Flowers from 1970

Chapter 18: the notes (finale)

Chapter 18: the notes (finale)

Clay Soot, also known as Dream by his closest companions, died on September 8th, 2020, 9:59PM at 71 years old.

His polite request for George to take care of the flowers were his last known words.

He was still capable of talking after that, he just refused to say any more, because he wanted his last words to have something to do with George.

It was Wilbur who broke the news to George the next day over text, assuring him he wasn't at fault for any of it and that Dream himself knew his time was running out.

George didn't know how to bring himself to talk to Dream over the phone knowing his future counterpart had lost his life, until he remembered what Clay had told him the night before he died.

"You can't. Tomorrow's the ninth of September, George. I made sure you couldn't call again."

George was trying to understand what that had meant, but he knew he was still going to sit for however long it took, just to wait for the phone to ring. He'd have to keep the fact that he had died to himself. He needed to hear Dream's voice again. The Dream that he loved.

The Dream that was alive.

George was busy in thought, when he heard knocking from downstairs. It took everything in him to get up and push himself downstairs. Not to mention the fact that he had not eaten breakfast yet. He opened the door to Wilbur, who had baggy eyes that were scarred from too much wiping.

"Wilbur?" George led him inside, "I'm so sorry." George couldn't even finish the sentence without getting choked up with tears.

Wilbur tried his best to smile, "Don't be, nothing's your fault."

George couldn't fathom how much grief him and his family were probably in. His heart broke when he thought of Tommy. How Tommy was expecting his grandpa to come back. He couldn't imagine how hard it was for Wilbur as a father to sit him down and tell him the truth. They had just gotten close, too.

George helped the man walk inside, his footing had been so unsure and confused, "Why did you come here, Wilbur?"

"I have to tell you something, George." He turned to George, trying his best to keep his composure but it was obviously backfiring.

"Sure, anything." George sat down in front of him, offering a glass of water and some tissues, patting him on the back.

Wilbur thanked him before taking a deep breath. "My dad was a great man." His voice shook, and every bit of him was slowly crumbling like a sandcastle that a million hands were trying to keep together.

George nodded, Wilbur had no idea how much he had agreed with him. He listened on, taking a sip of water and trying to keep calm knowing what Wilbur was about to say was something about the man he loved. The man who was gone.

"He'd tell us stories,"

"I remember."

Wilbur laughed a little, "they were such absurd stories, but I believed them. Dave didn't, he was realistic, but me? Oh I soaked up every word of his storytelling until I fell asleep." He looked reminiscently in front of him. "The stupid one about him climbing a tree to protest not cutting it down, and how he got struck by lightning after, and all those times he and his friend Nick would go out and set firecrackers into the sky at helicopters."

George chuckled along with him, he wondered what other insane things Dream supposedly did in his life. The thought of it warmed and eased his heart a bit. He knew that Dream was satisfied and had lived his life the way he wanted to.