{"It is better to conquer our grief than to deceive it. For if it has withdrawn, being merely beguiled by pleasures and preoccupations, it starts up again and from its very respite gains force to savage us. But the grief that has been conquered by reason is calmed for ever. I am not therefore going to prescribe for you those remedies which I know many people have used, that you divert or cheer yourself by a long or pleasant journey abroad, or spend a lot of time carefully going through your accounts and administering your estate, or constantly be involved in some new activity. All those things help only for a short time; they do not cure grief but hinder it. But I would rather end it than distract it." — Seneca... Today's post is an entry to 
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@f3nix -The awareness of the box's contents dripped slowly in Joelle's mind, coagulating like a graceless Rorschach's blot. Bones. Tiny tapered bones, standing out against the mahogany bottom.
The unusual item jolted on the worn chair, reacting to the vibrations of the old diesel-powered train. The convoy, the last of his lineage, still fulfilled its duty along the Brașov-Sighișoara route allowing students to return to their homes every weekend. To the rhythm of joints and sleepers, the whiteness of the remains continued to dance tremulously before the eyes of the young woman as the frames of her glasses slipped slowly from her nose.
In a tinkling clink of bracelets, the student closed the lid of the box and moved away as far as possible from it, crushing herself against the seat's padding. The lazy air of the air conditioner stuck to the bottom of her dry throat an acrid plastic taste.
And then she saw him. The old passenger had returned and was staring at her through the windows that led from the corridor of the car to the cabin. She listened to her own scream erupting and fill the cramped cab.
"I didn't want to scare you, young lady."
"N-not scared, don't worry". Somehow, Joelle managed to gather the few polite words her manners demanded. She could not have said how long he had been watching and if he had seen where curiosity had taken her. The glasses, temples up in the air, laid on the seat beside her.
The old man was tall and lanky, his burnished skin resembled the ancient scales of a dragon. Dressed in work trousers and a raw cotton shirt, he gave the impression of being one of those peasants whose families had inhabited the Carpathians for centuries.
Joelle's gaze passed involuntarily from the man to the funeral urn disguised as a biscuit tin: the representation of a merry-go-round in a lacquered colored wood and graceful workmanship. The children were swirling with their bent busts, perhaps because of the speed of the carousel. Their mouths were wide open and their hands clung to the poles skewering the horses. With a lump in her throat, she remembered the fleeting memory of just a few hours before, when a train was huffing at the central station and a gentle old man asked her help because he couldn't open the cabin door. She felt like something ruined down from her lungs to her guts.
"I see that you like my craft" In the silence, she could detect the old man's fingers caressing the box inlays.
"It's delicious. A gift for a grandchild?" Joelle realized only now that the object was his only baggage. In the warm twilight, the colors of lacquered wood seemed even more lively. The conifers thickened on the sides of the train, sliding quickly to the edges of her field of vision.
"Oh. A gift, says the young lady. Like a toy, perhaps?" The old man's eyes were two black bottomless pits. His gaze had slowly become vitreous like that of a deep-water fish, yet at the same time penetrating.
"Yes, a toy. I like how you see it, miss." The passenger continued, his voice getting thinner.
Only then, Joelle realized where they were heading: the train had just passed the old mill and would soon pass through the tunnels beneath the mountain.
"You may have noticed how I depicted all these children. Observe, miss, between a horse and the other: they are not alone." By pronouncing the last vowel, which he abnormally prolonged, his voice tone had become a slow and drawling rattle.
It was still too early for the wagons' lights to turn on and the tunnels were preparing to swallow the convoy.
A sound of nails carving into the wood tore the thoughts of the young student.
@theironfelix -A bump forces the train to jump; a suspension of nails terrorizing the wood. So thanked her mind as her head cocked towards the old man, thinking the oddity of not even asking her name nor her his.
Still rattling off like he rolled his rs, her lips couldn't but give a sly smile to his gushing determination. Her memory theatre kicking into action, mere days ago oh was she in town center to present her programme. How the Carpathian townspeople sang their "ooos" and gushed their "awws" into the air. She rattled off, like the old man but in gay excitement, the versatility of a new programme and its great advancements. Claps penetrating the air, so an ethereal pink glaze coated her cheeks.
A forum of questions came her way and the Sun done it's low-crawl to disappear under the horizon. Joelle's voice-box strained, her mind pushed the limits, her arms gesticulated the plan and the crowd's passion carried the programme forth. All four years as a graduate student of a university spent here and her fellow soon-to-be-alumni sending her an array of hugs and Brezhnov-kisses - mostly done by the group's fellow skirts.
The memory film burning up, so life flew straight into her eyes. Ears focused in on the ending rattles, her mind thought it impossible but she managed to retain what his lips smacked on about. Giving thanks to the old man, her mind ordered the voice-box to blurt out one question:
"That's a lot of effort, especially for a toy. There has to be more to this than a mere gift. No?"
"Well Miss, you aren't wrong and I curse myself-"
"Something wrong?"
"N-no, I m-mean yes... No-"
"I-It's okay, take it slowly. No need to lie now, not like there's a spirit haunting us. Is there?"
Her left hand placed over her chest, his tear-stained face recovered a bit. Shoulders loosened, his hands lifted the tin-can that disguised the urn. His eyes peering left-then-right, his mouth let out a cough; body leaning a bit forth, his voice-box decided to let it out.
"Igen! Your eyes and mind are foolproof; guess every item being skewered and the play-offs of children and horses were the worst offenders. But can I really forgive myself for doing this?-"
"Well, I dunno. But is that something you're doing now sincere?"
"... Nem. I should be honoring but I shriek like a shadow. I dishonor the black rose I carry."
"Oh!-"
"Nem, nem. Your infliction lead my eyes to seeing my self-deception. It's time to conquer it, thank you young Miss... Say, I attended your oration - I was in awe... Glad the future is being filled up with more of you, we'll have a better Carpathia. Rest well, Miss."
His hands taking the urn out of the tin-can as his legs strode away, her heart softened as her eyes stared at her box. Maybe not an urn, but definitely a lived experience she can't revel in any more now.
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