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The shadow flew over an ordinary, sleepy midwest town. It was nothing special, just a collection of houses that could probably be copy and pasted in the next state and no one would notice the difference. The shadow passed them by, going towards the edge of town. It sank down to the street in front of yet another ordinary house. Nothing about it stood out. The lawn was well-cared for with a garden bed beneath the darkened windows. The shadow moved closer, curling his lip in some semblance of a smile at the site of a cheery little flamingo with a jaunty hat peeking out amid the roses and snapdragons. It had a sign, labelling it as “Senor Fernando.”
The shadow shook his head. He remembered pointing out a similar object years ago, when he was much younger. Much more solid.
He moved around to the back of the house. Here there was yet another garden, this one much more organized with neat rows of herbs and vegetables. A steady hand ruled here; each plant had a purpose, and judging from the carefully labelled boxes and covers over the seedlings, the gardener intended to put those purposes to good use.
He declined to investigate the chicken coop. He had no interest in stirring up an alarm. They would be taken care of, for he knew the occupants of the house would not allow anything less.
The shadow turned his attention to the backyard’s shed. It was clearly hand-built, with sturdy two-by-fours and concrete rooting it to the ground. A peek inside showed him tools hanging on the wall, each one clean and kept free from dust. A half-finished project sat on the bench in a small pile of sawdust, though what it was, the shadow could not particularly tell. A toy perhaps?
His heart— or what was left of it— twisted at that. There was a time he would have done the same, but… No matter. The past was unchangeable.
Shaking himself, the shadow slid between the cracks of the back door into the house itself. It was quiet, its occupants asleep. The interior was nothing too spectacular, perhaps a bit more tasteful than the shadow expected. The floor was tidy, the shelves lined with books in various languages and covering various subjects. The shadow floated over for a closer look. Maths, history, romances… Nothing too spectacular, though the lack of dust indicated either regular cleaning or that the books were more than just decoration. Though, given the wear-and-tear on a couple of textbooks, perhaps they were as well-read as they seemed.
The shadow glided through the living room and into the kitchen. Now here was a clearly well-used room. Little jars lined the counters, each with a neat little label. So here was where the herbs from the garden were stored. The smell of baked goods still lingered in the air, and he did not have to open the refrigerator to know there would be fresh vegetables and eggs inside.
So far, the shadow thought as he moved upstairs, the house was… Normal. More normal than he’d expected. It seemed as though those who lived here were doing the best they could to have a proper life, and they were doing a fine job of it.
He ignored most of the hallway; it showed the same level of care and attention the rest of the house did. The shadow’s goal was the master bedroom. He misted inside, and his near-non-existant heart gave another painful twist.
Two shapes lay tangled together beneath the covers, gently snoring away. A metal prosthetic arm was thrown almost carelessly on the bedside table, unneeded for the night. The shadow knew there would be a pistol inside said bedside table and a knife under the pillow, but both were as unneeded as the arm.
He lingered for a moment, watching the two men sleep, wrapped in each others’ arms. The shadow had to resist wafting closer, to resist reaching out and brushing an errant lock of hair from the one-armed man’s face. Nothing good would come of waking them.
He began to back away when a glint of moonlight on glass caught his eye. The shadow moved towards it, picked it up, and for once he was glad his tear ducts had long since given up the ghost and that his lungs had no air to lose.
It was a picture, nestled in a simple frame. Two men, the same two who currently laid in bed behind him. The man with the metal arm in a white suit and the other in black. They stood before an arch of spring flowers, hands clasped together and rings shining in the sun. They both wore matching smiles, smiles that beamed pure, radiant joy to the world even through a camera.
They were happy. So, so happy. And it made the shadow ache because despite all of his failures, they were still able to smile like that.
The bed creaked behind him. The shadow quickly set the picture down and whirled towards the sound. The one armed man was sitting up, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
The shadow froze, hoping that perhaps if he was still enough, the man would mistake him for a trick of the light.
“... You’re here,” came the sleep-roughened voice.
The shadow said nothing.
“Reckon you’re not here for trouble, else I wouldn’t be wakin’ up at all,'' the man said simply. “So why? After all this time?”
“.... To see for myself,” The shadow’s voice cracked on the air, broken from disuse. “You’ve…. You look well.”
“I suppose I do. Despite it all.”
“Despite it all,” the shadow agreed. “You’ve done good, kid.”
A curious sheen entered the man’s eyes. “Gabe, I—“
The shadow shook his head. “Don’t say it. I know. And know that I’m sorry. For everything. You’ve done better than I ever did. Could have.”
The shadow rippled at the edges, and he sighed. His time was past due. “Goodbye, Cole. I’m proud of you.”
And with that, he was gone. As though he’d never been.
A soft snort sounded next to the man, and his partner stirred with an unintelligible mumble. “Cole? Are you okay? I thought I heard…”
Cole pulled his partner close and sunk back down to the pillows. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart. Everything’s alright. Just… Remembering an old friend.”