Two Immortals
The sun sets over the horizon of crumbling gray buildings, towering shadows against the pinks and golds. Two immortals sit on the top of one of these desolate, forlorn structures, legs dangling over the ledge, and watch. She kicks her legs back and forth, basking in the wind that teases her hair and sends the plants climbing up the old walls into hushed whispers. He is still, back straight, hands folded neatly in his lap. There is serenity to him.
“You know what I miss?” she asks. “Music. They always made such wonderful melodies. I couldn’t really say which was my favorite. So many had great lyrics, but there were some instrumental pieces that captured feelings that words just couldn’t, you know?”
There is no birdsong as high up as they are, but the tiny shadows of birds can be seen flitting from building to building, their nests snug beneath creaking windows or atop bent light poles. On the narrow stretches of street below, the spiderwebbed asphalt is swept by fluttering ghosts of papers and echoes with the occasional groan of rusted metal. He points this out to her: the melody of the birds and the wind in the decrepit city.
She flaps her hand at him. “That’s hardly the same, and you know it.”
He shrugs.
“What do you miss? I know you have to miss something.”
He doesn’t. He can’t. He is impartial, an indifferent observer to the happenings of this place. It was never his role to favor any of them or their creations.
“Prude,” she sniffs, resting her head in her hand. There is a moment of silence save for the wind howling through the holes of the buildings, deserted save for two immortals sharing a passing evening in an empty world. “I miss the food, too. And festivals. And movies—oh, movies. There was this artistry to them, emotions and characters and stories... Well, you know.”
Yes, he knows his fair share of stories.
The sun is bigger, angrier and redder than it was when they were still here. Not enough to scorch the world they’ve left behind but enough for him to notice. The pinks of the sunset are darkening to a fiery orange, the golds to hues of dark purple. He wonders how many of them captured this scene that greeted them at the beginning and end of every day. Were the art galleries still standing? She would know. That was more her role, after all. He doesn’t ask. Soon enough, it won’t make much difference.
“Why am I still here?” she asks. He glances at her, but her eyes, iridescent and startling, are trained resolutely on the sun that only refracts their colors further.
Why not?
“I’m not like you. When they disappeared, I should have too. Others did. We aren’t—I’m not concrete like you.”
A wry smile twists his lips. He reaches into the pocket of his coat and pulls out an old pocket watch, the burnished gold dull in the dying light. Its arms jump and spin wildly in his hand, uncertain under his touch. Concrete, indeed.
She huffs. “You know what I mean.”
Yes, he does. He leans his head back and thinks over his answer even if it doesn’t take much thought at all. He was always here—long before she and the humans came into the picture. He walked the starry trails of the universe long before their sun flickered to life, but she is the one to accompany him the rest of eternity.
It is not much of a mystery, then. He tucks the watch back into his pocket, the one souvenir he’s collected in all his roaming. Unlike her admiration for their respective attempts, it amused him how they tried to capture him in one of their baubles. There was never any other life like them. He did not know if there ever would be again. He did not favor them, but he wanted to remember them.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Time smiles at her. “Though they are no longer here, you will always endure. Love never dies.”
Love beams back at him. The sun disappears over the horizon of the lingering earth. Two immortals part in the night. They do not bid each other farewell, never farewell. They will see each other again, for as long as Time marches on, so, too, does Love.
