In the world’s darkest and dullest theater, the thoughts of a dead man lurks, his dead body rotting in a casket in the last part of the hall. Down in the ghetto of the dead, the terminal second of an existence otherwise unimportant is kept in perpetuity.
Cavil is about to leave his office, the glee on his face seems to brighten due to the occasional gaze of the moon and the zeal of the stars, forcing him to leave the place to reach his quite and polite home. He is a young man and wears jeans and t-shirts on normal days, enjoying the great beauty of a few years of freedom he believes he has. His freedom can be measured by the eagerness of his eyes, and the distance of his hand from the doorknob due to his occasional confinement state. It is pretty common to those who know him and his passion to roam around in the vast world, keeping his distance from his own house. He has left the door opened, attracting unwanted attention and visitors to a room filled with heaped up clothes, open drawers and a bed sheet half fallen on the ground. It is a tableau of dishevelment whose duration is unknown to every man who knows him.
A chilling gust of dead dark winter forces Lyanna to shiver. She stands by the only window her home possess, and waits for something which she lost long ago. Despite all of this, she awaits her door to open welcoming Cavil. Her hand reaches out for the cup of coffee she had prepared a little while ago, it has turned cold, making her realize that she has been waiting for too long.
It is as if Henry can see her there, can see that she waits, for he purposely makes her wait, while his wife, Catherine, strangely serene in her clothes which are covered with the beautiful artwork of a fine weaver, with all kinds of exotic flowers flashing their red and magenta petals in a green convenience of the dress, sleeps in the chaos of a bedroom. She fondly remembers the last night she spent with Cavil, and tries to imagine the beauty their love bestows. She gets up and starts sipping the cup of tea kept at the bedside table, knowing that her husband will be there in no time. She claims nothing of Cavil’s attention, whose eyes are fixed on the door that separates him from Lyanna . Fateful attention!
Cavil believes and finds himself happy now. Walking down the road to his home, he finds his steps directing him to a fine restaurant close to his residence. He can be found drinking an assorted wine now, he knows it’s more than he can afford, but he enjoys it heartily. His thoughts do not haunt him now, nor do his dreams, but he has a calling.
He often finds himself dreaming about Lyanna, remembering the times they spent together.Were it not ongoing, this might be a scene to remember; Cavil and Lyanna caught in positions that compromise them forever . As of now, he has plans for a fine sorted life ahead with his love Catherine. The wrong moment, precisely the one that offers least satisfaction, is their immortality, fortune’s rebuke to their intended indiscretion.
Enacting a luminous version of their frailty, they are martyrs to passion, pilgrims trapped in the ghostly screen of a dead man’s surviving thought.
And Yes, the dead man, do you know his identity? Was he Cavil or just a dream or a part of his soul? Whatever might just be his identity, the basic scene endures, it’s inevitable bloom a secret of dearth and of whom, to which it is revealed. For there are occasions when we face this dilemma when the truths are given to us, when we hear barely palpable whir of time’s monotonous monologue and when we see, in the abyss, a house suddenly appear under the full moon of a summer night. It doesn’t lasts long and comes back at some or the other unnoticed moment, but no one complains. None!