The Moth Eternity

The archives of the Underground are in greater demand than ever before; people, now, look for the truth of the place, any hint to what has been going on under their noses for a century. But that’s not where she looks first. The information she needs is elsewhere, in a filing cabinet in a room in Caput that has been near-totally destroyed.

An extract from a journal, written in tight, non-cursive handwriting. Director Mai’s notes. A date, and then, with a clinical disinterest:

Gladys Delaware. Investigating elevators in Bibere, came close to making one operational. Dealt with.

One among only a handful of names…no mention of Cassie.

She closes the journal, and then hugs it tight.

There are new names to add to the memorials.

Constance pulls the chair out for him as Hiram approaches the table. He laughs, and leans in to kiss her cheek as he sits down. ‘I could get used to this being old thing, Jeanie.’

Constance smiles. There was a time when Hiram wouldn’t accept anything he thought someone else could use, even their time, but having emerged into a world of plenty the old man has finally learned how to accept a gift graciously.

Hiram regards the three tumblers laid out on the table.

‘I think we’re close, Jeanie.’ His tone is not one of excitement, but one of contemplative contentment. This endeavour has not been a sprint, no, the two of them have ran this marathon for seven years now.

It takes a long time to make good whisky.

Constance steps in and squeezes his shoulder. The two of them have spent so long working together on this project. Finishing it was never the point, not that it has stopped her trying.

He sips the first, and shakes his head. ‘Too bitter, no, this isn’t it.’

He sips the second, and shakes his head again. ‘Not enough fire, too smooth.’

He sips the third.

Constance can’t help but hold her breath. This was her favourite.

He slowly considers the flavours. Tears glisten at the corners of his eyes.

‘That’s it. That’s her.’

Constance leans in and hugs him.

‘It's not perfect, but neither was Gladys. I think this is the way it should stay.’

Constance has made many cocktails to honour the lost over the years, but this one was always special: for Gladys she needed to do something different. And she needed to do it with her father. For seven years they have worked together to make something worthy of her name, during which time Hiram has slowly opened up about his wife, and having now remade her as spirit Constance can’t help but feel that she has finally gotten to know her as well.

Perhaps it pushed them apart when she left, but it is certain that her memory pulled them together now that she is gone. Constance lays her head against his shoulder, he looks up at her with a smile, “I love you, Jeanie.”

“I love you too, dad.”

Finally, Danny stands and stretches with a sigh. He puts down the paintbrush in his hand, balancing it carefully on the edge of the palette with the careless expertise of an artist. She looks at the walls of the station. They’re bright, decorated in an eclectic mish-mash of styles. On one side, a depiction of the sea, a pigeon flying over it. A station symbol, the neat white letters replaced with a joyous scrawl of Ludere. Cowboy boots, tulips, moths, desert sands, bright sky, sun; all bleeding into each other, the synthesis both jarring and natural.

This is not the only station that has been painted. Most every tunnel is newly renovated. Many hands cautiously pick up the paints left out for use, and it does not take them long to enjoy the process, delighting in the creation of new things. Every station becomes vibrant, and lights are put up not for the sake of survival, but purely for the joy of it. It is like a certain station, though hollow now, has bled into the rest of this place, sharing its beauty with those who stay below ground.

The Underground is beautiful.

By Sophia dM, Jess B, Tenaya F and Will B. Writing by Sophia dM, Gareth M, Will B and Ace D.