<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'">The spitfire smell of a bitter low-end whiskey hit her before anything else. In her reverie, she supposed it was her father- an eerie, postmortem wave goodbye. In the looming isolation it was familiar- the scent of cinnamon and flames, the kind that had always teetered at the end of his tongue and swam in his stomach as he spoke to her, too drunk to know what he was saying. It had always disgusted her, that odor of liquor- but now she clung to it like a skewed sort of safety blanket. It reminded her of coming home from work after a late night shift to her father, stagnant on the couch. It reminded her of the local bar, its hushed amber lights illuminating the bottles, its torn vinyl stools, its jukebox that played the same twenty songs- she had picked him up from it after last-call one too many times. It reminded her of his workshop, the house's detached garage that should have smelled like oil but instead smelled like his favorite whiskey, spilled again and again beneath the hood of whatever car he was tinkering away at. <br/>
<br/>
If only it were his grave that smelled of whiskey. It would have been appropriate, somehow. But it didn't take too long for the footsteps to register and the flask to appear upright atop the stone, placed by a leather-clad hand that belonged to someone who was a ghost in their own right. Her father didn't smell of whiskey, not anymore. Without looking, she knew exactly who stood behind her, smothering her in the godawful cinnamon perfume.<br/>
<br/>
His was the kind of presence that was felt before he spoke. It seared into Reno, a hot knife running through her skin. She tensed as if she could hide should she be still enough. The thought of <i>him</i>- this spirit from her childhood- it was enough to make her retch. The stillness of the moment was over. The emotion that coursed through her in a heavy wave was enough to break her from her vigil over the grave. The tears came, quicker and worse than before, and she sobbed. <br/>
<br/>
<i>What the fuck was he doing here?</i><br/>
<br/>
He had no right- he who had triggered the events that culminated in <i>this</i>- he who had toyed with the fragile strings that held Reno's youth together- he who had snapped them and then disappeared- she hadn't seen him since and was hoping his sorry soul had been torn up. </span><br/><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'"><br/>
It had to be a dream, some sick manifestation of her mind. A hallucination. She couldn't believe that it was him, flesh and blood, cinnamon whiskey and cigarettes. The man who had become little more than a blurred-out face in old Polaroids tucked away, shamefully, in a shoe box somewhere. She had hoped he would stay locked in those photos. For years she had tried with all her heart not to think about him. The diary pages that bore his name had been shredded and burned, the landline telephone that held his voicemails had been tossed in the trash, and the patched-up jacket -that <i>still </i>smelled of him- had followed it not long after. All physical traces of him, save for the scars he had given her in their childhood rough-housing, had been destroyed. It helped, but she could still see pieces of him all around her. <br/>
<br/>
He was the hurt in her father's warbling, drunk voice. He was the hole where her mother should have been. He was the unfilled promise of an older brother. <br/>
<br/>
Her last memory of him was vague, like a fever dream. A boy with his back turned and his voice a rumble. He was a storm and she was scared of thunder. <br/>
<br/>
She couldn't look at him. She wouldn't- she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her like this, tattered and vulnerable like she was all those years ago. Her cries rattled her body and it took everything in her to stay standing. She was already suffering. This was like a cruel joke, like he <i>knew </i>she would be here and he <i>knew </i>that showing up would overwhelm her into a stuttering, pathetic child. The same pathetic, stuttering child he had left behind. <br/>
<br/>
But she wasn't a child now. She had grown, though not much. She had just turned twenty but uncomfortable adolescence was still barely apparent in her features. She was a breath on the air, thin and petite, kiddish and yet somehow matured. She was beginning to grow into herself, but not enough- not enough to convince him that she wasn't something to be toyed with anymore. Perhaps worst of all was her stubborn inability to gain height. Beside him she was nothing- he loomed, shadowy and foreboding. She had straightened her shoulders and locked her knees <i>trying </i>so hard to stand tall but <i>fuck </i>she was scared, she was scared of him and the memories he roused in her. <br/>
<br/>
He had picked the most terrible time to reappear. She hadn't the strength to put up a fight. She was withered and worn and painfully <i>vulnerable</i>.<br/>
<br/>
"Volk," she still wouldn't look at him as she whispered, her voice shaking and unsure, as if the name was from a past life and she was certain she had forgotten it, "<i>why are you here?</i>" </span>