In the days to come there would be more visitors. An influx of them. Always coming, always going. Faces and names to those faces. An abundance of multi-colored winter clothes and scarves and hats and gloves and red faces and red eyes. And there were tears. But she, Ink, could not shed any for herself, for she had shed all the tears she could, and now there was nothing in her but an empty well of emotion gone extinct.

And numbness.

This was what Ink felt during those days. It was a feeling she could not shake. Perhaps it came from the empty well of nothingness. Or perhaps it was instead the unkempt and uneven solution of every emotion there was that was resulting in the numbness.

Perhaps.

Winter Break was to be in effect until the second of January, so Ink had time. Too much of it, in fact. The faces that came expressed their deepest sympathies but none served to alleviate her of the pain and suffering that was at hand. None, too, realized the extent this pain would be traveling.

She was forced to head home on Sunday, the twenty-eighth. She knew it was a good idea, because she had slept in the same clothes for several days straight, and it would not do to become sick in a hospital, but she had been hesitant if not outright pigheaded in not wanting to go home just yet. It took some coercing from Artifex and a gentle, reassuring pat from Mac for her to fully commit.

Mac drove her home that day in his truck which now felt noticeably emptier and colder. The ride was filled with nothing but the sounds of the heater starting and failing. At one point Mac tried to turn on the radio. On the radio came a song, too, a song that caused visible dismay for Ink:

And so after this the radio had gone silent and it was to be silent for future rides.

When they came to Ink’s home, they saw that the chimes that had nights before sung and wailed were gone, as if they had been robbed by some unseen ghost, taken to the blackest void set deep in the earth, never to be seen again. This did not concern Ink in the slightest. The chimes were bad memories, she figured, and in private she thought it good that they were now gone, even if, in their absence, the porch seemed all the more lonely. She unlatched the screen door and unlocked the one behind it, then stepped forward into the empty home.

The vomit had pooled on the carpet and had long dried. Wordlessly, she and Mac gathered towels and did their best to clean the residue. The carpet became white with the soapy suds and the smell of lemon-scented detergent filled the drafty home until surely there would be no other smells but it. When they were done, they put the towels in the kitchen sink and set about rinsing and drying them. They did not deign to put them in the washing machine just yet.

Ink tidied up the sofa, the one from where her mother had fallen. She put the pillows back where they belonged. She fixed the cushions and draped a blanket over the back side, where one could grab it if the need arose. Then she went around the living room and straightened and fixed whatever she could. Mac helped her. Soon all that had been awry was fixed and they stepped back to admire their work.

Ink’s hands were itchy. She clenched and unclenched them. She wore a frown that was kept steady through sheer will, though she almost broke down again when Mac hugged her close. And of course, they said nothing, nor did they need to say anything, for what they had done spoke volumes anyway.

Then Ink turned away. Mac’s hand slipped away from her, and he let her go. She went down the hall and turned into the bathroom. She flicked on the light switch. The mirror was dirty. So was the sink, the counter. These would need to be cleaned, but they would not be today. For now she had to focus on herself. She went to the back and turned on the faucet and let the water run. It was warm and steamy.

She showered for a long time. Her hair had grown a considerable length and now was tickling her shoulders. She ran her hands through it, reflecting. When she was little, she did not like to have her hair long, but was also afraid of having it cut. Her mother had taken up scissors and did the cutting herself. This was how Ink had developed her hairstyle, a gift from her mom. From time to time she would do this, even after Ink had conquered her fear of the barbershop. Each time, Ink would protest, but secretly she enjoyed it. A mother’s nimble fingers made for a simple yet noteworthy style.

When she finished showering, she stepped out and draped a towel around herself. Then she came out of the bathroom and went into her room, where she changed once again. At her dresser she sat down and combed through her hair and thought once again her mother cutting it, and she debated taking some scissors and snipping away at the length, but then she decided against it. She looked past her bed and out the window. The sun had come out and was shining over the snow, blindingly so. There were no bird sounds. She glanced at the clock, saw that it was a little past 9 in the morning. She had yet to eat, yet did not feel an inclination of hunger.

She came down the stairs and was surprised to see Mac’s truck still in the driveway. She went into the kitchen where she saw him cooking up some eggs. Breakfast. He glanced up at her and offered a little smile, to which she nodded but said nothing and did not smile back. He did not push her. She went into the dining room table and saw he had even set up plates for her, but none for himself. It was odd. But she still said nothing, and she sat down.

Mac finished cooking. As he came into the room, bringing the pan with him, she could smell the eggs he had made. They were scrambled. They had onions and tomatoes and some basil leaves—he must have fished them out of the fridge. Unconsciously, her mouth watered. He set a batch down and scooped all of the eggs onto her plate. Another smile. He put the pan back into the kitchen and came back with a cup of coffee for her. She took it with a grateful nod. Then he settled back into the chair and folded his hands together.

She had not realized how little she had eaten in the past several days until she had finished the first batch of scrambled eggs and had moved on to the second. The coffee was a good combination of bitter and sweet. Mac had even put in a pinch of cinnamon, something she had never tried but now was finding quite appealing. Perhaps in the future she would have to try this herself.

She stopped eating, then. She glanced outside. The snow was low today and there were little trickles of water running down the driveway into the gallows that was her backyard. The big oak tree out back swayed in a silent wind and the little birdhouses that her mother had put up many years ago were vacant and there were no birds.

Then she looked back. There was a potted, leafy plant on the table, blocking his face. “Aren’t you hungry?” she asked quietly, tiredly.

Mac blinked. Then he let out a rumbling chuckle, low and gentle, and pushed the plant a little out of the way. “What’s so funny?” she asked.

“It’s just,” he said, “that’s the first thing outta yer mouth?”

“... Yes?”

His smile revealed the significance of that statement. “Thank you for asking, Ink, but I’m fine.”

“Oh.” She looked down at her eggs, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Sorry… guess I was really hungry. This was really good, Mac.”

“‘S okay. I’m glad you liked it.”

She returned to eating, albeit slower, but for that moment, she felt a little warmer inside.

She finished her meal soon thereafter. Mac was still watching her. His smile was still there, but it was tired, too, as tired as she was. She just wanted to curl up somewhere nice and safe and sleep for a little while, and yet she knew whenever she closed her eyes she would see that night. Sleep would not come, then. Sleep would not come for a while. She wondered if there were bags under her eyes, if they were dark and visible and telling. She wondered if these were what Mac was watching now.

It was silent again. It did not seem those there would talk or speak or otherwise break the silence. Ink did not want to. Please, she begged. Please, let me have this moment. Let me be.

And, for that moment, it seemed that the universe listened; and thus obliged.

“No uncles?”

“No aunts, either. Mom was an only child. And Mumum and Papa were old.”

“And they…”

“Passed away a while back. Maybe three years after I was born.”

They were talking about family. It was a topic Ink had approached tentatively, but under the softness of Mac’s voice, she gradually allowed herself to open up about it.

“Must be a small family, then,” he said.

“Mmhmm.” She took a sip from her coffee mug. “For the most part, we only have close family friends as opposed to family members. I have godparents who live up in Vanhoover. I think they’re the closest, in terms of proximity.”

She tried not to show her apprehension. She knew the topic, and thus, the question, would inevitably come up. Mac would have to ask it eventually. She was just surprised it had taken him, or anyone, this long.

He nodded slowly. His hands had come undone from each other and he had placed them on the table in a relaxed state. It was 10:15. They had been in Ink’s home for an hour, the longest Mac had ever been.

“And…” He paused, and Ink knew he was about to ask that which she wished he wouldn’t but knew he must. “And… what about yer father?”

She put the cup down, searching for an easy way to put it. There was none. So she said, “He’s out of the picture.”

His face, blank, demonstrated he did not understand. She did not feel bothered by this. “He’s gone, Mac.”

“Gone? Y’mean, he left?”

“No… well, yes, but…”

“... Ink?”

Her voice had faltered and she had now resumed staring at her plate. Her thoughts strayed to her mother. What would she be eating? Could she eat? Somehow that subject had never come up in any of her conversations with the hospital staff. Did they have to insert a feeding tube down her throat? Did they have to use an IV bag? How could she eat, knowing her mother wasn’t?

“Ink.”

Mac’s voice brought her out of the storm. She sharply looked up and at him, and locked on to his green eyes. They steadied her. He reached a hand out and took hers in his, a simple gesture that meant more to her than anything else at that singular moment. And she found, deep in herself, a resolve; a resolve to be forthright and open with what she did mean.

So she said, “He’s dead, Mac.”

His hand did not move. His gaze did not shift. But his voice did waiver. “... dead?”

“Dead.”

“Oh.”

She almost smiled grimly at that “Oh.” It was so typical of people when she told them this. For what else could you say?

“He passed away a long time ago, when I was four. I don’t remember much of him, just a warm presence and a gentle smile. He was very sick, I think, even before I was born. Cancer took him.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. But I’ve had time to move on, and so has mom. She… she took it the hardest, of course. But we’ve coped.”

She took another sip of her coffee. It was running dangerously low. “He had no siblings, either. His parents died after mom and he got married, and his parents were also from single-child families. Small family. No cousins, no godparents. Very private, you know?”

“Eeyup.”

She did not need to say anything further, for the conclusion had already been made. As of today, Ink had no living blood relatives. No one to come to her aid. No one to take care of her while her mother lay near the shores of oblivion in that hospital bed. She was, without a doubt, alone. And she did not need to say this, because it needed no saying, and she knew, too, that if she brought that conclusion to life with words, she would be broken.

So they sat there, quietly. The wind went away. All sounds did. Even their breathing became so subdued that it was buried beneath the silence itself.

In that silence, in this home, Ink found her memories. And that one, singular, terrible night stretched long into the arrow of time, where it would strike her heart for all eternity, where it would never be forgotten.

“I can’t stay here.”

She had whispered this, almost unconsciously. When it had left her lips it was like her soul had gone away. The warmth from before was gone. All was cold inside, growing colder still. Was she, too, dying? Was she, too, on the brink of perishing from forces beyond her control?

Mac gazed at her. Then, he slowly nodded.

“I just can’t.”

“I know.”

“This house, this home, it… I just…”

“I know, Ink.” He squeezed her hand. “I know.”

“Mac, I…” Her voice cracked. “I don’t know what to do… where to go. Or if there’s anywhere else to go for me. I…”

I what? For there was no answer she could give that could quench the undying thirst for comfort and peace she held. No answer that could be given that would hold her and hug her as a mother would and reassure her that things would be all right.

There was, at this moment, only herself, her home, and Macintosh Apple. And was the really enough?

“You could stay with us.”

He had spoken so softly that even in the silence she might have missed all that he had said. The words took their time, wounding themselves around her mind, until a flash of comprehension startled her. “W-what?”

He spoke without a trace of annoyance, of condescension; there was only sincerity. “Ah said you could stay with us.”

“Stay with… you?”

He nodded, smiling. “Eeyup. We could set you up ‘n the spare room. It’s real nice and comfy. And I’m sure my folks wouldn’t mind. Heck, I bet Granny Smith and Apple Bloom would be suggestin’ the same thing if they were here.”

“And Applejack?”

“She’ll understand.” He said this with such conviction that Ink found herself believing him.

Mac’s smile slowly began to slip off his face. “I mean… since you don’t got no other folks. And, well, I’m sure you could take care of yourself on your own, but… well, what I mean to say is… uh…”

He squinted his eyes and scratched the back of his head. “Shoot. Consarnit, how do I put this…”

“Mac,” she whispered.

“All I’m saying is, y’got folks who care about you. Folks who want to help. And with what’s happened… well, it ain’t right of me or anybody to leave you to your lonesome. And it ain’t right to see you wallow.”

He paused, searching her eyes. “I care too much about you t’ let that happen, y’hear?”

Some flame flickered in the recesses of Ink’s heart. It almost tickled.

His hand came away from hers. “But… it’s up t’ you. I ain’t gonna force you or anything. But just know that I’m here for you, Ink. And I always will be.”

He smiled again, and it was a small smile, but no less genuine.

He took her plate and went into the kitchen. She heard him turn on the faucet as he began to clean. Left alone at the table, she stared at her hand, where his had once been.

Slowly, she began to think.