"Oh dear, my mother really made a mess of this kitchen." Marie said with a sigh, taking in the unfortunate state of the room around her. She let out a laugh at seeing an amused smirk on Mr. Whitlock's face.

Dirty dishes and tarnished silverware were piled sloppily in the sink, surrounded by stacks of unwashed cups and pans. The stove was a dreadful sight, the counters caked in whatever Anne had spilled the night before.

And there Marie was, to clean it all up.

Granted, she had offered; anything to get her family out of the house sooner. But that didn't help how little she was looking forward to tidying everything up.

She started with the mound of dishes, scrubbing them all by hand as there wasn't a dishwasher, then wiped the grime from the counters, stove, and dining room table. She hummed her favorite songs to herself, soon realizing Mr. Whitlock would not recognize any of them. At times she would forget how much he didn't know about her world, and she had no idea where to begin at explaining everything to him.

So instead she asked him about what she thought he would know.

"Tell me about your life before you were trapped here." Marie suggested, sitting down at the table with a glass of water.

"What about my life?" he blinked, not expecting such an inquiry.

"Your family, home, career. Tell me of your goals, things you wished to do..." she trailed off as she realized what she had just said. How cruel of her to ask of his dreams, when they both knew he would never be able to accomplish any of them.

"I'm rather afraid I don't recall much about my life." Mr. Whitlock stated wistfully, his voice nearly a whisper, "I was quite invested in my work, but I always hoped some day to get married and have children."

"Oh." Marie brought her voice to a murmur as well, unsure of what else to say. Of course those memories had escaped him, for he had been alone for over half a century with nothing but his own thoughts. And soon those had escaped him too, it seemed.

"Each day is a repeat of the one before, weeks blending together seamlessly until whole years have passed. People come and go, walking the streets. And I watch the world change and progress as I am forced to only observe. The seasons shift, and inventions are made before my very eyes. I longed to be free, and once I felt that watching from afar would somehow ease the pain. But with time it only worsened it, and now I never wish to gaze out that window." His poetic words filled the air with the sadness deep in his heart, "It's difficult knowing there are pieces of my life, memories, that I can never retrieve. If only I had tried harder to hold onto them, for they were all I have. And now I have nothing but traces of lost memories."

Marie blinked away tears, weaving her hands together tightly until her knuckles turned white. She bit the scars in the inside of her cheek, all in an effort to keep from crying. But Mr. Whitlock saw the deep regret in her eyes, and knew exactly what she was thinking.

That for her entire life, she longed to forget so many things. The pain her mother caused her, the last day she had ever seen her father, and the countless experiences that had left her with a broken heart. But after hearing everything Mr. Whitlock had said, she felt remorse knowing that for so long she had wished for something that had hurt him so much.

"It's alright, Marie. Truly. This is the life I know, and it's all I will ever have. It may sound shocking or tragic to you, but you have no need to feel sorry." He had attempted to reassure her, but it only made her more distressed. She felt a pang of heartache as she imagined how horrible it would be to be hurting so long that the pain was no longer noticeable.

"I do feel sorry, because I've been terribly ungrateful. My past that I've tried so hard to leave behind me is, really, all I have. And it is so much a part of me that I don't know what I would do without it. I would be happy, perhaps, but I would not be myself." Marie spoke the words regretfully, pondering over what she had said. Some time passed as neither one said a word. Silence hung in the air, its presence daunting.

"I know you have wondered this, so I feel I must say." He paused, "There are many things I have forgotten, but one thing I thought I could never forget was my first name. Yet here I am, without even that."

Marie knew from the tone of his voice that he was not self-pitying, and not seeking her sorrow. He simply stated what he felt was necessary, with no ill intent behind his layered words.

She was suddenly relieved she hadn't ever asked what his first name was.

***

A week went by of Marie repeating the same day. She would wake to a breakfast made by her sister, spend a few hours with her grandmother and hearing a short story from her each time, and closing her day at the old house with dear Mr. Whitlock.

It had been two weeks at that point since she had left her home, and she was beginning to miss it. Her career, her small house, and of course Tammy. She didn't know how long it would be until she returned.

But at that point, all she knew was that her grandmother was speaking more and more each day. She told of when her mother got her a dog after her father had died, in an effort to comfort her. She reveled in the story of how she met her husband, her eyes glowing at the thought of him. But the subject which intrigued Marie the most was that of the house.

Why her father was so eager to leave, what caused him to spiral into being a drunk and eventually dying, and why Charlotte knew so little of the entire situation.

The journalist in Marie was so bothered at how little information she was given, but she knew asking her grandmother would only make it worse. The old woman hated being 'interrogated', as she called it, and made that very clear to Marie years prior.

"Grandmother, why does mother say she doesn't love you?" she had asked as a young child.

"I don't love her." was Charlotte's blunt response. Little did Marie know at the time that that was just her way of expressing, "Anne says that because she believes I do not love her, because she feels as if I was never there for her."

But as a child Marie only thought to ask more questions, as she wondered, "Why don't you love each other? Shouldn't a mother love her daughter? What if mother doesn't really love me? Did she love her father? She never talks about him. Grandmother, why won't you answer me? Do you not like to talk about this?"

All that earned her was a cold answer from Charlotte. "Stop with your questions, child. I hate to be interrogated, never forget that. So be quiet and leave me alone."

It was a shame that, years later, Marie did take that advise when she left for college. But Charlotte never meant it, and perhaps even wished she never said something so far from the truth.