What Was I Made For?

Wish You Were Here

Chapter Nineteen: Wish You Were Here

Wish You Were Here- Pink Floyd

The clock's hands converged on eleven with a mechanical click, echoing throughout the empty corridors of the Hotel. Alastor's shadow stretched across the marble floor as he and Angel Dust strode into the lobby, their footsteps a silent testament to the urgency that pulsed in the air.

"Six hours," Alastor murmured, his voice a low hum that barely disturbed the hush. Angel nodded, his four arms crossed, a rare seriousness tempering his usually flippant demeanor. They both understood the gravity of what lay ahead — the addressing of the people, a spectacle of power and persuasion that would cement their rule.

Yet here they were, within the confines of the hotel's baroque walls, where devilish gargoyles leered from lofty perches and crimson drapes held back the light of Hell's ever-burning landscape. The place was more than just an abode; it was a symbol of sanctuary and rebellion, a fortress amidst the chaos of infernal politics.

Charlie's decree to remain within the hotel's safety had been met with resistance by her advisors. Time was slipping away, and every moment spent outside the palace was a moment lost in preparation. However, Alastor found solace in her stubborn resolve. After all, this hotel was not just a domain over which he presided; it was the heart of his kingdom, a reflection of his own soul's twisted corridors.

The debris of conflict lay scattered around them, a stark reminder of the tumult that had just passed. Amidst this tableau of devastation, Alastor's presence was a beacon of stability for Charlie, his unwavering stance at her side as silent and immovable as the stones of the great Hellish architecture that surrounded them. He cradled something precious in his hands, an object that seemed so ordinary and yet held within it the remnants of a legacy – Lucifer's cell phone, its screen dark and inscrutable.

"Charlie," Alastor's voice was barely audible, gentle as the rustle of leaves in a quiet forest. "The passcode... it's your birth date." His words carried the weight of intimacy, of secrets shared between hearts rather than spoken aloud. It was a gift, a piece of her father entrusted to her by one who knew too well the cost of loss.

A shiver ran through Charlie as she reached for the phone with trembling fingers. Her heart pounded against her ribs, each beat a drumroll of anticipation. With a breath caught in her throat, she entered the numbers, the digits that represented her beginning now serving as the key to unlocking the past her father had silently recorded.

The phone came alive under her touch, its glow casting a warm light on her face, softening the hard lines of anxiety and sorrow that had etched themselves there. A gallery icon beckoned, and as she tapped it, time seemed to stretch and pause, waiting for the revelation of hidden moments.

Image after image flickered across the screen, each frozen frame pulsating with life. There she was, laughing, her eyes sparkling with unguarded joy. Another showed her deep in thought, the furrow of her brow betraying the intensity of her concentration. And another, a candid shot capturing a fleeting moment of vulnerability, a side of herself she rarely allowed others to see.

Every photograph was more than just a captured instance; they were stanzas in a poem, notes in a melody that only she could fully grasp. She watched her life dance before her on the digital stage, each picture weaving into the next, creating a symphony of visuals that sang of love, of observation, of silent presence.

Charlie's breath hitched as the montage of her existence played out, a testament to the unseen eye that had cherished every second, every nuance of her journey. Her father had been there, always, in the quiet, in the background, documenting her path with the tender touch of one who knows the impermanence of moments.