[The journal clicks on, showing the ceiling and an upward view of a sitting Fenimore from its position flat on the kitchen table. She opens her mouth to speak, but closes it and stares blankly at the chair opposite. But, after a moment, she does begin.]
We're going to forget about this when we go home. [She stops, but continues after a moment: at first, haltingly, but picking up speed until she is nearly stumbling over her words.] At least, that's what people keep saying when they come back. If they remember being here before -- and not everyone does. A lot of the time, when they return, they don't remember any of it here. And things usually go back to the way they were before, at least when they get broken, and when people disappear everything they owned goes, too, mostly. And maybe that's something that can't be changed, the forgetting, the disappearing, even if we ever find a way to deliberately leave here, and one day all of us are going to be gone from here, and --
Does any of it matter? [The words burst out of her, not exactly angry, but certainly filled with an emotion close to it. An impotent frustration, perhaps. She's looking at the journal now.] If we're not going to remember any of it, if we're not going to leave anything behind, if no one's going to remember what it is we've done, does anything we do here matter? Is there a point to trying? Is there any reason to follow dreams, or find them, or -- or should we just accept that our lives are on hold here? And if -- if there isn't -- [If there isn't anything left for her in her world....
With a soft noise of irritation, not quite a grunt, she cuts herself off and looks away.] This is stupid.
...I shouldn't have said anything. Forget it. [She hesitates, and her gaze wanders for a second before fixing on a spot away from the journal.] Someone's probably asked something like this before, anyway.
[She stares moodily towards the stove before ducking her head.] Sorry.
[Apologies are rare from her and her voice is unusually subdued. But she quickly closes the journal and, folding her arms above it, she puts her head down over it. If she knew how to delete a voice post, she would do so, but now that it's there, she will still reply.
Later, she leaves House 34 and begins to wander the village, despite the light snowfall. She does go out walking fairly often, but she's slower than usual and doesn't pay attention to the people around her. From time to time, she will stop to stare at empty places, like the river or a bench in the plaza, lost in thought.
Eventually, her winding path leads her to the unowned clothing store -- she's not in the mood to talk to a shop owner. Though she almost never wears a hat, save to keep her ears warm in the winter, she spends her time sifting through generally unseasonable hats. She doesn't try any of them on, but she picks up one or two and looks at it. Sometimes, she smiles ever so slightly, wistful and nostalgic. Sometimes, she looks melancholy and regretful. Once or twice, she has to set down the hat to rub at her eyes.
It's hard to believe she's been gone for a year.
She doesn't return with or even try on any hats. Instead, she trudges back to her house with a pair of skates dangling from her hands by the laces. Her face is carefully blank and she keeps her head down almost the entire way.]
[Fair warning: tags are liable to be slow.]
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