chapter 6; haunted

                                        

                                              
Pot simmering way on the stove, the smell of the delicious ingredients you picked from the market earlier filled the small apartment.
By now it was dark outside, and the deep and mute tones of the apartment's colour scheme did little to alleviate the feeling of the bitter winter.
Your afternoon had been spent unpacking your things at last in the colourless guest room, trying to push aside the eerie words of warning from the market seller earlier on that day. 
As you had settled your possessions into the cold room, you swore your eyes caught glimpses of little flickers of former life in that room - particular staining on the wood floor where the sun had bleached the boards around certain furniture which was now a but gone. The writing desk compartment of the bureau held a very fine ink set, well used and once clearly loved - discarded as if someone had just fled in the night.
Maybe it was the sense that this space was somewhat personal a lifetime ago, but you felt almost like an intruder at present. However, with a match to the hearth and some candles lit - the space did begin to diffuse into something that felt akin to home. 
You knew your feelings would change, it was only the first day. 
Despite that, it was pleasing already to see the hardened exterior of Jacob chipping away, like old plaster off a wall. 
Whilst dinner simmered in the large pot on the stove, you paced languidly around the apartment - with nothing to do but wait for the chicken and vegetable stew to finish cooking. 
Mr Frye was sat at the table, reading again - a small pair of eye glasses teetering on the bridge of his nose. You did often wonder if he got bored reading, he seemed to spend a lot of his free time with his nose buried in a book. 
Casting your eyes to the vast and plentifully filled bookcase, you gathered there must be enough material there to last a lifetime. 
"Pardon me," you excused yourself, as the dark haired man glanced up from his book, peering at you over the top of the glasses. 
"Have you always been a reader? You have quite the collection." You chirped up conversationally, gesturing your head at the bulky bookcase on the adjacent wall. 
Clearing his throat, Jacob carefully wedged a weathered old bookmark into the pages and closed his reading material shut softly. 
"Not always," he replied with a soft sigh, looking over at the books seemingly spilling out of the bookcase. His dark eyes lit up with fondness, as he recalled better days. 
""In my youth, if you'd had told me 15 or so years from then I'd enjoy reading books - I'd have told you to piss off." He chuckled, glancing at you momentarily with a worried look as he gauged yourself reaction to the expletive. Perhaps he was worried you would be the uptight kind of person to be offended.
You smiled kindly to let him know it was ok, turning back to stir the stew before you paced back to the table, pulling up a chair next to Jacob. 
"What were you like?" You asked, fumbling a bit over your phrasing. "When you were... younger?" You internally grimaced, hoping it wouldn't be a sore spot of conversation given that the man was frustrated and agitated all the time with his current physical condition. 
Yet instead you were pleasantly surprised by the reaction, a warm look of contented recall on his expression. Jacob fished the glasses from his nose and set them down on the table top, leaning back in his chair slightly. 
"Well, seems like a lifetime ago now." He chuckled, staring blankly down at the table as he revisited those memories.
"I was stupid, brazen... careless." He summarised, a smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. "I loved fighting... bare knuckle boxing was a special favourite of mine."