Remakes

Chapter 2

They're second.

For him, it happens at noon. He is the son of the Sun, the one of the dawn, he who carries the rainbow in his pocket. Of course it happens at noon.

And just as obviously, for her, it happens at midnight. She is the daughter of the Moon, the one of the dusk, she who holds the silver tides against her heart. It happens at midnight.

They don't talk about it. They don't mail each other, don't call each other, don't contact each other in any way shape or form. They merely get up, quietly get their affair in order- tidy up her bed, put away his work- they merely get up, dust their pants, and get walking.

They don't call each other. They don't need to. They know they have the same destination.

"The girl doesn't look much like you," he muses, looking at the twins fondly. There is no disappointment in that statement, merely curiosity.

"Of course she doesn't. The Sun is always the same, but the Moon changes every night." She replies. That makes sense, in a bullshit kind of way, which is really the only sense that matters for people like them. People that have been written, he means, rather than made. People who are stories as much as they are flesh. Muscle and bones obey to hard science, but narrations follow different rules.

"Good luck, little one," he says, to this child that is him and not him. "Good luck, little one," she says, to this kid who is identical and opposed to her.

They walk out, fading hand in fading hand, and when the wind rises the next morning, it blows away two old feathers, their owners forgotten.

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