They wander together, in search of a place to meet. The easel is set, although the smoky buildings still surround the two. She begins painting, just barely out of the street way. The great towers part from the scene for a bit, in favor of a single massive building. It does not reach quite the same height, but it is several times wider than the business buildings around it. It is square, functional, with three great chimneys that double its height. From each stretches an oily black plume, which all reach unbroken up into the dark haze. It is the source of the city’s power, and simultaneously its desolation.
The closer the eye comes to meeting it, the harder it is to see. The first glance cannot be trusted. It cannot truly entail the realities that lie on the other side of the charred black walls. The wayfarer remembers only a few traces of his father’s stories, though they had been spoken only when he was believed to be asleep, unaware. He remembers violent fires that would escape, the blackening of lungs and heart, collapsing workers, spent dry. They coat the building with yet another layer of dread. A few have stopped to witness the painting, though they move to leave when they see its subject.
He leans in to whisper something into her ear, a concerned look upon his face. She holds a concentrated gaze on the coal plant, though her mouth turns to a frown at whatever he whispers. The brush is held firmly in her mouth, its tip a fitting black.
He has made amends with the place. He has told her his story in full. Ever since, she remains silent, painting the dark building, a rather depressing vision, especially for any in the city. He knows not what she plans to capture, but it hurts him to see such a place committed to permanence. Perhaps he has not truly made amends. He cannot be expected to forgive the city of his upbringing, though. The dust permeates everything. It chokes and kills, like a spiteful ghost in its haunt. He has never heard of a ghost that haunts an entire city. Naught but the coal plant’s. He thinks this is the last time he will visit. There is nothing more to see, he thinks. There is nothing new here. The air is still putrid, the people still sooty, the venues still dark.
She has resolved a part of it for him, but he shall never wish to return, especially not with her. This is a part of him that she need not share nor understand. After all, the greater parts of his life have, over time, overshadowed the loss of Fillydelphia. The phoenix feather remains unsoiled, his lungs have cleared of the soot, and he has simply moved on. However, each time he returns his mind to the factory, he knows he will not forgive it. He would much rather leave it behind, let it disappear as he chases his new life with her. His childhood shall fade until only the brightest memories remain. His mother and father will be kindly remembered, but no further reminisced.
What matters is now, he tells himself. That is always how he escapes. He turns around, and as the wayfarer is wont to do, flies to a greater place. That is his birthright, his life’s allotment. He no longer sees it as cowardice, but instead as choosing his battles. These battles he believes to have already lost. There is a brighter place he knows of for her to paint. He whispers in her ear, hoping the words are not lost on her. It sours him to interrupt her painting, but to make this place immortal is unfair. Any place but this, he begs within. Any street or venue. He may handle the splotchy children, the spattered houses, the barren skyline, but not this place. Forever this place, he demands, must be lost.
There is a way she knows to destroy a fear, a hatred. His story has touched her heart, and upon seeing its origin, she knows exactly what to do. She remembers her own childhood, of the days she had been afraid of the dark, of the lakes and fields around her rural home at midnight. She is hardly able to close her eyes at night, knowing those scenes lie outside. One night, she stays awake, and draws them, unable to sleep. When she awakes, and looks at them, having drawn all that there is to draw, she sees no fright in the scene. It becomes simply another light to draw in. To take the motion out of an object, to reduce it to an image, a memory, is how she best destroys a fear. Once it is taken away from its realm, to a calm, it can be reconciled, destroyed, if the mind is willing.
He does not realize it yet, her endeavor. She cannot tell him, though. Like cities, resolution must be discovered, not introduced. It is a troubling scene, to be sure, and as she paints it, she too begins to understand the hopelessness it brings to him. Soon, though, she will help him not to fear. That is worth it in the end. She continues to paint, though the whisper disturbs her.
He wants her to stop, above all, just stop. He speaks to her of brighter places to paint. She has the plant itself finished. It is enough. Let her be done. She is sorry to have brought him such pain, but some pains are necessary to bear, in order for others to be healed. She must show him, when they leave the city. She does not want the past to follow him, that he must always pace himself ahead of it. One day, he must stop and confront it. It is a part of happiness, confrontation. It fades pasts and futures unwanted. He has resolved so much for her. She must return the favor.