Eight months.
Eight whole months had passed since Mr. Hunt’s death, and the visions of that day still haunted her. She had been content enough to meander through on Christmas Day because she was miserable enough, but most other times unless it was absolutely necessary, Irene had elected to avoid the park as much as she could. The ambiance of liveliness was never so great that it could drown out the sights, sounds and smells of that day. It wasn’t until Bear had darted off for the second time since she acquired him, and Irene was left to chase the damned creature once more, that she really was forced to go back into the park. This happened so many times that by now she was seriously considering if someone had sent her the cat with the express purpose of desensitizing her. Regardless of how the cat had come to be in her possession, it had done the trick. She’d ventured onto the paths once with some hesitation at first (she’d purposefully left the cat at home), and now she was able to walk the complete length of her old route without outwardly wincing. Screams of laughter and playfulness still caused her heart to leap out of her chest, but at least she’d gotten herself used to merely glancing this way and that as opposed to wanting to jump into the nearest obliging bush.
Today was the day that she’d decided it was time to start painting once more. Out of some mad impulse, she’d also brought the cat. Mercifully he had leapt inside her basket, curled up and was content to snooze for the time being. After laying out a blanket and taking out a sketch pad and pencils, it wasn’t long before Irene had lulled herself into a rhythm of sketching everything she saw: plants, flowers, women’s hats, croquet equipment, her own basket with Bear’s black tail protruding from underneath the flap, and even a few horses.
She’d been unprepared for the gust of wind that suddenly billowed out behind her. It blew through the loose sketches she’d discarded, immediately scattering them. Cursing to herself, Irene leapt up and shoved a hand in the basket to find her wand. The yowl of protest told her she’d clearly woken up the cat. The flap popped open and what looked like a massive black ball of soot had shot from the basket and off on the path. Cursing again, Irene lurched after him, wand in hand. The papers immediately obeyed and started to sweep back towards her. The cat, however, darted into a bush. Sighing, Irene slowed down to a walk, holding out her hand to collect the pieces of parchment. Up ahead, she could see one of the pieces struggling to get back to her. It was caught under a man’s foot, but he seemed to be paying no mind to it, and instead was looking at a nearby family; the same one Irene had been focusing on from afar when the wind had disrupted her.
There was nothing about this man that looked familiar, and yet when she walked towards him, she thought she recognized the pang that was plain on his features. There was something about how his eyes; he stared at the family, then she could see his gaze unfocus, then refocus. It told Irene all she needed to know; caused her to slow down even more as she approached him. She cleared her throat. “Excuse me,” She inquired tentatively. “Erm - my apologies, but…it seems my drawing got caught under your foot.” Upon further inspection, Irene realized it was the very drawing of the family he’d been staring at that he’d stepped on.
Eight whole months had passed since Mr. Hunt’s death, and the visions of that day still haunted her. She had been content enough to meander through on Christmas Day because she was miserable enough, but most other times unless it was absolutely necessary, Irene had elected to avoid the park as much as she could. The ambiance of liveliness was never so great that it could drown out the sights, sounds and smells of that day. It wasn’t until Bear had darted off for the second time since she acquired him, and Irene was left to chase the damned creature once more, that she really was forced to go back into the park. This happened so many times that by now she was seriously considering if someone had sent her the cat with the express purpose of desensitizing her. Regardless of how the cat had come to be in her possession, it had done the trick. She’d ventured onto the paths once with some hesitation at first (she’d purposefully left the cat at home), and now she was able to walk the complete length of her old route without outwardly wincing. Screams of laughter and playfulness still caused her heart to leap out of her chest, but at least she’d gotten herself used to merely glancing this way and that as opposed to wanting to jump into the nearest obliging bush.
Today was the day that she’d decided it was time to start painting once more. Out of some mad impulse, she’d also brought the cat. Mercifully he had leapt inside her basket, curled up and was content to snooze for the time being. After laying out a blanket and taking out a sketch pad and pencils, it wasn’t long before Irene had lulled herself into a rhythm of sketching everything she saw: plants, flowers, women’s hats, croquet equipment, her own basket with Bear’s black tail protruding from underneath the flap, and even a few horses.
She’d been unprepared for the gust of wind that suddenly billowed out behind her. It blew through the loose sketches she’d discarded, immediately scattering them. Cursing to herself, Irene leapt up and shoved a hand in the basket to find her wand. The yowl of protest told her she’d clearly woken up the cat. The flap popped open and what looked like a massive black ball of soot had shot from the basket and off on the path. Cursing again, Irene lurched after him, wand in hand. The papers immediately obeyed and started to sweep back towards her. The cat, however, darted into a bush. Sighing, Irene slowed down to a walk, holding out her hand to collect the pieces of parchment. Up ahead, she could see one of the pieces struggling to get back to her. It was caught under a man’s foot, but he seemed to be paying no mind to it, and instead was looking at a nearby family; the same one Irene had been focusing on from afar when the wind had disrupted her.
There was nothing about this man that looked familiar, and yet when she walked towards him, she thought she recognized the pang that was plain on his features. There was something about how his eyes; he stared at the family, then she could see his gaze unfocus, then refocus. It told Irene all she needed to know; caused her to slow down even more as she approached him. She cleared her throat. “Excuse me,” She inquired tentatively. “Erm - my apologies, but…it seems my drawing got caught under your foot.” Upon further inspection, Irene realized it was the very drawing of the family he’d been staring at that he’d stepped on.
![[Image: 9EDhNw4.png]](https://i.imgur.com/9EDhNw4.png)