Chapter Three
October 31st, 2016

Silence.

The teal stereo spouted a few jazzy notes. The second hand on the crooked clock thumped like a heartbeat.

"Jones?" she whispered, her eyes squeezed shut.  She didn't want to look.

"You alright?" he murmured, squeezing her hand. 

"I'm fine," she lied.  Margaret had kind of wished that something big, something drastic had happened.  Fireworks, gunshots, confetti, death, you name it.

She slurped some of her second cup of hot chocolate. By now, it was faitly
tepid and her nose crinkled.

"I wish there was something new, you know?" Margaret shared. "Life just feels like a broken record by now, and sometimes I — sometimes I wish that there was more to life than just—"

A gutteral sound escaped Neal's lips and he clutched her forearm, his jaw clenched and his eyes squeezed shut. "You're telling me to meet you at a park . . . You punch my arm. You say — you say you wish you could live life a little more. I say that's exactly what we'll do."

Margaret's forearm felt sore. "What the hell are you going on about? Let go of my arm!"

She tried to pry his hand off of her arm, but he looked possessed. Terrified. Somewhere in between.

"I meet you under a tree," he continued, his grip faltering. "I hand you some sort of wilted flower, a daisy or something. You laugh and tuck it in one of your pockets. One of your coat pockets. The red coat."

Her eyebrows scrunched together, looking at his tense face, his jaw twitching, a tear escaping his eye. "I kiss you on your pale cheek and you're suddenly grabbing my hand, pulling me forward and we just take off. Down the streets and through markets, stopping only to try on aggrandize hats and big, bug-eyed glasses."

"Jones, listen to me."

"We stop by a small café and I buy us two drinks with whipped cream, a neon sign pointing us out the door. We visit an art museum where we pose next to the paintings, mocking their expressions and transfiguring our arms and legs to look like them. After, we throw pennies in a fountain I turn and face you and you're smiling.  We both are, I think.  I can feel it."

Margaret's chest was raising at an odd pace. In, out, in, in, out, in, out, out, out. It was shaky, unsteady. "I don't understand.  Jones, what's happening?"

He chuckled lightly, his. fingers slipping from her forearm, letting go of her coarse coat. "You — you call me Jones there, too.  Outside, there are these cramped, ovular things.  People are getting into them, and . . .  The buildings drift amongst the clouds.  Looks like we're in New York City or something. You look younger, somehow.  Younger than you've ever looked before.  Your red hair ripples down to your waist and you've got really light freckles; I didn't know you had freckles," he whispered, his hand pressing against his temple.  "Your eyes look like they're glowing, your mouth is moving so fast I don't know what you're saying and I'm just laughing at how you say that what we did was truly living, and how you wanted to do that forever, and—"

Margaret pushed Jones down on the couch, flat on his back, the palms of her hands on his chest, her nose only inches from his. Her eyes crossed. "You need to take a deep breath."

Finally he opened his eyes, and the green looked so familiar. Her palms were lifted and then dropped.  His body was trembling.

"What's happening to me?" he murmured.  "I'm having these random flashes of memories, or past lives, or the future, or a different life, I don't know, they just feel so real each time.  Like I've lived through them before. Like we've lived through them before."

"It's probably just something we did with each other in these past ninety or so years that we forgot," Margaret reasaured, unconvinced at her own words.

"It's just . . . When I see you, I feel something.  I feel something new," he mumbled, his lips nearly brushing hers.  His hands were now curled around hers that still lay on his chest, warm and still slightly shaking. "I just suddenly, randomly get a memory. It's like magic or something."

"Magic," she murmured with a laugh against his lips of velvet, skin clinging and fingers tingling. "I don't know about that."

His eyelids were half closed, his eyelashes curling ever so slightly. "Margaret, what do you remember of your past?"

"My past?" she reiterated. "Well, it's kind of hard to keep track of more than ninety years."

"No, I mean . . . before that. Your parents, siblings, family, schooling, all of that?"

She sucked in a deep breath and found herself rolling beside him on the couch. Now they were both squeezed next to each other within the narrow width of the cushions. Arms brushing. Skin clinging. Fingers tingling. Lips humming.

"I don't recall," she replied softly, clenching her eyebrows. "It's been so long, I don't remember it that well. It's all a blur."

"Mine is too," he answered, looking up at the ceiling, his arms crossed over his chest. "I just think I'd remember something, like a name or a memory or a pet, but nothing's coming to me. Nothing ever comes to me."

"That's just because we're over a hundred years old," she casually retorted. "Maybe we have some sort of dementia."

He pointed his lips. "I don't think so."

🍁🍁🍁

May 3rd, 2001

Her red hair fell over his back like a waterfall. Neal felt the warmth of the body he was holding, but he still felt empty. He let go, staring into space before glancing at her eyes.

"Do you ever think about your family?" he asked, walking backwards until the back of his knees buckled at the touch of the couch.

The woman tilted her head. "What do you mean?"

He coughed. "I mean, like, do you wonder if they worry about you? If they miss you? Things like that?"

She blinked. "I talk to my family on the phone a few times every year, but I don't really know where you're going with this."

He somehow produced a grim smile and nodded. "Alright, yeah. Have a good rest of your night, Stella."

"I'll talk to you later, Neal," Stella responded, a genuine smile on her face as she walked out of the door. He sighed as it shut behind her. So close, but still so empty.

The now-tattered picture was wrinkled the most along the corners and had a slight crease towards the left side. The crease cut his small face in half, his young eyes lighting up and his cheeks so round and soft. A girl, barely younger than picture-him, had the same brown hair as him but darker, and it was styled strange. Choppy bangs, short front, layers, long and straight down to her shoulders. There was a man that looked almost identical to his immortal self and the woman was kindly and soft-looking, with giant loops for curls and a multitude of faded tattoos and glasses. The clothes were a mystery to him, as they were almost all black with only a few dashes of color. He almost forgot he had it, even though it's so important to him.  Neal had found it during his spring cleaning, tucked under a pile of junk i one of his drawers.  He held it close to his chest. It was the only past he had. A crinkly, wrinkly, 4" by 6" photo.

He flung open his laptop and dove headfirst into the internet, not quite sure what to search for. Jones, Jones.  The name was so common, especially in this time period.  Damnit.  He was stuck in a roundabout with no directions to help him out of the loop.  Trapped.

He couldn't ask for his birth certificate, that'd raise too many questions.  Couldn't steal it, he wasn't good at sneaking around or lying. Couldn't ask around his hometown, he didn't know where that was.  It was like he was placed in the loneliest situation a man could ask for, as if anyone would ask for that situation. Even when he had someone who remotely liked him, it was all fake. She didn't know the real Neal Jones.  He didn't even know the real Neal jones.

🍁🍁🍁

October 31st, 2016

Margaret returned from the kitchen with a cold glass of water, having Neal sit up at take small sips.  If she was honest, she didn't think it was dementia either. She just found it strange that she didn't remember any of those romantic gestures Jones had made for her.  How come he remembered, but she didn't? And where was her family?

"I guess I'd better get going," she sighed, grabbing for her purse and pushing herself off the couch. "It was really nice to finally meet you, Jones."

"Wait—" he called out just as she turned her back.  She froze, her heart thumping.

"Yes?"

"I don't want to lose you again," he mumuted, the sentence echoing off of the patterned walls.

"Excuse me?" she replied, startled. She clutched her bag closer to her body.

"Every — every time we see each other, it's only on the thirtieth.  I just hope that when you step out of that door, I see you before October thirtieth, 2017."

She gave him a close-lipped smile, her lips squeezed forcefully together.  "We broke our streak, remember?  Our curse?  Our jinx?  It's October thirty-first.  I think we'll see each other real soon," she assured him, not a hundred percent believing her own words.

He raised an eyebrow. "How soon?"

Margaret buttoned up her red coat, ran her hand through her short hair, and glanced back at Jones.  "Does tomorrow — I mean, this afternoon, technically — sound good to you?  I say we start figuring out what's wrong with us.  Best if it's done during food and drinks. Meet at the small coffee shop around the corner at noon tomorrow?  Bring a pencil and some paper."

With one last look at her past, present, and future, she dashed out of his discombobulated house.  Margaret was crossing every finger and toe she could, praying this looming fate had been unwritten, once and for all. Hoping she wouldn't have to wait a year to see his round, green eyes and his wavy brown hair.

As soon as she shut the door, Neal had heaved a breath.  He couldn't believe all of that had just happened.  After a year of waiting, lonliness, and solitude, she was finally there.  The pieces of memories were like clips of a movie being fast forwarded or rewinded, in which he didn't quite grasp the context, but he knew that all of it was part of a much bigger picture.  He was meeting her for lunch. They were talking about their issue.  They were going to work together to solve everything. Finally! After nearly a hundred years! After nearly a hundred years, he once and for all knew her name. 

Jones just hoped he didn't forget it as soon as he woke up.

a/n
how was that? i feel like the chapter was kind of rushed, and ive typed practically nothing for nanowrimo, lol. what are your opinions on it? how do you like neal's memory? or memories, i should say. theyre going to work together! and perhaps meet up, if the dont forget each other again! how exciting! are you excited? what do you think is going to happen?

this chapter is dedicated to @twentyoneinfinities for this AMAZING prediction:
"is the liquid Margaret drank some sort of youth potion or something? im probably completely wrong but maybe they were so in love that they wanted to be immortal but then they got separated and now for the last ninety years they've only seen each other on oct. 30th bc that was the day she drank the potion. even if im completely off the mark with that prediction i still love this story so much already <3"

i love that idea so much. everyone's predictions were so interesting, i love to hear them.

so this week, writing club starts. im so nervous. im afraid no one shows up, or people do show up and it trainwrecks. i don't really know what to expect. then, the day after that, i'm auditioning for senior districts for chorus. i'm not very confident, and i'm really scared i'm going to be the only
person from my school that does not make it in. speaking of chorus, we're singing the pentatonix version of white winter hymnal PLUS the body percussion and oh boi i am not very good at it i am coming to find out.

started watching prison break with my family recently bc wentworth miller and dominic purcell AKA captain cold and heat wave, my lovers, and it is so good. no spoilers! we're only on season two. the once upon a time episode tonight was aDORABLE at the beginning with snow and charming, i just djjfksjfksjckfk. my heart aches. the flash tomorrow, whoohoo!! who's looking forward to barry getting the absolute crap beaten out of him by alchemy???

alright. thanks for reading, leave a comment if you enjoyed it, vote if it's worthy. i really love reading your comments, they make me smile.

GOALS:
553 reads in total
40 votes
60 comments

ps. ty for 800,000 reads on ANAD. im in shock. hopefully by tomorrow, the paperback copies i ordered of it off of a self-publishing website should be arriving. i'm just buying it to help me edit so i can (hopefully) traditionally publish in the long run. i'll keep you posted.