After my father’s sudden death when I was eightish…I had to go into the system back where I was from. In Spain. From what I know mommy family was either missing or dead or much too old to care for me. My father was an adventurer when he was alive and brought me along. He told me he worked for the king in Germany, where he was from.
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His death didn’t seem right and he left clues…once I turned 14 I left the school system and worked for Spain as a part time adventurer so I could start there with the clues I already had. I met another adventure on my travels. They traveled with me. They never even told me their name. “Just call me by whatever you like!”, is what they always said.
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We had escaped death together twice and I once more before that. My friend was ever so sweet…so I’d call them Miel, which was Spanish for honey. I remember them well. Miel. The word has become sour on my tongue now. I hate the word…Miel…but I could never hate them. Not the Miel who I once held dear.
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Miel was born with quite long hair. Red hair. And golden like eyes. Always so stubborn though. I could never blame them, because so was I at the time. They’d ask me of my family and I’d always tell them what I knew of them. They’d never answer my questions though.
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“Hey Miel?”
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They’d laugh so brightly when I called them that, they only spoke a few words on Spanish but was fluent in German so we spoke in that, “Yes Mr. Greenhair?”
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My nickname seeing as my hair was a forest green color, “Is there someone you have to get back to at home?”
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They always looked saddened when I asked but they’d at least answer with the same thing, “I’m waiting on someone and they’re waiting on me. But I can’t see them just yet.”
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Miel would never elaborate. Never. I always asked them to. But not even a word would come out of their mouth on the topic besides the fact that someone was waiting and so were they. I only realized what they meant when it was too late.
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Two years had passed of us traveling, I 16 and Miel 17, when they gave me a book. “Now look Mr. Greenhair”, got out a notebook that seemed old, “every time I write on the pages it goes away by the time I close the book and open it again. I can never figure out why. The only written in here is my name and the date I got it on the covers.”
“Okay and, Miel?”
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They handed over the book, “You get it now. Remember the person I said I was waiting on and they were waiting on me?”
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I just took the book confused, “I- Uh- yeah?”
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“My time is almost up. So I should head back. We don’t have to wait. I’ll get to see my sister again.”, they smile and walked away from the post stop we were at that day. They never came back.
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They lied to me - about what was in that book - they lied. Their name - Melody Hofmann -, the date they received the book, and the words “I’ll wait for you as long as you wait for me” on the cover. They died. They died after an attack on the direction that they left. I only received word about a week later. Their sister was dead for a long while. That’s why they joined me. To not feel lonely anymore.
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After that I wrote in the notebook the date and someone’s name when they died, if I knew the person. I wrote theirs and my father’s as well. I didn’t write my mother’s because I never knew her. But the handwriting and the color of the page changed every time I opened it, it was still in Spanish and the same words and dates. That was all that changed in that notebook. I don’t
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