the tears will come, but don't you cry

It never gets easier to see someone else’s final moments from their own perspective and then come to, completely fine, at home. His eyes flit around in a panic, making sure he’s really in his library, and that no one else has been here since he last traveled, then he pulls himself up off the floor. He needs to write. He can’t let himself forget, although he sometimes thinks that would be for the better. Easier, for sure.

He stumbles over to the nearest bookcase, grabbing any random, empty book he can find; he doesn’t know how long he stands there, with the book laying open on the edge of a shelf while he covers the pages in messy, desperate scribbles, but eventually he’s sure he’s documented every minute detail. Every story needs to be told, this one as much as any other, and he is determined to do it justice. If he doesn’t, who will?