Now I have to

Remember you

For longer

Than I have known you.

3 Months Later -

"Anthony! Wake up, dear!"

Anthony Joseph Crowley slowly stirs from slumber, his eyes fluttering open to the soft, golden light streaming through a lace curtain into his lofted room. As his senses come to life, he becomes acutely aware of his surroundings. The room is simple yet cozy, with floral-patterned wallpaper adorning the walls and a warm, earthy scent that fills the air. With a puzzled frown, he runs a hand through his disheveled hair, trying to make sense of the strangely unfamiliar room. Memories flicker at the edges of his consciousness, like fragments of a dream he can't quite grasp. He knows his name, Anthony J. Crowley, as if it's been etched into his very soul, something irremovable.

Slowly, as if emerging from a fog, he begins to recall the room and his life. He's the main groundskeeper of a greenhouse— The Secret Garden Greenhouse, or locally known as the SGG of upper SoHo. The names Melody Meelan and Christopher Meelan resound in his mind, familiar yet distant, like echoes from another time. His heart quickens as he realizes that these memories are not borrowed or manufactured. They are his own, deeply ingrained in his being. Looking at his desk on the other side of the room, he smiles to himself. Never drink absinthe again, he thinks as he rubs his temples and steps out of bed into the chilly draft of the room.

Suddenly, quick footsteps come up to his room, the face of Mrs. Meelan somewhat agitated in a playful manner.

"Mr. Crowley, now I know you're a grown man, and you can do whatever you like with your free time. But, I insist that you come downstairs for our breakfasts. You know that." The older woman crones, her hands on her hips. Her dark brown, curly hair, flecked with strands of silver, fall in loose waves down her back, although she often gathers it into a neat braid that trails over her shoulder when gardening. Her complexion carries the warmth of a latte, a rich and inviting shade that hints at a lifetime spent in the embrace of sunlight and nature. The sun-kissed undertones bring out the gentle contours of her face, adding a touch of natural radiance to her appearance.

Mrs. Meelan's eyes are perhaps her most captivating feature—a beautifully rich brown that reflects the depth of her undying curiosity for the world. They are windows to a wellspring of knowledge and a thirst for understanding, always brimming with a quiet sparkle of wonder.

Crowley bows his head, "Apologies, Mrs. Meelan. I s'pose I was lost in a very deep dream."

"Well, the sun is up and now so are you, so get dressed and come downstairs. Christopher has already gone out to the markets to grab supplies." Mrs. Meelan purses her lips slightly with a nod, and she turns and descends the stairs, leaving Crowley alone in his room. The distant sounds of pots and pans clinking in the kitchen are a comforting backdrop as he quickly changes into more suitable attire for the spring morning—a pair of well-worn jeans and a light, earth-toned shirt that complemented the colors of the greenhouse he has come to love. Before heading downstairs, he glances in the hanging mirror of his room. Dark auburn hair hangs at his shoulders, cascading in brushed-back waves that frame his face with an air of effortless cool. The deep crimson of his hair carries a hint of rebellion, a stark contrast to the serenity of the greenhouse he now tends to.

His eyes are a soft, contemplative brown, a shade that holds a world of stories and emotions beneath their surface. They are the eyes of someone who has seen much and felt deeply, a testament to the complexities of his unknown nature. For some reason though, those warm eyes seem foreign to him on his face. Crowley possesses a lean frame, but it bears the subtle musculature of a man accustomed to lifting and tending to various supplies on a farm. His lithe build speaks of both strength and agility, hinting at a past that had demanded adaptability and resourcefulness.

As he gazes at his reflection, he couldn't help but feel a sense of transformation, a metamorphosis that perhaps Anthony had not always looked this way. Shaking the weird dysmorphic feeling from his mind, he brushes his hair down with his hands and walks downstairs with his garden boots in hand.

As Crowley descends the wooden staircase, his stomach growls in anticipation, hungry for the delightful scents that beckon him into the cozy kitchen. The room is bathed in soft morning light, casting a gentle glow over the polished surfaces and rustic furnishings. The breakfast table is a veritable feast for the senses, adorned with a delightful array of foods. Poached eggs glisten with a golden hue, their yolks nestled in perfectly cooked whites. Muffins, warm and freshly baked, exude a tantalizing aroma that fills the room. Crispy strips of bacon, fried tomatoes, and savory fried mushrooms adorn the plates, a symphony of flavors and textures. At the center of the table stands a dish of black pudding, its rich and robust presence adding depth to the breakfast spread. The ceramic containers of agave syrup and fresh milk await their turn to enhance the meal with a touch of sweetness and creaminess. Even kettles of tea and coffee, their steam curling gracefully into the air, flank the dishes. The aromatic brews promise warmth and comfort, their fragrant tendrils wafting through the kitchen.

The scene is a testament to the care and love that Melody Meelan has poured into creating a morning feast that nourishes both body and soul. It is a tableau of flavors and aromas, a celebration of life and the simple pleasures of sharing a meal with loved ones, no matter where they came from. Crowley can't help but feel a sense of gratitude as he takes in the scene, a reminder of the newfound family he has discovered and the world of beauty and wonder that has opened up to him within the walls of this greenhouse.

As he sits down, Mrs. Meelan brings up calm conversation, now a bit more relaxed seeing that Anthony is eating as he should. "Lovely morning, isn't it, Anthony? The weather's been quite kind to us lately."

Crowley nods, taking a bite from a raspberry muffin, "Yes, it's been rather pleasant. Thank you for the breakfast, as always, Mrs. Meelan."

Mrs. Meelan, with a twinkle in her eye, smiles, "Melody, just Melody. I'm not your friend's mum, after all. Christopher and I do appreciate your help around the greenhouse. As we get older, we need a young man such as yourself to keep this business going!"

"Melody, then. I'm just glad I can be of assistance. Without you both, I'm not quite sure where I would be right about now," The truth in his words almost seems ghostly to him, "The greenhouse is a remarkable place, and it's a privilege to tend to it."

"It truly is. Christopher and I have poured our hearts into it for decades. Well, when we have been here in London, that is. It's more than just plants; it's a labor of love. Speaking of which, have you considered any plans for your day? There's always plenty to do here."

Crowley thoughtfully prepares his simple coffee order; black, no sugar. "I was thinking of tending to the roses today. They could use some pruning, and I'd like to check on their progress."

"Ah, the roses! They respond well to your care, Anthony. You've got quite the green thumb, I must say."

"Well, I've had some practice over the years," He smiles, but something nudges him in the back of his mind that this was a strange fact to him. He loves plants, but he doesn't know why or when that love came about, and it troubles him to think about that missing memory. The conversation continues, touching on various aspects of life in the greenhouse. As Crowley shares stories and listens to Mrs. Meelan's anecdotes, a sense of camaraderie and belonging begins to grow, filling the kitchen with a warmth that matches the morning sun.

- -

Not as lucky as the SGG, a particular bookshop on Berwick Street in eastern SoHo presents a stark contrast to its usual inviting appearance. From the outside, it appears as if it has withdrawn into itself, seeking refuge from the world. None of the blinds are open, casting the interior into shadows that hide the cozy corners and shelves of cherished books. The once-welcoming entrance, adorned with quaint, hanging baskets of flowers, now stands bereft of any sign of life, the dry and spotted plants begging for water.

The door, usually a portal to a world of literary wonders, is firmly shut, its windows reflecting the passersby who glance at it with curiosity. It's a barrier that keeps the outside world at bay, sealing the bookshop's secrets within. A sign hangs prominently on the outside, a stark declaration of the bookshop's current state. In bold, scribbled letters, it states: "Closed Until Further Notice." The words are a bitter reminder of the void left by Crowley's absence, a testament to the upheaval that has disrupted the tranquil existence of the bookshop and its proprietor.

Berwick Street's residents and daily on goers, typically bustling with activity, now pass by the shuttered bookshop with a sense of unease and worry for Mr. Fell. It's as if the very heart of the neighborhood has been silenced, waiting for a chapter yet to be written, a story yet to unfold.

Inside the faded walls of the bookshop, a haunting scene of desolation unfolds. The once cozy haven is now in a state of intense disarray, mirroring the chaos that has consumed Aziraphale's world.

In the kitchen, where the scent of home-cooked meals and comforting aromas once lingered, now sits a grim tableau of neglect. Plates of half-eaten comfort meals languish, their once-warm contents now overrun with mold and decay. The remnants of these forgotten dishes bear witness to a past where laughter and shared meals filled the air, now replaced by a solemn silence.

The once pristine desk, a symbol of Aziraphale's meticulous care for his books, has transformed into a cluttered piece of wood. Pages from beloved novels lie scattered about, some with lines highlighted in tear drops that have blurred the ink. It's as though the very essence of the stories he cherished have been marred by his inconsolable grief. On the coffee tables, the evidence of Crowley's absence is palpable. Empty bottles of alcohol, particularly a fine red vintage that had been Crowley's favorite, stand as silent sentinels to their shared indulgences.

Desperation has left its mark on the bookshop's wooden floors. Celestial circles, etched with meticulous care, now adorn the surface. Scattered among them are candles, their flames long since extinguished. These remnants of failed seances speak of Aziraphale's tireless attempts to breach the cosmic barrier and reach his friend in the beyond, a testament to his unwavering belief that Crowley might still be out there, somewhere.

Upstairs, in a dimly lit bathroom, Aziraphale reclines in an empty bathtub. The room is shrouded in shadows, the light of day filtering in through heavy curtains, casting a subdued, almost mournful atmosphere. Aziraphale's once immaculate appearance has unraveled in the wake of his grief. His blonde hair, once neatly combed, has become unruly and long, falling in disheveled curls over his forehead and closed eyes. His eyes, once bright with curiosity and warmth, are now shut, hidden behind heavy lids bearing deep circles etched by sleepless, troubled nights. The hollows beneath his eyes speak of a profound weariness, a haunting exhaustion that lingers even in his moments of rest.

His face, which used to be clean-shaven and meticulously groomed, now bears the evidence of neglect. A scruffy beard has grown, a salt-and-pepper mixture of white and grey hairs that accentuate the lines and contours of his features. It's a visual representation of the passage of time, the wear and tear of his existence without Crowley. That's all it is now to him– life has become existence, nothing more.

In the silence of the bathroom, Aziraphale lies in repose, a figure of profound sorrow and longing. The stillness of the room is punctuated only by the muted sounds of his shallow breaths, as though he has withdrawn into himself, seeking solace in a world that has become unrecognizable and colorless.

A persistent knock on the door shatters the silence, rousing Aziraphale from the depths of his slumber. He stirs in the lit bathroom, disoriented. With an effort, he hauls himself out of the bathtub, his limbs heavy with the weight of his despair. The knocking continues, growing more insistent with each passing second, like a relentless echo in his mind.

Slowly, he descends the creaking stairs, each step a painful reminder of the burden he carries. His movements are listless, his gaze vacant as he reaches the bottom of the staircase. He stands there, staring blankly at the closed door that separates him from the world outside.

Then, a voice, a voice that he has longed to hear for what feels like an eternity, breaks through the fog of his melancholy. "Aziraphale! Open up, you idiot."

His lips part open, and the whisper of a name escapes in disbelief, like a prayer answered by some divine miracle. "Crowley?"

With trembling hands, he stumbles toward the door, the knocking growing louder and more urgent. The anticipation builds, his heart pounding in his chest, until he finally reaches the door and opens it. As soon as there's even the slightest give on the door, it slams open with a force that startles him. And there, standing before him, is Crowley—his Crowley. The demon embraces Aziraphale with a tightness that steals the angel's breath away. It's a grip that transcends mere physical contact, a visceral connection between two souls that have yearned for this moment.

Tears well up in Aziraphale's eyes as he returns the embrace, his trembling arms encircling Crowley's familiar form. The sunlight streams in through the open door, stinging his eyes and casting a radiant glow around the two reunited beings.

"I missed you," Crowley's words resonate in Aziraphale's soul, a blissful echo of all the moments they've been apart.

"Please, tell me you're here... I am so sorry, I am so sorry..." Aziraphale's voice cracks with emotion, his whispered pleas carrying the weight of a thousand regrets.

Crowley pulls back just enough to look deeply into Aziraphale's eyes, his lips curving into a longing smile. "Angel."

Aziraphale's eyes flutter open, and the darkness of the bathroom gradually eases him back into reality. His cheeks are riddled with dried tears, remnants of a dream that has tormented his every moment of rest. The dream of Crowley's return has plagued him, leaving him awake with a harrowing emptiness in his soul every time, a cruel reminder of the absence he can't escape. For a few moments, he lies still, trying to separate the fragments of the dream from the harsh reality that surrounds him. With a heavy sigh, he eventually forces himself to sit up, the cold porcelain of the bathtub beneath him a stark reminder of the solitude that now engulfs him. It's a solitude that threatens to consume him, a yawning emptiness in his soul that he cannot escape.

As he rises from the tub, he knows that he must once again face the day, grappling with the painful contrast between the dreams that offer fleeting solace and the waking world that offers only the relentless ache of longing for Crowley.

- -

As evening descends upon the whole of England, a quiet melancholy settles over the two beings who were, despite the miles that separate them, inexorably linked by an unbreakable bond.

Crowley, having recently emerged from a relaxing bath, sits at his desk, a glass of red wine by his hand as he hastily writes notes. The room is bathed in the soft glow of a lantern, and a vinyl record spun on a turntable, filling the air with the soulful melodies of the Best of Queen—a band that has grown on him recently after hearing it on Christopher's playlist. He peruses through an encyclopedia, brows furrowed in deep concentration, taking meticulous notes as he reads. It is a pursuit that serves as a distraction, a way to occupy his thoughts and keep them from wandering to ridiculous ideas that hurt his head.

Aziraphale, meanwhile, finds himself in the now-familiar solitude of his own home, seated at his desk with yet another glass of wine clutched in his hand. The room is softly lit by the warm glow of antique lamps, casting a gentle radiance over the worn wooden surface before him. A blank page lies before him, a canvas waiting for his thoughts to take shape.

With a pen in hand, he attempts to find solace in writing letters to Crowley—a therapeutic endeavor born out of his grief. The words, however, elude him, as the wellspring of his emotions threaten to overflow onto the page. He stares at the blank parchment, struggling to find the right words to convey the depths of his longing, his regret, and his love.

Then, the words come to him. And hesitantly, he puts his pen to paper and takes a sip of the wine.

My Dearest Crowley,

It is with a heavy heart and a deeper ache in my soul that I put pen to paper tonight. The weight of your absence bears down upon me like a crushing burden, and I find myself yearning for your presence more than ever before. The days pass by, each one marked by the absence of your laughter, your wit, and your irrepressible spirit. It is as though the world has become a silent film without you by my side. I long for the warmth of your company, the reassuring touch of your hand, and the comfort of your unwavering friendship.

I miss you. I miss you in ways that words can scarcely convey. It is a longing that stretches across the miles that now separate us, transcending the boundaries of Heaven and Hell. There is an emptiness in my heart that only you can fill, a void that remains stubbornly unfilled in your absence.

As I sit here, sipping this glass of wine, I am reminded of a memory—one of the countless adventures we shared in our time together.

As the angel writes, a kind of warmth blossoms in his chest, one of fondness.

Do you recall our escapade in France, that fateful day when you saved me from the clutches of the Bastille? The memory of that day is etched into my heart. After your daring rescue, we found ourselves amidst the enchanting streets of Paris, our hearts light with the exhilaration of our escape. We dined on crepes at that quaint little café, the taste of strawberries forever imprinted on my taste buds. It was a moment of simple pleasure, a moment when time seemed to stand still, and it was just you and me against the world.

In that moment, as we laughed and savored the flavors of the crepes, I knew that I was blessed to have you in my life. You are my confidant, my partner in mischief, and my dearest friend. What am I to do without you?

Perhaps it is foolish of me to cling to you so, but I hope, with every fiber of my being, that we will be reunited once more, that our adventures will continue, and that the world will regain its color when you return to my side.

Until that day, my dear Crowley, know that you are forever in my thoughts, in my heart, and in my prayers. I hope one day you will find it in your heart to forgive me.

Yours, always and forever,

Aziraphale

As Aziraphale finishes writing the heartfelt letter, his hand trembling ever so slightly with emotion, he sets the pen down on the paper. The words, though inadequate to capture the depth of his feelings, are a