Chapter Text
There′s cool blue water in this
Feeling you′re parting with
There's a cool blue heart you′re keeping
Whenever you start to leave
Cool Blue - The Japanese House
It’s a warm spring day when Izabelle steps off the bus. The air here is different, wetter, maybe? She can’t quite put her finger on it, but it reminds her of wet paint. Sort of viscous, like old yellowed walls being covered with a fresh new coat of paint.
Or maybe it’s just her.
Her feet have barely even touched the ground when a voice cries out to her. A woman with bright red hair waves her down, taking eager strides as she approaches.
“You must be Izabelle! I’m Robin,” she happily stretches out her palm, and Izabelle finds herself accepting the gesture on instinct, “I’m the local carpenter. The mayor asked me to pick you up and guide you to the farm.”
Izabelle mentally steels herself, and with a quiet breath, she offers the woman a smile.
“Nice to meet you, Robin. Thank you for meeting me here. I’m sure I’d have gotten lost if I tried to get there on my own.”
Izabelle throws in a little chuckle, for good measure.
Robin beams, and Izabelle can’t help but note how genuine it is. It unnerves her a bit, but she presses on, holding her own smile firmly in place.
“Well, let’s get to it! Follow me.”
And then they’re off, meandering down the path to the left, walking in silence. It smells like daffodils, sweet and spicy. Izabelle is awed by how blue the sky is, maybe even bluer than she remembers it being. It feels almost lucid, real and unreal, just being here again after so many years.
“And here we are! Hazelwood Farm.”
Izabelle isn’t sure what ruins the fantasy more: Robin breaking the silence or the rough state of the farm.
“It’s a bit overgrown, sure, but this place has got great soil. I'm sure you’d have it fixed up in no time!”
Robin’s optimism sounds genuine enough, but it isn’t helping though. Not at all.
Dear Yoba, what had she gotten herself into? This was insane, just quitting her job, uprooting her home, and for what? To tend to some wild wasteland?
Suddenly, her chest feels too tight and the sun is just too bright.
The sound of a door opening curbs the panic, if only a little. A real-world sound to keep her grounded.
“Ah, the new farmer! I’m Lewis, mayor of Pelican town. Welcome!”
“Hello, I’m Izabelle. Nice to meet you.”
Lewis smiles knowingly as he makes his way down the porch steps, “We’ve met before, but you were very young. You’re all grown up now.”
Izabelle hopes she hasn’t frowned at that. She's never cared for people saying things like that, acting as if they know her. Lewis’ smile never wavers, so she presumes she’s in the clear. She smiles a little bigger just to be safe.
Izzy forces a laugh, “Sorry, it’s been so long, I hardly remember.”
Lewis pats her on the shoulder, parting with a gentle squeeze.
“No need to apologize! All you need to do is focus on settling in. The farm is in good condition, but there’s certainly work to be done.”
There’s a pang in her chest at the reminder. So, so, so much work.
“Robin here fixed the place up before you arrived. It certainly needed the work.”
Robin laughs, “Nothing I couldn’t handle!”
She turns to look at Izabelle and offers her a warm smile.
“Most of the repairs were outside, but I made sure the inside was alright.” She raps her knuckles against one of the porch columns, “Hardy wood this place was made out of.”
She looks so proud, not of whatever work she did but of the wood itself.
Weird.
“Yes, it’s very…rustic.”
Robin laughs hard.
“That’s one way to put it,” she manages around her giggles.
Lewis rolls his eyes, “Don’t mind her, Izzy. She's just trying to make you dissatisfied so you buy one of her house upgrades.”
“Hey!” Robin retorts, folding her arms across her chest.
She mumbles something under her breath. Izabelle doesn't catch it, but the way Lewis rolls his eyes again tells her that he did.
“Anyway, you must be tired from the long journey. That bus ride can put on a bit of strain. You should get some rest. And maybe tomorrow you could explore the town and introduce yourself. The townspeople would appreciate that.”
And that’s that. With a wave and bright smile, Izabelle watches them go. Once they’re out of sight, a heavy sigh leaves her lips, along with her smile.
He called her Izzy. No one except her Pa did that anymore. It felt…nice, less formal. Unsettling? Maybe a bit, but sort of like home.
Maybe this place really could be home.
She nods to herself. She just had to be normal enough to make sure she fit in.
The house is smaller than she remembers, more yellow too. As Robin promised, the interior too has been mostly repaired and is overall livable. No frills, just the bare minimum. Bed, chair, and a table. What more could a girl want, really?
She really can't complain though. She'd come here with little more than a suitcase, a backpack and the clothes she’s currently wearing. Her furniture had been a part of the lease, pre-furnished with bonus access to overpriced amenities she never used, never needed and never wanted.
When she left, there really wasn't much of anything to take. Nothing that was hers anyway. She had a few boxes her Pa was going to mail her with an assortment of decorations, old clothes, family photos and the odd knick-knack or collector's item, but nothing else. Even with just a single table and no shelving in the house, it felt like all her stuff would fit.
It’s sad to think about, so she doesn’t.
Izabelle gives the room another once over, and just as before, it takes no time to do so. Even with such sparse furnishings, it still feels cramped, too compact, and not to mention a bit stuffy.
Had she made up the halls she used to run up and down?
Where was the bedroom where she cried after she'd fallen running down those same halls?
Or the bathroom where Grandpa would wash her scraped knees and bandage it up?
And the kitchen, where her grandma would smother her with hugs and kisses until the pain went away.
Had it always been so quiet?
…where had all the time gone?
Suddenly, the air tastes stale and feels too dry in her nostrils.
With a sigh, Izabelle moves to open the single window. It sticks, wiggling back and forth but never moving. Placing one hand on the upper half of the panel, she pushes and pulls at once. She struggles and struggles a bit more and is just about to give up when the panel makes a noise.
Kerchunk
In an instant, the breeze races in, and, in the next breath, the window pane hits the floor. The glass is still intact but is no longer held in place by the wooden frame. The frame, oddly enough, fared worse, snapped into two, split down the middle.
The sun and wind filter in, easy and wordless. The view, despite its unruly nature, is beautiful. Too beautiful. Izabelle looks to the broken wood and then to her hands.
Some broken skin and a few splinters.
She shuts her eyes and breathes in deep. It helps keep the tears at bay.