The grass was cool and springy under Keaton's bare feet as he walked across the meadow. The morning dew left his legs damp, covered in the fragrant scent of the dawn. He followed the pathway he had created, careful to avoid the sound of buzzing bees. He was a veteran of bee stings and knew that getting stung on the foot could put his project off by three days, and his window of opportunity was waning.
That was why he hadn't gone looking for Luca when he'd woken up to an empty bed. He figured that the boy was out searching for some hopeless hiker that he could take in. That was his thing, saving people. Just like these projects were Keaton's thing. Neither of the two interrupted each other's "things" because that was what made the other happy. That was the way the two of them lived, in this relaxed harmony, and it was what Keaton had always wanted-comfortability. It was this that made Luca so perfect for him.
The twittering of birds above his head evoked a ghosting smile that tugged up the corners of his lips. His smile was a gentle curve, subtle enough that someone could be unsure if he was actually smiling or not. This projection of his contentment was a good portrayal of his character-subdued. He was extremely level-headed, and he wasn't one to get overly excited or show his emotions much.
As he neared the old, dead tree, his smile widened into something that could actually be considered a grin. This old snag covered in woodpecker holes was one of the only things that could ever persuade him to feel more than his sobered happiness. This was the place where he met Luca. At that point, Luca was hardly anything. He’d gotten separated from his friend on their hike and had been aimlessly wandering the woods for a couple days. The boy’s figure was on the pathway of gaunt, and he was severely dehydrated. Keaton invited him to stay in the apartment above his garage for a while, until they could locate the other hiker and send him safely on his way. Luca decided to stay with Keaton for a while, and he ended up never leaving.
Something was wrong today. It looked like someone had hurried through the pathway, scrawny branches hanging limply from trees as they only held on by a thread. Shoe prints marred the dark earth. The most apparent thing that Keaton noticed, though, was the bright yellow piece of paper tacked into the tree. It was the same paper that Luca used to send letters to his family once a month. Before he knew it, he was unfolding the paper, his hands slightly shaking.
My Dearest Keaton,
You are the steam that rises from my morning coffee, and you are the sun that rises from the east. You are all that which rises. You are also the song that the birds chirp day in and day out. You are the rain that patters a beat on the roof. You are all of the music in the world. You are the chill autumn wind that bites my cheeks and the warm summer breeze that kisses my skin. You are every bit of weather that touches my being. You are the tremble in my fingers and the thump in my heart and the blood in my veins. You are all of this and much more.
I thank the lord every day that you are all of these things because it makes leaving just a bit easier. I know that the things that rise here will rise there, and the music I hear here will translate to that which I hear there, the weather I am exposed to here will be the weather I am exposed to there. Your being will still be contained in these things no matter where my life chooses to lead me. You will never leave me even when I have left you.
Please don’t think that I’m leaving because of something you have done. Life calls for me to go home, and it has nothing to do with you-with us. What we have is beautiful and wonderful, and all of the good in life cannot compare. Despite this, I must say goodbye to you. These four years have been the best of my existence, but now this chapter is over. I hope you live happily and beautifully, just the way God intended for you to live.
Love,
Luca
One month later
Keaton’s eyes fluttered open, his long eyelashes moving like the winds of a butterfly in flight. He ran his tongue over his parched lips. A cat was curled to his side, its body rising and falling with its sleep-heavy breathing. Like a breeze, Keaton moved off the bed without waking the cat. His joints groaned in protest, cracking with the weight he put on them after the short night. He grabbed a cigarette off the windowsill and lit it. He placed it lightly between his lips.
“Morning Cat,” he said in his husky, sleep-inebriated voice. He stooped down and gathered the sleek, silver cat in his arms. The young feline purred, burrowing itself into his bare chest.
He carried the other occupant of his house down the stairs and to the living room. Cat sprung out of his loos grip. With a prance in her step, the feline headed towards her bowl. Keaton followed her at a leisurely pace, the cigarette dangling from his lips. He filled the bowl, cat food clinking against the cool metal. She mewled her thanks and started eating.
“What to eat…” he mumbled, his eyes searching the fridge. He grabbed an apple and stalked towards the living room.
He drug his finger over the keys of his grand piano in the center of the living space. The clear crescendo broke the morning’s calamity. Birds started their clamorous songs. Keaton’s trained ear listened, and he, with his free hand, played along. One of his favorite pastimes was mimicking the birds’ tune with his piano. He enjoyed the songs Often times he would write them down. Slowly but surely, he was compiling their tunes into one composition.
He watched Cat bound up the stairs, back to his loft-style bedroom. A little girl who had once stayed in the garage apartment with her aunt and uncle had given the cat her name. Keaton couldn’t bear to change it because his mum had been pregnant when she died. He had a feeling the child would have been a girl, and Keaton’s “feelings” had a tendency to be accurate. Since then, he’d had a soft spot for children,, especially girls.
Keaton followed Cat up. He shuffled through the shirts hanging in his closet. He finally decided upon a denim one and matched it with some dark-wash jeans.
He grabbed the backpack he had prepared the night before, slinging it over his shoulder as he jogged outside. He walked barefoot over the gravel path that led to his garage. A padlock hung on the door. With one of the three keys he owned, he unlocked the chain and pulled it loose enough so he could slip inside. His hand blindly grabbed the Polaroid that sat exactly where he had left it. The door was again locked before Keaton set off across his meadow and towards the edge of the woods.