That blue-eyed man had shown no recognition of me whatsoever, so I couldn’t understand why he seemed so willing to keep starting conversations with me. It was less than preferable. Were people in this city usually so eager to become acquainted 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 that memory. I scanned across the nearby buildings before my eyes landed on the one I’d been looking for.
I crossed the street, being conscious to look both ways before doing so. I wasn't in the mood to get run over. When I made my way into the building, my eyes couldn't help but wander around the front lobby. It was strange seeing how every detail of the interior was practically identical to what I’d seen in that vision. Every from the dull colour of the wallpaper to the amount of lights on the walls was the same.
Walked towards a staircase near the entryway, making my way up through the different levels before stopping at the fourth floor. As I entered the hallway, my eyes flickered across the numbers on every door. I silently thanked Alfred for having taught me how to read numbers as I searched for the one I was looking for.
409… 409… 409…
I paused when I finally found the door with the correct numbers on it. Somehow, every detail from those memories had been correct so far and led me to the exact apartment I’d seen. But I still needed one last piece of confirmation.
I brought my hand to the door, knocking on it. A faint shuffling could be heard from inside the apartment before the door opened and revealed a young woman perhaps a few years older than me. She narrowed her eyes, confused as she saw me standing there.
“Is there something you need?” she asked with a weary caution, albeit, it was a polite caution at the very least.
“I’m looking for Mr Collins,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t be too hesitant to let me in. All this effort would've been useless if I was refused entry.
“My husband?” she said, raising an eyebrow as a look of distrust formed in her eyes. “I’m afraid he isn’t in a good condition to be receiving guests right now.”
“That is fine, I just need to talk with him briefly.”
“I apologise, but I can’t just let anyone into our home. If you’d like, I can pass on a message,” she said, her tone firm as frustration crept onto her face.
“No, I need to speak with him in person.”
“I thought I said my husband wasn’t well enough to receive guests,” she reiterated, her tone becoming harsher. “And I think it's best if you leave now."
She moved to close the door, but before she could shut it fully, I grabbed onto the edge of the door. Her eyes widened at my actions. She tried to close it again, but it didn’t budge against my hand as I kept a stead grip on it.
“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.”
“Anthony?” she said as her expression immediately dropped and her voice grew quieter. I nodded. She let out a defeated sigh, hesitating for a moment, before opening the door wider for me. “Alright, you can come in. I’ll bring you to him.”
She didn’t say anything to me as he led me through the apartment. It was small but modest. The walls were littered with several picture frames with one featuring two young men I recognised from those memories.
She opened a door to a room and inside was a young man. He was sitting on a bed as he looked out vacantly towards a nearby window. His skin was pale and a dull colour. His eyes were weary and tired. And 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.”
The man turned his head towards us, his gaze falling on me with intrigue.
“Bring her in,” he said as he straightened his back against the headboard.
“I’ll go make some tea for our guest,” the woman said, lingering on me still with caution in her eyes before finally leaving the room. There was a long moment of tense silence between me and this man before he finally cleared his throat.
“So what did you want to discuss, Miss?” he asked with a faint but polite smile.
I took a few steps closer to his bed, looking down at him as the light shone against his dark blonde hair. His face, though more weary, was the same I’d seen in that memory.
“I wanted to speak with you about Mister Anthony Wright, sir.”
Pain immediately flickered in his eyes as his expression wavered. But he maintained his smile, albeit, more strained as his fingers tightened around his blanket. “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 said, his voice also beginning to grow strained. “But what does this have to do with you?”
“The funeral home I work for was the one that received his body. We will 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 asked suddenly, his voice quiet. I narrowed my eyebrows at him, wondering how he guessed.
“Yes, she was.”
“How is she?”
“She appeared distressed by his death and refused to accept the body as her son.”
“So she’s not doing great either,” he mumbled to himself, not meeting my eyes as his expression grew more solemn.
I wasn't entirely sure what to say in response to that, and he didn't seem eager to elaborate. Almost a minute passed as neither of us spoke before he suddenly leaned over to his bedside table. He opened the top drawer and searched through it for a moment before taking a small diamond ring.
“This was his mother’s wedding ring,” he said, holding it up. “Anthony always said she made him carry it around just in case he found someone to propose to.”
A shadow of a smile appeared on his lips, but it only echoed the hollow feeling in the room. He looked down at the ring, dragging his finger along the silver band.
“But he never got a chance to use it. When he was dying, he asked me to take care of Mrs Wright for him and made me take the ring so I could return it to her.”
“You didn’t return it yet?”
“Well I-,” his voice trailed off as he averted his eyes from mine, “I tried to. I really did. I went to her house after getting out of the hospital, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”
I remained silent as he clenched the ring in his fist, the strain evident in his knuckles.
“My own parents were never around much when I was younger. I was often left home alone. But Anthony would always come around to check up on me and beg me to play with him 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 was why I sought him out. But his explanation of these events brought greater meaning to his memories that I hadn't registered at first.
“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, sighing as he leaned his head back. “She’d always given me the same food she gave him, always told me to wear a coat to stay warm just like she did for him. And after everything she did for me… what Anthony did for me… I still couldn’t protect him.”
He paused, his voice shaky. “How can I even face her now?”
I was unsure what to say in response, or even if he even wanted me to respond at all. His hands were shaking, gripping hard onto that blanket. But, he took a deep breath before finally meeting my eyes as he held 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 soon.
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 seemed, 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, but 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.
“Mr Collins, were you not previously a soldier?” I asked, making him narrow his eyes at the suddenness of my question.
“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 you will be responsible for Mr Wright’s dying wish being left unfulfilled.”
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