Accounting for all the Pieces

She was old. She did not look that old. Her hair was gray, rough, you could tell just by looking at it, rough, and brittle. Her eyes were still sparkling, just like the ones in her youth. She was sitting up, but barely, it felt as if a strong wind would push her down. She was thin. She was haggard. Wherever she went, she didn’t go to very many places, but wherever she went, mostly her living room, it smelled of rosemary and of sage. You could almost feel the ancient-ness throbbing in the air, time of centuries long past that she had seen go by.

She sat there, her eyes gazing into the distance. You could and would probably mistake that for her dozing off. That was not the case. She was seeing, she was seeing. The big clock hanging in the living room ticked off the seconds as they went by.

She saw everything. She saw the chess players, playing their games. Could taste the board almost burning, could feel the air almost throbbing with anticipation. Could see the shadows encircling the board, could see the tree stumps that were the only things that showed evidence of living beings inhabiting the place before. She saw the motives of the players, she saw the reason they played. She saw all their games now, just as she had been seeing the games when they had began meeting, once a week in that park.

She saw Hūr Amran, just like she had seen his father before him. She saw him, sometimes he flickered into his father, mirror image as he was of him, and since he was right now, in the same place.

She saw the Detective, and for him, she shed a tear. A mortal, who had no right or business to be involved in the whole affair, and yet, he was humanity’s representative on the council. Knew he not.

She felt the Beings. She could not see them, locked as they were in the Vault. She should not even have been able to feel them. Yet she did. 

She saw the dancer. Twirling, hopelessly, crying, sobbing, tears inside her almost drying up. Hope leaving her. Despite her best tries, the dancer seemed to think it was all lost. It is not, my child. The dancer looked up, her face a picture of confused forlorn hope.

She saw each of the three men, where they were. She saw the man in the cavern, keeping a watch over everyone he knew of. She saw the doctor who was keeping track of the parasites he had let loose on the world. She saw the man on whose behest that had happened. She saw the boy who had made friends with his, and who still had a part to play, a part that had not started yet.

She saw all. And none but the beings saw her back, and none but the dancer felt her back. The clock ticked as time slowly marched by. Uncaring. Indifferent.