her.
“So, how are your days in the shop?”
“Everything like always, nothing interesting.” She waved jauntily.
“Oh, I don't believe you. You probably saw and heard a lot there,” his lips curled in an amused half-smile, “Such wonderful stories flying around, aren't they?”
“Not better than yours.”
He laughed. “I think you're kind of prejudiced.”
“I don't think so.” The corner of her eyes finally matched her smile.
Perhaps she was biased, after all, these stories were written by her father. And she wondered if he had any work in mind. She believed he was still writing some time after he had fallen ill; when he still had some energy and his face wasn't that pale… and he was more himself than now.
She closedthe door of her room as she stepped in. A deep exhale left her lungs. She leaned on the door, slowly sliding down, followed by a quiet sob and then another one.One more. And again until the tears started streaming down her face like a waterfall. She cried so quietly, almost muted. Even the walls of the room barely heard her pain.
Her head bowed as her hand covered her face. She couldn't let her father see her tears but it didn't mean she didn't want to cry most of the time she was looking at him and thinking when the day would come. She hated to make it about herself but what would she do without him? Who was she supposed to talk to? Who was she supposed to laugh with? Whose story was she supposed to listen to? She cried with a thought of how everything could be different. And she wanted to believe that soon he would get better but the truth is… the hope was leaving her with each day. She was still trying, she was still believing, but sometimes in the darkest moments like this, when nobody sees, behind the closed door, she could lower all her walls.
Her mother told her to be strong. She had to. If she wasn't strong, who would be? She didn't have anybody else, only herself. And nobody will help her father, except her.
The tears were heavy, the breathing suffocating. There's no more agony than shedding tears in silence. Violette took a deep breath and lifted her head. She couldn't do this anymore. She couldn't live in the fear that any day would be the last day with her father. She didn't have such a luxury as time.
