LIGHTNOVELONLINE Interlude 10: Clara
Clara sighed, watching as her hand absently brushed over the rough remnants of a concrete statue. The surviving masonry of the New York Public Library stood like a silent witness to the horror it had just witnessed, a testament to the destruction wrought by the sudden Chaos Event.
There, on the disheveled steps of this once grand building, Clara Roth found herself surrounded by ghosts.
Ghosts that, only hours ago, had been vibrant and full of life; promising cadets, young women with the spark of magic in their hearts, ready to protect both Earth and Terra with equal fervor.
Aaliyah Angelous, a tall, ebony-skinned Amazon with a cascade of crimson hair and the spirit to match. Park Eun-Ji, the calm and collected strategist with a touch as light as the spring breeze. Anastasia Gruzinova, with her heart as open and vast as the ocean she loved so dearly. Then there was little Chen Tiannuo, the youngest of them all, her laughter once echoing through the classrooms of South Jo Loon Preparatory Middle School.
Four from the Golden Generation, snuffed out like that.
Clara thought of them as her own children, the protegees she never had, and their loss was a wound that ached with a severity no physical pain could match. Her experience with the post-collegiate program had ignited a passion for teaching that had persisted through the years, and she’d had to bury her girls in a foreign city a literal world away from home. Midori was now missing too, amongst many others.
She fumbled with a pack of cigarettes, an old habit that had resurfaced to haunt her like the ghosts. Clara clicked her tongue in annoyance as she realized she didn't have a lighter, a minor inconvenience magnified tenfold by the looming grief she could no longer ignore.
"Bit of a habit, that?" The voice was a gravelly baritone, belonging to a burly man in a well-worn work shirt, a scarred and calloused hand extending a flickering lighter towards her.
Clara looked up, her eyes still filled with a distant sadness, acknowledging him. The man's hands, hardened from years of labor, told silent tales of daily grind, stubborn resilience, and a lifestyle where hardship was a constant companion. His jet black short hair made for a nice contrast against the clear night sky.
"Something like that. I started again recently," Clara replied, a faint smirk appearing on her lips as she caught it and lit her cigarette. Her sharp, analytical eyes noticed the slight tremor in the man's knuckles, the fresh wounds hastily bandaged, the quiet determination in his gaze.
A builder, a fixer, someone who made things work in a world that often didn't.
She didn't know his name and he didn't offer it. Somehow, it seemed unimportant, their shared pain transcending the need for mundane introductions.
"My girl… she was out there during the attack," he started, his voice trailing off. “She’s still missing.”
Clara’s heart twinged. Her own grief mirrored in this man’s eyes; an unspoken kinship formed from shared agony.
"I'm sorry…" she began, her voice barely a whisper. It was a well-worn sentiment, but sincere nonetheless. "This… it isn’t right. We came here to help, to protect...” She looked down at her boots, the soot and debris of destruction still clinging to them. "But it just never feels like it’s enough.”
Silence wrapped around them like a shroud, only broken by the distant wailing sirens and the harsh caws of scavenging birds. Clara inhaled deeply, the acrid taste of the cigarette smoke, coupled with the lingering hint of burnt metal and asphalt, felt familiar. Too familiar.
"My girls were good girls, too,” Clara murmured, her gaze fixed on the ruins as she sat down, yet seeing past them. "They were good girls." A sense of melancholy seeped into her words, laden with sorrow and remembrance. "Full of life, full of potential… it’s cruel to have them all snuffed out."
The man sat down next to her, his eyes tracing the intricate scars on his hands. Clara took note of them, the tell-tale signs of a man who worked with his hands, a man of the earth.
"Yeah..." He responded, the silence stretching between them filled with the weight of their words and the ghosts of their losses. "Seems like the good ones always get taken too soon. But what do we do, ya know, just sit here and take it?"
Clara turned to him, her eyes filled with a quiet resolve, her strawberry blonde hair dancing around her face as a gust of wind swept through the ruins. "No," she said firmly, "we pick up the pieces. We build again. And again. And again. That's what we do. That's what we have to do. For them. For ourselves.""
The man scoffed, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, but there was a spark of something in his eyes, an ember reignited.
"And who's to say that it won't all just fall apart again?" he asked, the cynicism clear in his voice. “My girl’s gone, and I can’t even go off to find my son. He crossed over the terminal right before it went down, and I don’t even know if he’s safe on the other side for heavens’ sake. We haven't even gotten a whisper back yet.”
Clara was silent for a moment, her gaze wandering across the remnants of a once lively cityscape. "There are no guarantees, are there?" she said, her voice soft yet resolute. "All we can do is try. That's all we've ever done. That's all we can do."
The man stared at her, those cynical eyes gazing into hers for a moment longer than was necessary, as if searching for something in the depth of her determination. "You make it sound so simple," he muttered, drawing a breath and exhaling a quiet sigh.
He glanced at her and then at the library’s remains, his thoughts drifting away. "My wife… she loved books, you know? Used to visit this place twice a week when we were newlyweds to be with her thoughts." His voice was softer now, tinged with a nostalgic pain. "She died eleven years ago in another damned attack. The attack that wrecked this city. I lost her and almost lost my boy. I had to rebuild once... and I hoped I’d never have to do it again."
He grit his teeth, "And now, losing my girl... I'm just tired, tired of trying."
Clara didn't respond immediately. Instead, she took another drag from her cigarette, watching the glow of the embers dancing at the tip. "We're all tired," she finally said, her gaze lifting towards the night sky, shimmering with stars that seemed so very distant and yet so very familiar. "Tired of fighting, of losing... of hurting." She flicked the cigarette away, watching as it traced an arc in the dark. "But if we stop, if we let the weariness get to us, then they win."
She turned towards him, her features softened by the darkness, yet her eyes remained as fiery as ever. "Your daughter, your wife... my girls... they wouldn't want that. They wouldn't want us to give up."
In the cool night, the ruins of a once magnificent city around them, a grieving teacher from another world and a weary father from this one sat in silence, the unspoken agreement passing between them. They were survivors, bound by loss and determination, and though the journey was hard, and the night was long, they would endure.
Because giving up was never an option.
“How old were you when you had your girls?” the man asked with a curious expression.
Clara chuckled softly, a melancholic sound that echoed in the stillness of the night. "Oh, I never had children of my own," she confessed, her gaze dropping to her hands, empty now without the comforting weight of a cigarette. "I mean, I'd love to one day. My girls... they were my students, but I loved them as if they were my own. I loved seeing their faces light up when they learned something new. I loved their laughter, their hopes… some I’ve even spent a decade nurturing and teaching. They were my family."
A silence fell between them, the weight of her words hanging in the air. The man, a stranger until this moment, seemed to understand. He was silent for a while, contemplating her words before finally speaking.
"I guess... we both lost our families today," he muttered, his gaze falling on his scarred, calloused hands. "I'm Zane by the way," he added after a beat, his gravelly voice softer than before. A name to the face, a connection formed amidst the ruins.
"Red," she responded with a tired smile. “But, you can call me Clara.”
In the quiet exchange of names, a subtle comfort was born, a shared understanding. Clara could feel the fatigue seeping into her bones, a weary sigh escaping her lips as she rose to her feet, ready to head back to the shelter.
Zane glanced up at her, his dark eyes thoughtful. He hesitated for a moment before finally speaking, his voice thick with unspoken emotion. "They'd be proud, you know," he said softly. "Your girls. They'd be proud to have had someone like you looking out for them."
A lump formed in Clara's throat, a mix of gratitude and grief washing over her. Her lips trembled, pulling at the corners as she nodded, whispering a simple "Thank you."
Then, a wistful smile pulled at her lips, her hands absently brushing the cold concrete beneath her as she nodded.
"I think they'd be proud of you too, Zane. You're fighting for your family. That's the most a father can do sometimes," she replied, her voice filled with genuine respect.
"Thank you, Red... Clara," he said, trying her first name. She didn’t protest. It sounded right. Like it was meant to be heard from his lips. Zane offered a small, genuine smile, his eyes conveying a silent gratitude.
Sitting side by side, two hearts heavy with loss, they found solace in the mere presence of each other. It was a peculiar kind of comfort, a bittersweet solace that only those who had tasted the bitterness of loss could understand. It was a silent pact, a promise to keep going despite the heartbreak, the loss, the despair.
They lingered in their shared silence, two lonely souls amidst the ruins of a fallen city. In that moment, Clara realized that she didn’t want to be alone in this city. And from the look on Zane’s face, he felt the same. He had lost his wife, possibly his daughter, and she had lost companions and students this week. They were both wounded, bruised, their hearts bleeding from wounds unseen. But perhaps, just perhaps, they could help each other heal, help each other navigate through the storm.
His gaze met hers, two pairs of eyes shadowed with loss, reflecting the broken world around them. There was a sadness in those eyes, deep and profound, the sorrow of a man who had seen too much, lost too much. But beneath the pain, there was also a resilience, a spark of defiance that was all too familiar.
And then there was something else. A warmth, a tenderness, a possibility. But it was fragile, a delicate flame dancing in the harsh winds of their reality, threatened to be extinguished at any moment.
Clara didn’t pull away. It was like the entire universe had been distilled into this single moment. Two individuals, stripped of pretense, connected by shared grief and loss, finding solace in each other. Clara didn't say anything. But then again, she didn't need to. Her silence spoke volumes, her gaze offering comfort, empathy, understanding. His gaze held hers, his dark eyes full of so many unspoken words, so many stories yet to be told.
Just as she thought he might reach out, might break the silent pact they'd established, Zane turned away. His gaze focused on the skeletal remains of the city once more.
"No rest for the wicked," he said, pulling himself up from the rough concrete. He dusted off his trousers and gave her a small nod, a gesture of acknowledgment, of camaraderie.
His gaze flickered back to the cityscape one last time before focusing back on Clara. "Guess we've got a city to rebuild," he said, his voice brimming with a newfound resolve. The raw edges of his voice held a trace of something else. Not hope exactly, but maybe the beginning of it.
Clara nodded, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips. "Yeah," she agreed, rising to her feet with a graceful ease. "Guess we do." The conviction in her voice belied the exhaustion in her bones, a spark of defiance against the odds.
There was an air of anticipation, of something not yet defined hanging between them as they stood there, the cold wind whipping through the silent ruins of the city. Clara looked at him, his profile silhouetted against the darkened cityscape. There was strength there, a will to endure.
Their gazes met, a silent understanding passing between them. It was a connection borne out of shared loss, a kindred understanding of what it meant to stand amidst the ruins of your life and make the choice to keep going, to keep fighting.
Zane turned to leave, his broad shoulders hunched against the cold. But before he moved away, he paused, turning back to face her.
"Will I see you again, Clara?" He asked, his voice barely audible over the nocturnal symphony distant city noises. His eyes bore into hers, revealing a need for reassurance, for a beacon in the overwhelming darkness of loss and uncertainty.
Clara looked at him, the pain, the sorrow, the resignation reflected in his gaze. A mirror image of her own struggles, her own grief. Here was a man who had suffered as she had, who understood the crippling weight of loss.
Her mind reeled back to the loneliness of her apartment in Shoreline, the cold, haunting silence that awaited her, a stark contrast to the loving warmth of a classroom filled with eager, bright-eyed students.
Maybe, just maybe, it was better to bear the weight together.
"We’ll be seeing each other, Zane." Clara's voice was steady, her eyes sparkling under the city's dimly lit skyline.
“Hey… you know what, how about we get some coffee tomorrow?" Zane suggested, his voice carrying an unexpected softness. "There's a place down on 5th street. Used to be a great joint before...well, before all this. Owner was a stubborn old coot, and made it through alive. I bet he's probably already brewing up a fresh pot."
A ghost of a smile fluttered across Clara's face, the first genuine one she had allowed herself since the world turned upside down. She moved closer and gave his hand a gentle squeeze, a silent promise wrapped in the warmth of her touch.
"I’d like that, Zane," she replied softly. The promise of a shared moment of normalcy, a moment to just be, felt like the most valuable gift she could have received at this moment. "We've got a lot to do out here..."
Zane returned her smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling ever so slightly. His eyes held hers for a moment, the unspoken connection between them palpable.
The two of them exchanged their contact information, before he turned to walk away. "See you in the morning then, Clara," he said over his shoulder, his voice floating on the wind, lost amongst the ruins.
“I'll see you, Zane,” Clara responded, her gaze following his retreating silhouette until it was swallowed up by the eerie calm of the night. The smoky smell of the destroyed city filled her nostrils, a grim reminder of the catastrophe that had brought them together. Yet amidst all the chaos and destruction, she found herself looking forward to the new dawn, and the promise of a shared cup of coffee.
The city lay in ruins, their lives torn apart, their hearts heavy with loss. But in this moment of shared grief and understanding, Clara found a glimmer of hope, a spark in the darkness. And maybe, just maybe, they could ignite it together.
The moon hung heavy in the midnight sky, casting long shadows that danced amongst the skeletal remains of what once was a bustling city. Yet amidst the darkness and despair, the promise of a new day and a new beginning lingered on the horizon.
Clara took one last look at the fallen city before she began her own journey back to the shelter. And as she walked away, her mind was filled not with the horrors of the past but the possibilities of the future, a future she would face head on, no matter the cost. Because Clara, much like Zane, was a fighter, and she was not about to back down.
The echo of their shared loss lingered in the cool night air, the ghostly remnants of the destroyed city bearing silent witness to their pact. Despite their grief, despite the overwhelming odds, Clara and Zane had made a promise - to themselves, to each other, to the memory of their lost ones.
A promise to keep going, to keep fighting, to rebuild.