imatreenow | six [action/voice]

[A peaceful melody played on a panpipe can be heard through the journal, or by anyone who happens to be passing by House 52 this afternoon. Veteran residents may recognize this particular tune as one that Martel played on occassion during her stay in Luceti, but to Mithos it is simply the song his sister would play to comfort him all those many, many years ago. Even now, it remains a source of comfort, one of the ways in which he can remember Martel. He can feel her presence beside him as he sits beneath a tree at the edge of the woods behind the house. Outside, despite the chill. Martel's music was never meant to be contained by walls, just as her soul and his memories of her were never meant to be contained by death.

Recieving his sister's panpipe (yes, the very same one, even though it had been broken when last seen) has been the first good thing to happen in quite some time. It is like a reminder not to give up -- Martel still needs him.

Mithos is entirely unaware that the journal is recording him, thus replies to any voice responses (or written responses) will occur last chronologically. Just for clarification.]

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[It's as new to her as it is to him: trusting and being trusted. She's never been good at it, not even at her best; certainly not after so many things happened. There's a pause while she takes in the length of the reply before her own answer comes.]

[Ami misunderstands if she thinks Mithos trusts her. Everyone should know the terrible things that happened to his sister, so they can feel the crushing guilt for what humanity's foolishness caused. Everything else about her, though, is solely his. The way she played music for him at night, the way she smiled, the way she gently encouraged him, the way he made her happier than anything else. Nobody else deserves to come anywhere close to to touching that.]

Apologies don't fix anything.

I know.

[If they could, she could be better than she is; maybe she could even have some semblance of peace of mind.]

[He frowns down at the page for a moment before closing the journal, perhaps more harshly than is necessary. Why apologize if you already know it does absolutely nothing? How stupid. Apologies don't bring back the dead, they don't heal the pain. They are as good as worthless.]

[Ami is left alone to stare at the journal for a long while. She did something wrong again.]

six [action/voice]

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