Owen Linwood died in the spring of 1986, two months before his 15th birthday. He was a bright boy with a deep passion for botany, and presided the chess club at his school. He is remembered fondly by his friends as a happy light always willing to listen. He is survived by his mother, father, and older brother. His favourite flowers were anthuriums and orchids.
Calvin has that obituary memorized. And, in case he ever forgets a single word, he has a cutout of it framed and hung on one of the walls. A single paragraph - sixty-four words - to contain the entirety of his brother. Right now, he is staring at it as if it’ll stop existing the moment he glances away.
He is standing awkwardly in the middle of a small rectangular warehouse of sullen red bricks and an almost entirely broken glass ceiling, abandoned sometime during the fifties. Calvin had found it while exploring the woods near the town and taken it as his own when he was eleven: Between the two metal beams that jutted up from the center, dividing it into thirds, he placed a carpet which progressively got filled with all kinds of comforts and amenities.
When he showed it to Owen about three years later, the boy discovered it to be a wonderful place to keep his plants. Thus, the longer sides got slowly lined with tables covered in potted flowers, grasses, bushes, and so on, religiously well-kept. The shorter sides, meanwhile, stayed mostly empty - Except for the entrance on one (A mildly crumbled doorway), and a table for knicknacks on the other (Which currently holds a calendar and Owen’s gardening tools, above which hangs the framed obituary).
After a long, long time staring at it, Calvin finally relents and approaches the table to mark the date on the calendar: August 15th, 1989. Then, he grabs the clippers and gardening scissors, and starts to work on the plants.
“Knew you’d be here.”
He freezes.
Kelsey looks at him from the entrance, expressionless. Or, rather, with the slightest hint of sorrow and worry.