Shut Up, Cinderella

Talking to the Dead

That evening, once he was done with work, Cinder's footsteps led him out of the house, through the streets, to a place he hadn't gone to in years upon years.

Sometimes he had felt guilty about it, but he had never seen a point in coming here. He had always thought that it would only make him feel worse, and so he had kept putting it off until he finally stopped entertaining the idea at all. But that had been his old self. He had changed since. He had learned.

The cemetery was quiet at this time of the day. All the graves were covered in snow, many tombstones so hidden under layers of white that he could no longer make out the inscriptions. He didn't need to. Even though he had only walked the way once, he still vividly remembered every turn and every corner.

His father's grave was well-tended. Flowers and fir branches poked out from under the snow, most likely placed here by Hestia or his sisters. Cinder had never seen a point in leaving flowers on people's graves. It wasn't like the dead could appreciate them anymore.

Quietly, he knelt down, brushing the snow off his father's tombstone until it looked almost new, almost as if it had only just been placed there. Immediately something stirred in his chest, an old wound opening after he had kept it hidden and frozen under layers of snow.

His hands were cold. Cinder shivered, standing face to face with his shadow falling on the tombstone, the metal inscription bearing his father's name. The reality that he was indeed gone, taken from the living years and years and years before his time.

Cinder took a deep breath.

"Dad?" he said.

His voice fell into the silence around him and was swallowed up by the quiet evening. No one answered. Nothing responded. His father hadn't used alchemy to grow trees above his grave that allowed him to communicate with the living.

What am I doing here? The question had hung in the back of his mind for the entire way, but now it seemed realer than ever. His father couldn't hear him. This was ridiculous.

But he could pretend he did. He could imagine, just for a few moments, that his father's soul was indeed still out there, watching over him, listening to his words from somewhere in the afterlife.

"Dad," he said again, "it's been some time."

The tombstone stood silent. Cinder kept his eyes on the inscription, no matter how much the sight hurt him. He had to confront it, once and for all.

"I'm sorry I never come here," he said, imagining his father's face, his dark, warm eyes, his hearty laugh. "I'd tell you how Hestia and my step—my sisters are doing...but they've probably been telling you that themselves, huh?"

He tried to smile, bitterly, but his face wouldn't cooperate. The wounds inside him ached again. Cuts and gashes that seemed to have turned into scars broke open, as if they had never healed, never scarred, just been frozen into numbness for three years.

Three whole years.

"The workshop's doing fine too," he said, his voice feeling unstable as he continued to speak. "You taught me everything I needed to know before..." He swallowed hard. "Before you left. Thanks for that."

There was still no answer. His eyes stung. He blinked away the feeling. The cemetery was empty. He was cold.

"It's doing fine," he said, "but I have something to tell you. I think...I'm thinking of passing it on. Getting an apprentice."

The words had felt heavy on his tongue. He closed his eyes. Before his mind the image of his father appeared, tilting his head, listening curiously while giving an encouraging smile.