This was the only high he got anymore, but he would take what he could get. He didn’t have to count doors; he knew the path to her room by memory. His hair was pulled back into an elastic band that he was given when he had refused to cut it, so it hung down to his shoulders when he didn’t tie it back. His hair was a blondish red, and he let it get stringy and oily to give him a grungy appearance. She had never said anything about it, but when he came to her she would run her fingers through the length, tugging gently at tangles, and rubbing his scalp with nails that had been forcibly filed into dull half-moons. The thought of those long, pale fingers on his skin gave him shivers, and he moved faster. The door was silent, and the click of the mechanism holding the door shut was the only sound from it. She still didn’t move, let alone twitch, when he approached her. His shirt, the same pale blue scrub top that she wore, dropped to the floor, and then the pants. The material whispered. "I'm okay, Noah," she said with a voice gruff from all the sobbing. She wiped her tears away. "I was just feeling a little emotional." "Can I come in?" Noah asked. She could hear a little hesitation in his voice. She wiped the last of her tears away. She turned toward her son. "Come," she said, and attempted a smile. As her son walked in, she did not fail to see the stark resemblance to her husband. It wasn't just his appearance, it was the way he carried himself, the way his shoulders moved, the way his arms swung, the hint of a smile every time he spoke, that screamed - 'I am my father's son'. He sat down next to her and looked at the picture she was holding. "Every time I see you, I see your father," she said. "Seeing that, I know he is alive and well in you, and that always warms my heart." She stroke his hand. She thought about how her husband used to stroke hers. "Or maybe I'm just too weak to move on." "No," Noah said, "I know you're not weak. I'm your son. I know." She smiled.
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