The WishKeeper (The Paragonia Chronicles) by Maximilian Timm

herself.
     

 
     
    9
    Broken
     
     
     
     
     
     
    A thick, heavy snowfall descended over the cul-du-sac. Street lamps lit up Abdera’s snow-covered streets and though Christmas lights on the small cottages of The Other Side did their best to brighten the neighborhood, it was sad and run down. A once happy little town, though never bustling, its comfort had leaked away over the past ten years. The familiarity and ease that emanated from its corners was gone, and the quiet that was left was loud and unnerving.
    A small single-story cottage with a wrap-around front porch was the only house without Christmas lights. The sidewalk and steps were untended and drifts of frozen snow were cut through with lazy footprints. The quiet of the cul-du-sac was juxtaposed by the heated argument going on inside the house.
    A small candle flickered on a dusty table as Miranda rushed by, a suitcase in her hand and tears streaming down her face. Grayson followed her like a pleading puppy as she picked up odds and ends, shoving them into a half open purse. With long, stringy black hair, Miranda’s eyes were wide, oval shaped and glistening from hours of crying. They were rimmed with exhausted redness, and begging for whatever extended argument they’d witnessed to just simply end.
    Grayson didn’t have a hard edge on him. He was simple, tall, and yet just a shell of a once energetic young man who thought he’d found the love his life. There was a flicker in his eyes that beamed with an inability to accept that he may have been wrong. As he groped at his wife, trying to keep her from storming out, he felt that it wasn’t just a girl he was begging to keep, but a life that for so long felt perfect. It was slipping through his fingers, leaving his clammy palms filled with nothing more than dusty confusion.
    “Please don’t do this, Miranda,” pleaded Grayson. He looked older than his years should show as he grabbed Miranda’s coat.
    “That’s the point, Grayson! I can’t do this. Not anymore,” replied Miranda as she tugged the coat away. She threw it over her arms and shoulders and hurried to the door. Grayson grabbed her again, stopping her.
    “We loved each other once, right? We can again. Just have to work at...”
    “I can’t work at it anymore, Grayson!” she said. “We never see each other! When we do talk, it’s nothing but arguing and you spend every moment in the basement painting whatever it is you’re painting and meanwhile I’m working two jobs just to -.”
    “I’ve got some bites on my work and if all else fails, I’ll get a job.”
    “Selling artwork to pay dentist bills isn’t a bite! And all else has failed,” returned Miranda as she turned toward the door.
    “Please, Miranda! We’ll spend more time together. We should have your parents over for Christmas dinner like we used to. Let’s just fix this.”
    “You hate my parents,” Miranda replied. “And spending time together - it isn’t that easy.”
    “Hate is a pretty strong word,” said Grayson. Miranda rolled her eyes and turned back to the door. He stopped her again, “Please! It’ll get better.”
    “How?” asked Miranda. “We’re broken. When does it get better?”
    “We’re not broken. Maybe a little bent, but just - please don’t run away,” begged Grayson.
    Years of comfort. Years of ease and the stability of a simple touch. A look that could strengthen a day’s chances at success. Like their little town, Grayson and Miranda were slipping away. Even though on the surface they thought it was obvious why, deep down the confusion was enough to break them. Miranda saw all of this in one flicker of candlelight that bounced from Grayson’s eyes to her own. Something deep down was wrong, missing. The stare was prolonged by Grayson’s firm grip on her hand.
    She let go.
    “Merry Christmas, Grayson,” she said, but as a goodbye. A finality.
    Swiftly she flung the door open and hurried down the snow covered porch steps, rushing