Graphite Roses ✓

fifth

Streaks of honeyed sunlight sprouted through the remaining clouds, drying up the damp autumn afternoon. Finneas and Skye were heartily met by them as they sauntered out of the train station. 

 "Mmm. . . " Finneas fluttered his eyes shut, breathing in the blissful aroma, "petrichor."

"What?"

He threw her a glance. "The smell of moist earth just after rain."

"Oh."

"It drives me crazy."

"Where are you taking us?" She spun the dialogue around, not thinking twice.

"Depends."

"On what?"

"On where you prefer." He raked a hand through his dark locks. "There's one fascinating but deserted spot; or another that's more civilized. By your dislike of all things creepy, eerie and eccentric, I'm guessing you'd rather I take you to the place with people."

Her face twisted into a wry half-smile. The brightest he'd seen of her yet. An accomplishment. "Actually, I think sometimes it's creepier with the people than without."

He puffed some air out in somewhat of a chuckle. "Can't disagree. Deal then — that's where we're going."

An affectionate breeze hissed in through the branches of the conifers. They swayed a little from side to side, almost engaged in a smooth waltz. 

"So who'll start?"

"Start what?" She asked, feigning stupidity.

 But with Finneas, there was no way out. "Sharing their story."

"You mean you could?" She stared at him, her huge eyes pleading for salvation.

"I wouldn't mind at all. I've got nothing to hide." He shifted a glance her way. "If you want to hear it."

She gave it a moment's thought, and replied candidly: "I want to."

"It's not much of a story though, I'll admit. Not really worth writing down. No wonder you see me searching for them in all sorts of weird places."

"I'm sure it's worth hearing." Again, candid. Quiet, insecure. . . but candid.

"Ah, well. You've asked for it yourself. You'll have to let the storyteller bore you with his tale now."

The corners of her lips stretched wider than ever, almost cracking that ice and forming a smile. Almost but not quite. "Please do."

"Well, here we go. Once upon a time, there was a boy. . ."

And true it was, he did have nothing to hide. He began telling her his own little story of his life.

He told her how the little boy grew, being so different to all the others. Not that he cared. He never cared. Not when he stood out, not when he caught everyone's attention, not when he was talked about.

It was his parents who cared. And deeply enough. They had spent their whole life in that small, conservative, judgemental town. A town that stuck so firmly to traditions. 

A town so averse to change. A town that had more respect to their customs than their own people.

And —what is certain— a town that would not accept a non-conformist. Finneas was that non-comformist.

It was a poor place, whose old generation still remembered the feeling of hunger, cold and need. No strangers to hard work. Their kids were to be raised sensible people. With practical jobs.