ghostsarereal | (no subject)

It's almost autumn, and it almost feels like it. It isn't quite, of course, there's still some warmth lingering in the air, the trees all still green, but the heavy heat of the summer has given way to something less oppressive, and Edith is glad for it. The fact that she finds it easier to dress for weather that's even a little bit cooler only plays a little part in that, though it's true that, even after two summers here, she can't quite adjust to how small some of the clothes here are, women walking around with far more skin bared than would ever have been considered decent back home. She's adjusted some, wearing shorter skirts and shorter sleeves and fewer layers, but she doubts she'll ever really be entirely comfortable with that particular aspect of living in the future.

Others, though, are beyond welcome. It's worth it, she thinks, to have a little more freedom, to be taken more seriously, and it isn't as if she had anything left for her back home anyway. Just an old, rotting house and the ghosts inside it, a place she can't imagine herself wanting to revisit. Here, she's built a life for herself; she has friends, she has Merry, she has an agent who thinks her work has promise. The latter two almost certainly would have been opportunities she'd never have back home.

She has Merry in mind as she makes her way around the flea market in the park, absently wondering if she should find something to bring back for her. Mostly, she's been looking at smaller trinkets and such, but she stops in front of a booth selling artwork, tucking a strand of her hair, hanging loose down her back, behind her ear. "These are beautiful," she says to the person behind the booth. "Did you do them?"

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I've gotten into the habit of sitting with a sketchbook while I wait for people to walk over. I practice and practice and practice, trying my damnedest to capture the lines of movement in the crowd. It absorbs my attention, and I don't mind that. I could never be like some of the other vendors, trying to pull in the attention of passersby, sticking their noses into every potential customer's conversation. And I'm not worried about theft. Who the fuck is going to steal a painting off a wall? Who the fuck would steal one of mine? So that's where my focus is when she speaks, on the quick, short strokes of my pencil against paper.

The voice is wrong.

It's wrong in a way that sits heavy in my stomach, something about the way she pronounces things off somehow. Even before I look up, I can't help thinking it's the wrong cadence, familiarity curdled by some unrecognizable affectation.

The clothes are wrong, too, the hair too yellow, but the face, that's hers.

Not done up as I remember, not bright with makeup too old for her years, but hers all the same. I look at her, dumbstruck, silent, my heart in my throat pounding loud enough to hear, hard enough to strangle.

Amber.

It's not her, and I know it in almost the same instant that I see her, but still I stare. I can't help it. I stare and my sister stares back.

"Yes," I answer, and it comes out like a question.

It's hardly the response she's expecting. The question is a simple one, if perhaps somewhat self-explanatory, but he isn't looking at her like she ought to know already that they're his, or like she's just one of any number of potential customers passing by. Edith can't quite place what it is, but the way he stares, it isn't difficult to tell that something's wrong. She draws in a breath for it, quick and sharp, her mouth curving into a frown. It would be easy to keep walking, look elsewhere, write all of this off as some strange encounter and probably never think on it again. She can't quite bring herself to, though — manners, maybe, too deeply instilled in her from an upbringing in another time, or concern, or curiosity, or some combination of the three.

"I'm sorry," she says, half a question in turn. "Are you alright?" He doesn't seem it, but it feels better to ask than to assume, not least when she hasn't the first idea what's going on.

If I didn't already know, if the rhythm of her words weren't wrong, if I hadn't already noticed the different shade of her hair or how she dresses, that alone would be enough to tell me she's not Amber.

Amber wouldn't fucking say she was sorry. Amber was never fucking sorry, not to me.

"Yes," I say again, though it sounds far away to me. I'm away, in the same distant way, that I need to pull myself together and at least try to pretend to be vaguely normal. Even that idea seems like it belongs to someone else, though, and I can't seem to do anything but watch her, wary and bewildered. I consider explaining, and then I blurt it out before I can think better of it. "You're not — you look like my sister."

"Oh," Edith says, surprised to hear that, though there's no real reason why she should be. She can't quite hide it, though, her eyes widening slightly as she finds herself at a loss for words. Having always been an only child, it's difficult for her to imagine what it would be like to encounter someone who looked like a sibling. A near-double for one of her parents, though, or the Sharpes, or even Alan, would almost certainly be enough to have her more than a little thrown. While it isn't as if she could have known, or like she can help the way she looks, it's an uncomfortable thought. "That's — I always forget that can happen here."

"Yeah," I say, as much air as sound, "me too." It isn't her fault and it's not like there's anything either of us can do about it, but it still leaves me unsettled, trying not to stare. It's been so long since I saw Amber, but even with the years that have passed, I know she wouldn't look like this. Older, yes, but not like this. It's strange to see my sister's face making expressions I never associated with her. I don't really know how to feel.

I miss her, I guess. I don't think about it too much. I know I'm better off without the three of them. But that doesn't change the fact they're my sisters.

"It's fine, just... a surprise."

"I can only imagine," Edith says, shaking her head slightly. She probably can't, at that, not least when she doesn't know anything about him or his family. Her father, she misses desperately, but that hardly seems quite the same when she's seen his dead body and knows just what happened to him. This doesn't strike her as such a situation, though she probably shouldn't be making any assumptions on that front, either. "And I suppose there's no way to see something like that coming, is there?"

I shake my head at that, by way of agreement. "No," I say. I couldn't have expected that I'd see Amber today, even if it's just her face on someone else. There's no way I could have imagined this, though there are days I think I see her disappearing around every corner. That's different. I know that's all me, some trick of faulty wiring in my brain. This, here, is something real.

I think of telling her that it's just been a long time, but I leave it at that. My family history has nothing to do with her.

"I'm Harley," I say instead. I need a name to give her, anything but Amber.

"I'm Edith," she replies, her small smile still a touch apologetic. Maybe it will help, clearly differentiating herself like that, or maybe it won't. Either way, she supposes it doesn't really make a difference for her, but she can't help feeling a little responsible for this, though she knows she couldn't have been. That's not the way this place works, and she doesn't have an explanation for how such things happen any more than anyone else she's met here. She supposes there probably isn't one, just a matter of chance, or something of the sort. That doesn't make it any easier. "I've... never had this happen before."

She seems apologetic, and I'm thankful for that, seizing hold of every little difference. Amber would never dress like that. She'd never feel bad for something like this. She never liked to take responsibility for her actions.

I shake my head. "I've seen people who look alike," I tell her, "but not this." Thalia looked so much like Effy, which I guess should have been stranger. But there was always something more about Effy, some indefinable spark that sets her apart. It never much seemed to matter. It occurs to me that if she feels bad, I should probably say something. "It's okay. It happens."

"I've only ever heard about it," Edith says. "Enough to know that it happens, but experiencing it is... something else." Even just being on the receiving end of it, as it were, that's the case. It must be all the more jarring to be the one finding someone who looks like a person they've known. She could apologize, but it isn't as if she could have known this would happen, or like she can help the way she looks. It's just an unpleasant coincidence, leaving her still a little uneasy, not quite comfortable.