That blue-eyed man perplexed me.

He'd shown no recognition of me, so I couldn't understand why he seemed too willing to spark conversation. It was less than preferable. Were these city people usually so eager to acquaint themselves with strangers? I hoped not if only to maintain my sanity.

But at least that conversation wasn’t entirely useless. After walking down a few streets, his directions had correctly led me to a train station that was identical to the one I saw in those memories. I scanned the nearby buildings before landing on the one I’d been searching for.

I crossed the street, conscious to look both ways after Alfred had scolded me for not doing so the night he bought me a muffin, before making my way inside that building. It was strange seeing how every intricate detail of the interior was also nearly identical, with everything from the dull sage colour of the wallpaper to the number of lights hanging from the ceiling being the same.

At the other end of the room was a staircase, and I made my way up it and travelled through several levels before stopping on the fourth floor. When I entered the hallway, I scanned through the numbers of every door. It was fortunate that Alfred had also taught me how to read numbers, or else this endeavour might've proved more complicated.

409… 409… 409…

My eyes stopped when I eventually found the correct door I'd been searching for. Somehow, every detail from those memories had been correct so far and led me to the exact apartment I'd seen.

But there was still one last piece of confirmation I needed.

I raised my knuckles to the door before knocking against it. A faint shuffling came from inside the apartment before the door opened, revealing a young woman perhaps a few years older than me. When she saw me standing there, her eyes narrowed with a hint of confusion.

“Is there something you need?” she asked with a weary caution, albeit, it was a polite caution at least.

“I’m looking for Mr Collins,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t be too hesitant to let me in. All this effort would be for nothing if I was refused entry.

“My husband?” she questioned, raising an eyebrow as her brows furrowed. “I’m afraid he isn’t in a good condition to be receiving any guests right now.”

“That's fine. I just need to talk with him briefly.”

She pressed her lips firmly together for a moment as frustration crept onto her face. "I apologise, but I can’t just let anyone into our home. If you’d like, I can pass on a message."

“No, I need to speak with him in person.”

“Like I said, my husband isn't well enough to receive guests,” she reiterated, firmer this time. “I think it would be best if you left."

Without saying another word, she moved to close the door. But before she could shut it fully, I grabbed onto the door edge. Her eyes widened, and when she tried to close it again, the door refused to move against my grip. It didn't even budge as I continued calmly hold it open.

“Just what do you think you’re doing—”

“I work for the Davis Funeral Home, and this matter concerns the death of Mister Anthony Wright.”

She stopped, her expression immediately dropping, "Anthony?"

I nodded. She stared at me for a moment longer before letting out a sigh of defeat. There was hesitation on her face before she finally pulled the door open for me.

"Alright. You can come in and I'll bring you to him."

She said nothing else to me as she led me through the small, yet modest apartment. It was cluttered with all sorts of small potted plants and ornaments which I assumed was an odd form of decoration. Photo frames were littered along the walls, and there was one in particular that featured two young men who I recognised from those memories.

At the end of the hall was a door which she opened, revealing a bedroom with a young man inside. He was sat on the bed, staring vacantly out the window. His skin was pale and dull in colour like a muted bedsheet, and his eyes held weariness to them. But under the blanket that covered him, only the outline of one leg could be seen.

“Harry, there’s someone from the funeral home here asking for you.”

He turned his head towards us, his gaze falling on me with a subtle hint of intrigue in his eyes. "Bring her in," he said as he straightened his back against the headboard.

“I’ll go make some tea for our guest,” she said, her eyes lingering on me with an evident caution, but she eventually left the room. There was a long moment of somewhat awkward silence between this man and me as we stared at each other before he cleared his throat.

“So what did you want to discuss, Miss?”

I took a few steps towards his bed, looking down at him as I inspected everyone of his features. From his dirty hair to the freckles on his nose, his face was the same one I'd seen in that memory.

“I wanted to speak with you about Mister Anthony Wright, sir.”

His expression wavered as pain flickered in his eyes. While he maintained his smile, it grew visibly strained and his grip around his blanket tightened.

“What did you want to talk about exactly?”

“I presume you already know about his passing, correct?”

“Yes, I was there when it happened,” he confirmed, though his voice was growing strained. “But what does this have to do with you?”

“The funeral home I work for received his body recently, and we'll be responsible for his burial," I explained, holding my hands behind my back as I kept my gaze steady on him.

“Was his mother there?” he suddenly asked, his voice quiet. I couldn't help but narrow my eyes at him, wondering how he'd guessed.

“Yes, she was.”

“How is she?”

"She appeared rather distressed by his death to the point she refused to accept the body as her son."

“So she’s not doing great either...” he mumbled to himself, averting his eyes as his expression gradually grew more solemn.

Almost an entire minute passed as neither of us spoke before he reached over to the bedside table. He opened the door drawer and rummaged around for a moment before pulling out a small diamond ring.

“This was his mother’s wedding ring,” he explained, holding it up for me. “Anthony always said she made him carry it around just in case he found someone to propose to.”

A shadow of a smile flickered on his lips, but it only echoed the hollow feeling in the room. He glances down at the ring, dragging his finger along the silver band.

“But he never got the chance. Before he died, he asked me to take care of Mrs Wright for him and made me take the ring so I could return it to her.”

“And didn’t return it yet?”

“Well, I—,” he cut himself off, struggling to respond as he still refused to meet my eyes, "I tried to. I really did. I even went straight to her house after getting out of the hospital, but I couldn't bring myself to even meet her."

His words came out as a flood more akin to a jumbled mess that didn't give me room to say anything. Even his knuckles were growing white as he clenched his fist around the ring.

“My own parents were never around much when I was younger. I was often left home alone, but Anthony would always come over to check up on me. And more often than not, he'd beg me to play whatever game he made up that day."

I already knew this. Mister Collins was explaining something I’d seen from those memories. It was the fact that many of Anthony’s days were spent with Harry that was the primary reason I sought him out. Bu, there was something about his own explanation of the events with how personal they were to him that gave those seemingly mundane days a greater meaning.

“He’d bring me over to his house a lot, actually. I thought Mrs Wright would eventually get annoyed with my frequent intrusions, but she never did,” he continued with a heavy sigh. “She’d always given me the same food she gave him, and whenever it was cold, she'd tell us both to wear a coat. And after everything she did for me... what Anthony did for me... I still couldn't bring him back."

He paused, taking a moment to breathe after how shaky his voice had become. "How can I even face her now?"

I wasn't sure what to say in response, or even if he wanted a response at all. His hands were shaking in constant vibration, gripping harder onto the blanket. But, he took another deep breath before finally meeting my eyes and holding out the ring towards me.

“Look, if it isn’t too much to ask, could you give this to her?”

His request was simple.

I’d only intended to have a conversation with the man before leaving. But, doing this for him wouldn’t be a major inconvenience since it was likely for that woman to return to the funeral home sooner than later.

Mister Collins had already verified the details of those memories, confirming to me they were indeed real. That was all I came here for; so it would be easy enough to agree and just leave.

But as I looked at him now, seeing just how ashamed he was, I hesitated to do so. While doing it would allow Mister Collins to fulfil Mister Wright’s request and would be enough evidence to convince Mrs Wright of her son’s death, that solution felt too cheap. It was as though something would still be left unresolved, and yet I could not identify exactly what.

It just didn’t feel right to do this on his behalf; to facilitate the actions of a coward.

“Mister Collins, were you not previously a soldier?”

He furrowed his brows slightly at my sudden question but nodded. “Well, yes. I did serve during the war.”

“Then you should know as a soldier that you do what is asked of you regardless of how you feel. Is that not correct?”

My tone was blunt, almost harsh. He looked as though I’d just slapped him across the face. “Yes, it is but—”

“I will not do this for you. And if you don’t do it yourself, then it is you who will be responsible for Mister Wright's dying wish being left unfulfilled."