Finn stands up, looking thoughtfully around the room, trying to imagine what and where Jake’s best memories lie. Or his safe, comforting memories, as that appeared to be what this place was looking for. There were memories everywhere here; it seemed like everything he looked at could stir up some thought or feeling of significance.
Taking a few steps, he cranes his neck, looking upward. The bedroom was upstairs, lots of memories there; bedtime stories and late night talks on stormy nights and pillow forts with BMO. But were those more his? Would that be the thing that Jake’s mind went to for safeness?
“The kitchen…” He says with sudden certainty to Jermaine, turning to pass him and climb back down the ladder.
It was different now, not empty and dusty and unlived in but warm, a rich early morning sun just beginning to stretch through the window. Everything looked like their treehouse now…no. It was how it had looked about 8 or 9 years ago. Some of the decor was a little different, a few things in different places than they were now, some things a little less worn with use. This was a few years in, when they had started to really make the place their own.
The room was a riot of fresh and savory smells of cooking, and he could hear a quiet bubbling sound. Taking a few steps in, Finn wasn’t surprised to see that no one was here, but when he looks at the stove, it’s as if someone had just been cooking moments ago. A pot boiled with eggs, a pan of thick sliced bacon was sizzling on a burner, a high stack of french toast was waiting on the side. There was a cutting board with freshly chopped herbs and a fine dusting of powdered sugar on the counter.
“Jake always got up early to make breakfast,” he says to Jermaine, although he almost certainly knows that too. “And he always liked us to sit down and actually eat together. I used to not really get why he’d wanna spend hours on something that would be gone so quickly…but I think I kinda of do now.”
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Taking a few steps, he cranes his neck, looking upward. The bedroom was upstairs, lots of memories there; bedtime stories and late night talks on stormy nights and pillow forts with BMO. But were those more his? Would that be the thing that Jake’s mind went to for safeness?
“The kitchen…” He says with sudden certainty to Jermaine, turning to pass him and climb back down the ladder.
It was different now, not empty and dusty and unlived in but warm, a rich early morning sun just beginning to stretch through the window. Everything looked like their treehouse now…no. It was how it had looked about 8 or 9 years ago. Some of the decor was a little different, a few things in different places than they were now, some things a little less worn with use. This was a few years in, when they had started to really make the place their own.
The room was a riot of fresh and savory smells of cooking, and he could hear a quiet bubbling sound. Taking a few steps in, Finn wasn’t surprised to see that no one was here, but when he looks at the stove, it’s as if someone had just been cooking moments ago. A pot boiled with eggs, a pan of thick sliced bacon was sizzling on a burner, a high stack of french toast was waiting on the side. There was a cutting board with freshly chopped herbs and a fine dusting of powdered sugar on the counter.
“Jake always got up early to make breakfast,” he says to Jermaine, although he almost certainly knows that too. “And he always liked us to sit down and actually eat together. I used to not really get why he’d wanna spend hours on something that would be gone so quickly…but I think I kinda of do now.”