[Mahalia doesn't see the actual creation or construction of the room, has her eyes closed the entire time, focussed on the image in her mind. She can feel something from the sand, though, a tingling, glimmering thing, and it's only when that sensation has faded that she opens her eyes.
The outside of the room is much like her mother's house in the woods. Dark, treated timber walls with large windows. Mahalia stands slowly, lays her hand against the wood, and it feels just like it had at home. She turns to Fela with a bright smile, joyful at that one small thing, reaching to take her sister's hand.
There is a door around the corner, one barely visible in the cut of the wood, a deliberate thing. Mahalia had considered large French windows, perhaps a porch, but after the giant flower attacks, such things didn't seem safe. The door outside was only needed until they'd attached it to Fela's house properly, anyway.
She is a little nervous as she opens the door, worried that perhaps things hadn't fallen into place as she'd imagined them, but peering around the door reveals that things are just as she'd hoped, and she leads Fela inside with a bright smile.
Three parents that she loved and missed terribly, and it had taken her a while to decide which parts of their homes to bring to her own. Jast's bed had been the first she had picked, the one he kept at the golems' house on the bayou, strewn with all the multitudes of pillows and blankets that he would use to construct a nest around him and whoever might be sharing the bed with him. Opposite that, her mother's desk, the worn old chair she refused to get rid of, the desk surface piled high with books and notebooks, even her mother's favourite fountain pen leaking ink on a fresh sheet of paper.
And then there is the far wall, the space taken from her father's home, the space she leads Fela to. His bedroom wall, covered in drawings and small paintings. Their entire family, laid out face by face, her father's artistic skill showing each in their true likeness, his feelings for each clear in the medium used, the colours, depths of shadows, weight of ink. Acacio had used it to remember them all, and Mahalia would use it to remember him, now.
There is a photograph of him, half tucked under the picture of Desidero, taken by Christopher and pinned there by Mahalia herself when she had noticed Acacio did not feature himself anywhere. She reaches up to pull it free, holds it out to Fela.]
no subject
The outside of the room is much like her mother's house in the woods. Dark, treated timber walls with large windows. Mahalia stands slowly, lays her hand against the wood, and it feels just like it had at home. She turns to Fela with a bright smile, joyful at that one small thing, reaching to take her sister's hand.
There is a door around the corner, one barely visible in the cut of the wood, a deliberate thing. Mahalia had considered large French windows, perhaps a porch, but after the giant flower attacks, such things didn't seem safe. The door outside was only needed until they'd attached it to Fela's house properly, anyway.
She is a little nervous as she opens the door, worried that perhaps things hadn't fallen into place as she'd imagined them, but peering around the door reveals that things are just as she'd hoped, and she leads Fela inside with a bright smile.
Three parents that she loved and missed terribly, and it had taken her a while to decide which parts of their homes to bring to her own. Jast's bed had been the first she had picked, the one he kept at the golems' house on the bayou, strewn with all the multitudes of pillows and blankets that he would use to construct a nest around him and whoever might be sharing the bed with him. Opposite that, her mother's desk, the worn old chair she refused to get rid of, the desk surface piled high with books and notebooks, even her mother's favourite fountain pen leaking ink on a fresh sheet of paper.
And then there is the far wall, the space taken from her father's home, the space she leads Fela to. His bedroom wall, covered in drawings and small paintings. Their entire family, laid out face by face, her father's artistic skill showing each in their true likeness, his feelings for each clear in the medium used, the colours, depths of shadows, weight of ink. Acacio had used it to remember them all, and Mahalia would use it to remember him, now.
There is a photograph of him, half tucked under the picture of Desidero, taken by Christopher and pinned there by Mahalia herself when she had noticed Acacio did not feature himself anywhere. She reaches up to pull it free, holds it out to Fela.]
This is Acacio, our father.