Chapter One
?Tell me what to do, hermano.?
?It's time to stop going back there, if you still do?.?
He did return, as he had done for so many years now. It was a habit, hard to shake, particularly when he let his mind wander and his feet take him wherever they willed. Somehow he always found himself standing here on the beach, looking at the empty house from the back.
Five years had passed since he had bought the seven dogwood trees and planted them in the yard. In lieu of a fence to mark the border of the property, he had placed the saplings in a semi-circular array that in time shrouded the house from the prying eyes of the distant street. They had grown quite a bit since then, as well cared for trees were prone to do. He had tended to them with a sense of reverence that he just wasn?t feeling anymore.
?That place... it's not really home anymore, Sal. All it does is remind you of what you don't have.?
Mesteno was right, of course. Salvador stood and stared at the wide open sliding glass door, watched as fallen dogwood blossoms swirled with the breeze on the deck and the sheer curtains swayed. Behind him the surf roared against the sands. Those were the only sounds. There had been little else in the way of activity for nearly half a decade now.
?It's masochistic?.?
Such was his life these days. He had felt a sense of ritualistic satisfaction in the way he kept the house clean. Somebody had to do it, and though he had the funds to hire a maid he did not want one. Letting anyone else in defeated the purpose of having started anew in the first place. Sin had built this house for them, with all new materials that had never been touched by any other hands (except perhaps the contractors), to fill with their own memories and escape the ghosts of pasts they both wanted to forget.
?Let it stand if you need to. It can be a monument to what was. But you've been on your own for years now and I can tell you've accepted it.?
There remained very little of what was. So much time had gone by that all he could glean from these walls were echoes of his own passing. Not much remained of the sinner. Salvador had been the one to spend the most time here. When he really sat down and thought about, set his hands to the walls and looked back in time, the truth was impossible to deny.
Sin was gone.
He had spent the previous year giving all he had left to give trying to find him, and his efforts had turned up nothing. Absolutely nothing. He had no idea where he was. Dead? Alive? In torpor? There had been no clues or trails or anything to tell him the truth. Not even his mother would know. For what remains of the undead when they are snuffed from this world completely is, as he had found, nothing at all.
?Stop searching.?
Mesteno was right. Though his brother had not said as much precisely, the implication was clear. It was time to move on.
Turning the house into a museum seemed perfect. And why not? He had done as much to the house in Barcelona that his father had left behind. Instead of hiring a caretaker for the grounds here, as he had done there, however, Salvador decided turning this house into a tomb seemed more fitting.
That morning he finally took the time to make arrangements. He had the power turned off. He closed up all the doors and windows, locked them. He emptied the cupboards and the refrigerator, unplugging the latter and leaving it open to thaw. Anything that had not yet reached its expiration date he boxed and carried out to the curb to be picked up by a food bank. The rest he trashed. He swept and mopped and dusted. He polished the swords in the training room and made certain the display cases were secure. He padlocked the basement, for if any vandals dared trespass that was probably the last place they needed to be. He cleared out the walk-in freezer, dragging carcasses out onto the beach and mumbling an invocation to his mother to take them away; she did so without comment or concern.
All that remained was to say good-bye. At the end of the day he stood in the foyer, staring thoughtlessly at the blank notepad on the little table where they collected their mail. It had been a long time since he?d received a letter, too, he realized.
They had always written to each other in one form or another. Salvador often left messages for the sinner in his journal, but those he had surrendered to another for safe-keeping and review. Too many years had gone by without them that the habit had dwindled, but not yet died. It came back to him like they say riding a bike does. He picked up the pen and wrote these words:
esper?, mi alma -
pero no puedo m?s
lo siento
te amo
adi?s
Then, with only a duffel bag full of a few changes of clothes, he stepped out the front door. He paused only long enough to lock it. The key earned one last, longing look. He stood on the front porch, running his thumb along the specifically designed teeth. A part of him wanted to believe Fio?s words when she told him he?d turn up, he always did. But if he kept clinging to that? No. He shook his head, kissed the warm metal, and then tucked the key up on the door frame. He grabbed up his bag, turned, and walked the long path to the road, without once looking back.
?Tell me what to do, hermano.?
?It's time to stop going back there, if you still do?.?
He did return, as he had done for so many years now. It was a habit, hard to shake, particularly when he let his mind wander and his feet take him wherever they willed. Somehow he always found himself standing here on the beach, looking at the empty house from the back.
Five years had passed since he had bought the seven dogwood trees and planted them in the yard. In lieu of a fence to mark the border of the property, he had placed the saplings in a semi-circular array that in time shrouded the house from the prying eyes of the distant street. They had grown quite a bit since then, as well cared for trees were prone to do. He had tended to them with a sense of reverence that he just wasn?t feeling anymore.
?That place... it's not really home anymore, Sal. All it does is remind you of what you don't have.?
Mesteno was right, of course. Salvador stood and stared at the wide open sliding glass door, watched as fallen dogwood blossoms swirled with the breeze on the deck and the sheer curtains swayed. Behind him the surf roared against the sands. Those were the only sounds. There had been little else in the way of activity for nearly half a decade now.
?It's masochistic?.?
Such was his life these days. He had felt a sense of ritualistic satisfaction in the way he kept the house clean. Somebody had to do it, and though he had the funds to hire a maid he did not want one. Letting anyone else in defeated the purpose of having started anew in the first place. Sin had built this house for them, with all new materials that had never been touched by any other hands (except perhaps the contractors), to fill with their own memories and escape the ghosts of pasts they both wanted to forget.
?Let it stand if you need to. It can be a monument to what was. But you've been on your own for years now and I can tell you've accepted it.?
There remained very little of what was. So much time had gone by that all he could glean from these walls were echoes of his own passing. Not much remained of the sinner. Salvador had been the one to spend the most time here. When he really sat down and thought about, set his hands to the walls and looked back in time, the truth was impossible to deny.
Sin was gone.
He had spent the previous year giving all he had left to give trying to find him, and his efforts had turned up nothing. Absolutely nothing. He had no idea where he was. Dead? Alive? In torpor? There had been no clues or trails or anything to tell him the truth. Not even his mother would know. For what remains of the undead when they are snuffed from this world completely is, as he had found, nothing at all.
?Stop searching.?
Mesteno was right. Though his brother had not said as much precisely, the implication was clear. It was time to move on.
Turning the house into a museum seemed perfect. And why not? He had done as much to the house in Barcelona that his father had left behind. Instead of hiring a caretaker for the grounds here, as he had done there, however, Salvador decided turning this house into a tomb seemed more fitting.
That morning he finally took the time to make arrangements. He had the power turned off. He closed up all the doors and windows, locked them. He emptied the cupboards and the refrigerator, unplugging the latter and leaving it open to thaw. Anything that had not yet reached its expiration date he boxed and carried out to the curb to be picked up by a food bank. The rest he trashed. He swept and mopped and dusted. He polished the swords in the training room and made certain the display cases were secure. He padlocked the basement, for if any vandals dared trespass that was probably the last place they needed to be. He cleared out the walk-in freezer, dragging carcasses out onto the beach and mumbling an invocation to his mother to take them away; she did so without comment or concern.
All that remained was to say good-bye. At the end of the day he stood in the foyer, staring thoughtlessly at the blank notepad on the little table where they collected their mail. It had been a long time since he?d received a letter, too, he realized.
They had always written to each other in one form or another. Salvador often left messages for the sinner in his journal, but those he had surrendered to another for safe-keeping and review. Too many years had gone by without them that the habit had dwindled, but not yet died. It came back to him like they say riding a bike does. He picked up the pen and wrote these words:
esper?, mi alma -
pero no puedo m?s
lo siento
te amo
adi?s
Then, with only a duffel bag full of a few changes of clothes, he stepped out the front door. He paused only long enough to lock it. The key earned one last, longing look. He stood on the front porch, running his thumb along the specifically designed teeth. A part of him wanted to believe Fio?s words when she told him he?d turn up, he always did. But if he kept clinging to that? No. He shook his head, kissed the warm metal, and then tucked the key up on the door frame. He grabbed up his bag, turned, and walked the long path to the road, without once looking back.