Arthur sighed, recording the four thousandth street name in his frayed and faded journal.

-‘_Lainerie’_

_-Cobbled, narrow streets _

_-Overgrown vegetation_

_-Weathered stone angels_

_-What are angels?_

Arthur stopped writing, his pens ink flowing like a dark, meandering river across the page.

Angels. He stared at the scribbled phrase, wondering why he had written it. But the answer, like so much else, had slipped his mind.

Memories of places he had visited, and faces of his past had all faded, like the subtle patina on a well loved portrait. He assumed it had something to do with his sagging skin and weary bones, features he was sure he didn’t have all his life. But he had no one to confirm that theory with. All he knew was what he wrote in the journal that aged with him.

_-Stone, winged woman_

_-Cold_

_-One water maker_

_-Fountain. It’s called a fountain_

Arthur walked over and sat at the edge of the fountain, his wrinkled hand swishing the murky water.

The fountain was quaint, no taller than five feet and no wider than seven. In its center, a bronze statue of a woman and a child perched on a stone stool, looking up at the moon. A weathered plaque was enscribes with “For Celine”, but the smaller words beneath were lost to time and rust.

Arthur’s heart swelled with the romantic sentiments, but his thoughts soon turned melancholic. He could only assume that something bad happened to poor Celine, and whomever created the statue did it out of grief. Like so many other beautiful things he found, the fountain was painted with such tragedy.

Arthur got up, unable to look at the face of the bronze woman any longer.

He continued walking down the winding streets and stopped when he reached a dead end.

Before him stood a narrow two story home, with serene blue shutters and a charming chimney half destroyed. Pots hung from the iron railing with overgrown purple flowers that peeked out of the cracks.

Arthur had seen a hundred, no, a thousand homes that looked like this one. But instinctively, he entered, as though it was only natural to.

The inside was dark and cluttered, with dust filled furniture and shelves making it difficult to walk around. The table, an old wooden thing that leaned to the left, had three seats, but only one empty plate set out. He passed by it and made his way up the stairs, careful not to to trip on any of the loose pieces of floorboard.

The upstairs was not much diffrent, still covered in dust and lit only by the moonlight that shined through the windows. Arthur opened the first room near the staircase, where a wide double doored window dimly illuminated the place.

This room was even more cluttered than downstairs. In fact, it was so congested that Arthur spent a few minutes taking in each individual object, for if not he would see it as a mass of edges and curves.

Paintings hung on every wall, and more rested on the ground, covered in a thin white veil. Sculptures too. Bronze, clay, and metal. The smell of paint and linen was engraved into the room, seeping into every object and corner. Arthur brushed his hand over the painting of a child, her eyes a more vibrant color than his own.

Perhaps this is what an Angel is, he thought.

As he gazed at the paintings and statues, his foot stepped on something that made a muffled cracking sound.

A clutter of glass laid at his feet, split into several sizable pieces.

Arthur grabbed onto a wooden chair and slowly lowered his aching body to the ground. The pieces of glass were covered in dust and smudges of paint. He picked up a piece with a smudge of red and wiped it with thumb.

When he looked, what gazed back was not his reflection. Instead, a young boy, with rosy cheeks and golden locks.

The boy ran towards an older woman who was a copy of him, except her eyes were the white of paper. The woman cradled him in her arms, pushing back his soft hair and kissing him on his temple.

When it ended and Arthur saw his reflection again, he pressed his temple with a shaking finger. It was cold.

He cast the piece aside and grabbed another.

The boy, now tall and thin with clothes that were far too large for his frame, painted rolling hills under a bright horizon. His hands were percise and swift, not like Arthur’s at all. A young woman with hair the color of the horizon posed on the grass, hiking her skirt up and laughing. The boy hid his reddening cheeks behind the canvas.

It was over far too quick. Arthur grabbed another piece.

The boy-no, the man, danced with the girl from the hills. Her dress was a pale green, adorned with small pearls.

“She looks like a carrot,” Arthur chuckled. “A beautiful carrot.”

In the next piece of glass, her green dress was exchanged for a white one. The man cried as she walked towards him, and the men around him laughed and cheered. His fingers were covered in paint, and so was the hem of her dress.

Arthur smiled as they kissed, the mans hand gently pushing her face forward as she pulled away.

The glass showed a child. No-an angel. She had the same red hair as the woman, and the same blue eyes as the man. The family sat in the same room Arthur was in, finger painting the purple flowers that spouted from pots.

An uneasy feeling washed over Arthur, as though something was warning him to stop.

The next piece of glass showed the man all alone as he buried two bodies. Walking home, there was no one in the streets, no one in their homes. It was all empty. Something fell from the sky. The house beside him crumbled. But the man didn’t seem to care. He kept walking.

The final piece of glass. The man finished the sculpture. His fingers bled. His eyes lost the wonderful blue they once had. He carried the sculpture to a fountain and sat by it for days. Then, he grabbed a notebook and began writing.

_Day one _

_-Lainerie_

_-No one around_

_-Bombs won’t stop_

_-Stone angels still stand_

_-Looking for others _

Arthur put down the final piece of glass. With a trembling hand, he reached for his notebook and opened it to the first page, reading the words the man had written. Tears fell down his face and onto the smudged ink.

“I remember! I remember!” Arthur cried. “Oh, my dear Celine, I remember!”

He scrambled to get up, tripping twice before regaining his balance. Bumping into furniture and walls, he ran down the house and through the streets. He didn’t stop running until he reached the fountain.

“I came back Celine!” he cried, couching down and gazing at the statue from above. “Celine! Adele! I came…”

Arthur’s words trailed off as he struggled to remember what he was going to say next.

Why was he crouching? Where was he?

He looked into his journal.

-‘_Lainerie’_

I should get going, he thought. It’s cold.

He walked away from the fountain and towards the next street without looking back.

***

How would you view your life through a strangers eyes?