Bluehour

Regus Flynn adjusted his plaid jacket and glanced around the desolate playground. Though the air was filled with the distant laughter of children, the swings and slides stood empty. He ran a hand through his sparse hair and pushed his glasses back up his nose.

A voice broke the silence, "Mr. Flynn." He turned to see a man with pale skin, piercing blue eyes, and a white hair. Dressed entirely in black, he extended a hand. "Damon HellWay," he introduced himself. "You wanted to see me."

Regus swallowed hard and shook Damon's hand, a chill running down his spine. "I need to ask you something before I proceed," he began, hesitating.

Damon's gaze was unwavering. "You know the cost."

Regus nodded, his eyes still fixed on the newspaper. "I do. But the price for what's in this headline is even higher," he said, gesturing to the article.

Damon's expression didn't change. "Then we have a deal."

***

Stankor Promins stood on the deserted beach, watching the waves recede and leave behind white, frothy crests. As the bubbles burst, he noticed something strange: faint, vein-like patterns etched into the sand. He blinked, squinting to make sure he wasn't imagining them. The marks appeared and disappeared with each wave, a haunting dance in the shifting sand.

He removed his dark glasses, but the patterns remained. A smirk played on his lips. His mind was playing tricks on him.

The summer sun was beginning its descent, casting the sky in hues of orange and pink. The sweet blue of twilight lingered, but the encroaching darkness was not far behind.

Stankor stood, shaking the sand from his clothes. He took a deep breath, the salty air filling his lungs. As he walked toward his car, he glanced at the message on his phone. His eyes widened as he read the destination: 'Deathville.' A shiver ran down his spine. He reread the message, his heart pounding. 'Melville.' That's what the village was called. He started the engine, the headlights cutting through the deepening twilight.

***

Regus Flynn studied his reflection in the mirror. His checkered jacket, a familiar companion in any season, hung neatly over his white, slightly wrinkled shirt. His fingers traced the parting in his sparse hair, then removed his round glasses and polished them with a white handkerchief before putting them back on.

A glance at the old clock on the wall revealed its rhythmic ticking. He sank into his favorite armchair beside the window, his gaze drawn to the tranquil blue sky. From the small round table in front of him, he picked up his crumpled newspaper and began to read.

***

Stankor steered the car through the twilight, the sky still awash in a gentle blue. An hour had passed when the first sign for his destination appeared in the distance: 'Deathville.' He narrowed his eyes and switched on the high beams, the road ahead illuminated. A wave of relief washed over him when he realized his mistake. The village was called 'Melville.'

Just as he was about to breathe a sigh of relief, a car honked furiously from the opposite lane. The driver, incensed, gestured wildly and shouted obscenities. Stankor quickly dimmed his lights and ignored him, continuing his journey.

***

Regus set the newspaper aside and approached the window. His gaze was drawn to the serene blue sky, a sight he never grew weary of. It was his favorite time of day. A contented sigh escaped his lips.

***

Stankor steered the car, the radio tuned to his favorite station. The familiar melody of 'I Don't Wanna Miss a Thing' filled the cabin. He glanced at the sky, still bathed in a deep blue glow.

"Eternal summer," he murmured, a hint of nostalgia in his voice.

Another sign appeared, announcing his proximity to the village. He read it again, his eyes widening. 'Deathville.' He blinked. No, it couldn't be. 'Melville,' he corrected himself, a wave of relief washing over him.

***

"Mr. Flynn," Damon’s voice called from the doorway. Regus turned, their eyes meeting. Damon approached the window, gazing up at the sky, bathed in the deep glow of twilight.

"Isn't it a beautiful evening?" Damon asked.

"Yes," Regus replied, his voice barely a whisper.

"Summer days are longer, filled with a light that seems to last forever. You can almost feel time standing still, as if you could remain suspended in this moment forever. But the darkness always comes, eventually," Damon said, his eyes locked on Regus.

Regus turned to face him, his eyes widening. The once cool blue of the man's gaze now seemed to burn with an inner fire.

"I'll be waiting for you when you're ready," Damon said, turning to leave.

***

The fog rolled in, thick and heavy, obscuring the landscape. Stankor slowed the car, his visibility dwindling rapidly. He turned off the radio, peering through the windshield as the fog swirled around the headlights, creating a ghostly, eerie atmosphere.

The village of Melville finally materialized from the mist, its buildings shrouded in a ghostly haze. The car bounced over the rough dirty road. A cloud of smoke billowed from the engine, forcing him to pull over. He popped the hood, the thick fumes stinging his eyes.

"Need some help, young man?" A voice called from behind him. Stankor turned to see an old man limping towards him, his gnarled fingers clutching a cane. His eyes were sunken and dark, his face etched with deep lines.

The old man inspected the engine, seemingly unfazed by the smoke. He reached for his cane, but his frail body swayed, and he had to lean on it for support. "Bad," he muttered, peering closer.

Stankor recoiled, the old man's breath heavy and foul. The old man didn't seem to notice, his eyes fixed on Stankor with a suspicious glint.

"Never seen you around here before," he commented, spitting on the ground. Stankor backed away, his back pressed against the car.

The old man stepped closer, his face inches from Stankor's. "I'm looking for Regus Flynn," Stankor said.

The old man nodded, straightening up. "I know Regus," he replied. "I'll take you there."

"My car? Won't it be a problem?" Stankor asked, hesitant.

The old man dismissed his concern with a wave of his hand. "Don't worry about it. If you want to see your friend, come with me now. Otherwise, stay here," he said, turning to leave.

Stankor hesitated, then quickly locked the car door and followed the old man.

***

Regus watched as two figures approached his house, one limping slightly. His heart pounded with anticipation as the door creaked open and Stankor stepped inside.

"Hello, Regus," Stankor said, his voice cold.

Regus' smile faltered. "Is that how you greet an old friend?"

Stankor shrugged, his expression unchanged. "There's a reason I haven't seen you in so long," he replied.

"Nevertheless, you came," Regus said calmly, gesturing toward an armchair.

They sat facing each other, the tension palpable in the air.

"I came because... I honestly don't know why I came," Stankor admitted. "I guess I just felt obligated. You said it was urgent. A matter of life and death. So, I came. But really, I should have ignored you, especially if it's about you."

Regus ignored Stankor's bitter tone. "Would you like something to drink?" he asked, standing up and heading toward a small bar.

"I want to know why you dragged me all the way here," Stankor snapped, his patience wearing thin.

***

Regus took a long drink, then leaned back in the armchair, absently flipping through the newspaper.

"You were going to come find me anyway," he said. "I just beat you to it."

Stankor leapt to his feet, his anger evident. He grabbed Regus by the collar, his face contorted in rage. The newspaper tumbled to the floor.

"Please-..." Regus began, his words cut short as his glasses slipped down his face.

"You're playing games with me? You sent me a message saying it was a matter of life and death. I'm an idiot for coming!" He took a deep breath, his anger subsiding slightly. "I made a mistake. This is just another one of your games. But this time, it won't end the same way as last time. I'm leaving, and I'm never coming back."

Regus rubbed his neck, ignoring Stankor's outburst. "That's why I called you," he said calmly.

Stankor stopped, his anger momentarily forgotten. "Because otherwise, it would have ended the same way as last time," he replied, turning to face Regus.

"Sit down," Regus said, his voice steady.

Stankor hesitated, then complied. Regus retrieved his glasses from the floor, wiped them clean, and put them back on.

"I know this won't change anything," Regus began, his voice filled with regret. "I know it won't bring Seina back, but I want to apologize."

Stankor remained silent, his expression unyielding.

"She's forgiven me," Regus continued, his voice barely a whisper.

Stankor's face contorted in fury. He lunged forward, his hands raised in a threatening gesture. "How do you know that?"

"You'll understand when all this is over," Regus replied, his eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and determination.

"How dare you, after... after... Because of you... because of you, Seina..." Stankor stammered, his voice choked with grief.

Regus flinched, his eyes filled with pain. "I know," he replied, his voice barely audible.

Stankor paced back and forth, his anger escalating. "You played the lover, and when you got bored of her, you introduced her to me!" he shouted.

"I don't deny it," Regus admitted, his voice barely a whisper.

"And when we fell in love, you were jealous! You were jealous that you couldn't have her!" Stankor continued.

"I admit it," Regus replied, his voice filled with shame.

"And you asked me to break up so you could be with her again!" Stankor shouted.

"Stankor," Regus said, his voice pleading.

"And I, like an idiot, did it in the name of our friendship. I couldn't live without her, and yet I did it!" Stankor continued, his voice filled with rage.

"Listen to me," Regus said, his voice rising.

"She believed that I didn't want her. That I didn't love her anymore. And what did she do then, Regus? Do you remember what she did?" Stankor asked, his voice filled with a mixture of anger and despair.

Regus remained silent, his eyes filled with tears.

"She killed herself!" Stankor shouted, his voice echoing through the room.

Regus took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "I know," he replied, his voice barely a whisper.

"So forget your apology!" Stankor shouted, turning to leave.

"If you don't listen to me, you'll end up the same way," Regus called out, his voice filled with a mixture of desperation and warning.

Stankor stopped in his tracks, his back to Regus. "Are you threatening me?" he asked, his voice cold.

Regus smiled sadly. "I wouldn't dare threaten anyone," he replied. "I just need you to listen to me."

He bent down and picked up the newspaper, his eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and determination.

"You know... when we realize the harm we've done to others, it's often too late to atone," Regus began, his voice filled with a mixture of regret and despair. "Our souls are stained, forever trapped in the darkest abyss. No amount of repentance can cleanse them."

"I told you I'm not going to accept your apology," Stankor replied, his voice cold.

Regus shook his head. "I'm not offering you an apology. I'm offering you something else."

Stankor's eyebrows furrowed. "What?"

Regus stood up and placed the newspaper on Stankor's lap. "Turn to the first page."

Stankor obeyed, his eyes scanning the article. He looked up, his face pale.

"Do you recognize the place?" Regus asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Stankor nodded slowly, his eyes wide with shock.

"Do you understand now?" Regus continued, his voice filled with a mixture of sadness and determination. "Do you understand why I told you that you would come find me?"

Stankor was speechless, his mind reeling. The newspaper fell from his hands.

"You remember what happened there," Regus said, his voice barely audible. "And you remember what must not happen."

***

Stankor stirred from his slumber, his shirt clinging to his damp skin. The cool breeze carried the salty scent of the ocean, and the rhythmic crashing of the waves filled his ears. He rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the lingering effects of a dream that had haunted him.

He picked up a pebble and hurled it into the sea, his frustration evident. He had come a long way, and now he wasn't sure if it was worth it. He felt a wave of doubt wash over him, a fear that he might be chasing a phantom.

He tossed his glasses into his backpack and stood up, a wave of weariness settling over him. As he climbed into his car, the sky seemed to transform into a vibrant rose, its color slowly fading into the familiar blue of twilight.

The first sign for the village appeared in the distance: 'Deathville.' Stankor narrowed his eyes, a shiver running down his spine. He was about to turn on the car's brightest headlights, but then he remembered the dream vividly, the eerie details etched into his mind. He hesitated, his hand hovering over the switch, finally deciding to leave them off.

A car whizzed past him, its headlights briefly illuminating the road ahead. Stankor glanced at the sign again. 'Melville.' That was the name of the village.

He continued driving, the familiar melody of ‘I Don't Wanna Miss a Thing’ filling the car. The sky was still a beautiful blue, a reminder of the fleeting nature of time.

"Eternal summer," he murmured, a hint of nostalgia in his voice.

Another sign appeared, announcing his proximity to the village.

"He arrived swiftly, his vehicle kicking up dust as he parked on the outskirts of the village. As he stepped out of the car, a shiver ran down his spine. He'd never been here before, and the thought of finding his destination filled him with unease. He looked around, taking in the serene, azure expanse of the sky and the peaceful atmosphere of the village. But he knew its tranquility wouldn't last.

“Young man!”

He turned sharply to see an elderly man approaching, his weathered hands gripping a cane. The man held out a newspaper, his breath steady and devoid of any scent. Stankor's heart pounded. The old man was identical to the one he'd seen in his dreams. His blood ran cold.

“Please,” the man said, his voice gentle. "Could you read the front page for me?"

Stankor took the paper with trembling hands. As he began to read, the scene from his dream replayed in his mind:

Regus stood up and placed the newspaper on Stankor's lap.

“Turn to the front page,” he instructed.

Stankor complied, his voice faltering as he read.

“A car accident occurred last night on the provincial road, just an hour from Melville. Both drivers were killed. One was fifty-seven-year-old Charlie Simmons, father of two. The other was forty-year-old Stankor Promins...”

“Remember what happened there. And remember what must not be done,” Regus had warned him in his dream.

And then he remembered:

Stankor steered the car, the twilight sky still a deep blue as he navigated the winding road. After an hour, he spotted the first sign for the village: 'Deathville.' His eyes narrowed, and he flicked on the high beams. 'Melville,' he read, relief washing over him. But then, a car from the opposite direction blared its horn.

He hadn't had time to dim his lights, as he'd intended. The other driver was blinded. A collision was inevitable.

“Remember what happened there. And remember what must not be done,” Regus' voice echoed in his mind.

He remembered. The scene replayed in his mind: He recalled the sign for 'Deathville' looming in his rearview mirror. His hand had instinctively reached for the high beams, just as it had in his recurring dream. But this time, he hesitated. A car sped past, the sign for 'Melville' flickering into view. By not flipping on his high beams, he had avoided a head-on collision. He had cheated death by a hair's breadth.

"Hey, young man!” The old man impatiently tapped his cane, nearly losing his balance.

Stankor blinked, turning back to the newspaper.

“The Mayor of Melville has decided to redevelop the site of the so-called ‘Corn House’. A park will be built in its place," he read, a wave of relief washing over him. The previous article had vanished.

“Ha!” the old man chuckled. “Thank you! he said, snatching the newspaper from him. “But you haven’t told me why you’re here,” he looked at him inquisitively. “I’ve never seen you in our village before…”

Stankor took a deep breath. “I’ve come for Regus Flynn’s funeral.”

“Oh, I see... Regus, who had stated that when he died, he would like his funeral to be held at this specific time because it was his favorite... What did he call it, let’s see…”

“Bluehour,” Stankor whispered.

A flash of understanding came to him. “You’ll understand when all this is over,” Regus had told him.

Then he understood:

“He was already dead and wanted to save me. To atone, since she had forgiven him too,” he muttered.

***

Regus stood under the towering oak, watching the mourners gather around his coffin.

“Mr. Flynn,” a voice called.

He turned, spotting Damon HellWay a few paces away.

“You're a true friend,” Damon said. “You sold your soul... to save him.”

Regus shook his head.

“Yes, to atone,” he admitted.

Damon nodded.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

Stankor took one last look at the solemn scene. Two figures approached, one limping.

“Yes,” he said, and followed.