Gift

The boy stares down at the thumb drive in his palm, and the girl closes his fingers over it, steps back.

"This is what she left me," he says, and his voice is empty.

"She said to listen to it," the girl says. The boy makes a soft sound of agreement, and stands there for a long moment, the girl's fingers unconsciously reaching for the infinity charm hanging from a silver chain around her neck. The boy stares at the charm. The girl looks at him, and then she steps forwards and wraps her arms around him, holding him tightly for a single moment.

"Call me if you need me," she says, kissing him on the cheek and stepping back. "And listen to it, Lance. She wrote it for you."

The girl walks backwards for a few steps, and then turns and walks away. The boy stands in his doorway for a long moment, and then he steps inside, closing the door behind him. The old man sits in his chair. For a moment, he considers saying something to the boy; a snide comment pops into his mind, a drunken slur. But he drops it; the boy has been unstable, lately. Only the other day he smashed a bottle of his whisky. The man watches the boy walk to his room, and he keeps his mouth shut.

The boy closes his door behind him, and he sits at his desk and presses a button on his laptop, waiting for it to turn on. He plugs in the thumb drive and leans back in his chair, debating whether or not he should open it and find the file she left for him, wrote for him. But then it plays on its own.

He should have known; she was always so organised. She knew what she was doing when she made this for him. She knew that she wanted to give it to him at this time, a while after she left. She knew what she wanted to say. And now she is saying it and the boy is listening, leaning forwards, his elbows on his knees, his eyes trained on the speakers on his laptop as if he can see her, see her inside of the sound of her voice.

"Lance." He catches his breath. She laughs, and his heart skips a beat; he cannot breathe, for an endless moment. And then she speaks again, and his heart starts beating.

"I don't know what to say to you; words were never enough. So I thought I'd do something, other than speak. I thought I'd write you a song." She pauses for a long moment, and he leans forward, wondering if the recording has cut off; his heart speeds. Fear floods his veins. And then she coughs, and speaks again. "It's proper and strange, I know. But it's yours, whatever it is. Just like me." And then she starts to sing.

Do not cry for me, my love.

I am not here.

I'm not above.

There is no heaven, not for me,

Not when earth has all I need.

So turn your words to down below.

The flow of air,

The wind and snow.

The crunch of leaves beneath your feet;

The storms and gales and rain and sleet;

I live in the earth, my blood and bone,

They reside down below.

So do not cry for me, my love.

I am not here,

No, not above.

This is where we both must part.

But fear not, love,

Death's just the start.

Her voice is soft and breathy and imperfect, and he misses it so much he could explode from the feeling of it.

There, in his room, the boy stares at his laptop for a long, long time. And then he moves his fingers to the small, wireless mouse on his desk, and restarts the audio file. He listens to her voice, again and again, over and over. And then he bows his head, pressing his forehead against the desk, and he cries, the soft words of her song overlaying his sobbing, halting breaths.