The search is what anyone would undertake if he were not sunk in the everydayness of his own life. To become aware of the possibility of the search is to be onto something. Not to be onto something is to be in despair.

--Walker Percy, The Moviegoer

She'd barely been home long enough for the funeral, but even that seemed like eons ago. All of the old suffocating stagnation was there; nothing had changed in the decade she'd been away. Shivering in the icy grip of the darkness outside, Erica shrugged out of her backpack and sank to the floor, hugging her knees. She'd been on automatic most of the day, letting places and people blur past her. Only the comforting arms of her favorite corner in her favorite bookstore could defeat her numbness. A converted pool hall; the bar to the right served mochas instead of drafts now, and floor to ceiling bookshelves stood where hustlers once leaned over faded green felt. The five lamp chandeliers still hung from the rafters, though, keeping the ambient light down. The warm aromas of espresso and new pages eased away the stress of the day, fostering a congenial, almost familial atmosphere. Night wept a thousand tears of chill against the front windows, the heavy drops glowing softly in the luminosity cast by the sign advertising Rosetjau's Booksellers--coffee and conversation. The denim of her jeans was damp from the rain, and smelled faintly of plastic. Sentimentalist, she sighed, shaking out her hair. A drop of water fell onto her hand, and she stared at it for a minute.

"Dad! What is all this?" Erica threaded her way through a maze of easels, canvases, brushes, paint buckets, and drop clothes. The usual furniture of the house had been hastily pushed aside and crowded up against the wall to make way for the newcomers. Her father's voice reached out from the study.

"Hello, princess! Come in, be careful of my brushes please." Erica stared in dismay at the kitchen table, submerged as it was beneath a mountain of unopened mail, newspapers, style and technique manuals, and half-empty takeout containers. Unwashed dishes filled the sink, and Zephyr mewled hungrily around his bowl.

"Daddy, what is going on?" she demanded, filling the doorway with her anger. Her father didn't look up from the barstool he sat on, his face angelic in the half-light of the afternoon sun. The brush in his hand described long, arching strokes of cobalt blue against the washed wheat surface of the canvas. His pallette languished on his right hand, covered in more of the same pigment.

"I've found my muse of fire, my Helen, my brute motivator if you will. What do you think? Not nearly as impressive as Picasso's Blues, yet evocative of the common man enlightened? Come give your papa a kiss." He smiled back at her, ignoring her matronly anger.

"Have you seen the kitchen lately, Dad? Zephyr doesn't look like he's been fed in a week! Where did you get this crazy idea to start painting anyway?" Her wave encompassed the disaster zone that was the dining room. Her father's brush sliced a gaping wound of blue, his voice suddenly strained.

"I refuse to be in despair."

A figure passing the alcove cast its shadow across her, breaking her from the trance. She glanced up, then chewed her bottom lip in curiosity. Most of the patrons at this hour were regulars whom she knew on sight, but the owner of the shadow was a stranger to her. Jeremy, who waved from his seat at the register when she came in, knew her by first name. Much of why she came here was the ambiance. It reminded her of a bookstore back in her own hometown. A twinge of loneliness washed across her face, and she sighed. Not that she had a home there to go back to anymore.

Submerging her personal problems, she conjured forth her academic persona to peruse the stacks for any new additions, running her fingers along the spines of the books. Rosetjau's shelved used books alongside new copies, mostly to avoid duplicating topic sections. This was another reason she preferred the store: she could usually find a second-hand copy of the book she wanted. It was a blessing considering the Spartan lifestyle she suffered. A complete circuit of the shelves took her twenty minutes, ultimately proving to be unproductive. Nothing useful had been added since her last visit. She knelt to pick up her backpack, brushing her hair out of her face with a sigh. Straightening, she glanced up to meet the gaze of the shadow's caster across the room. He was seated at the bar, but facing towards the back of the store. His eyes; almond shaped, upswept at the corners, danced with a dark flame. The face around those magical eyes was pale, with high, regal cheekbones; sharp planes that dropped to a strong chin. His lips parted in a slight smile, thin yet surprisingly red. Dark hair curled down over his forehead, and she could see longer locks brushing over his shoulders in back. He canted his head as amusement shone across his face at the extended contact, the coffee cup in his right hand drifting back to the counter. She blushed, acutely self-conscious for some reason, and hurried towards the door.

Although the rain had stopped several minutes before, the night air still smelled of moisture. The pavement glistened in the dirty orange streetlight, and the moon overhead struggled to shine through the remaining clouds. Tugging the collar on her jacket closed, Erica turned up the sidewalk towards her apartment. She glanced through the window as she passed, and her eyes filled with him again. Sipping from his cup, he poured over some magazine, his posture relaxed and casual. A black overcoat lay draped over the stool next to him, while he wore a dark crimson cardigan that only accentuated his broad shoulders. She stamped on the beginnings of her lust. Like a damn schoolgirl, she grumbled to herself. But curiosity still whispered from behind her.

I'm here because I like working here, Erica told herself, I'm not interested in seeing him at all. He probably won't even be here. Not that I care anyway. Books lay scattered across her table as she edited the most recent installment in her thesis. Before her shift at the diner she'd discovered a couple mistakes in one of her quotes and nowhere else but Rosetjau's was open late enough. After ordering a blackberry latté from the counter, she had gone back to her corner to retrieve the necessary volumes when a new addition piqued her interest. Hardbound, the black cloth spine showed signs of age yet remained in good condition. The title was unfamiliar, though, and she'd brought it back to the table for a closer examination. It turned out to be a collection of poems. She'd leafed through it until she came across a quotation penned in the margin:

when you have extinguished his soul in this world and placed him where the ray of hope is blown out as in the darkness of the damned, are you quite sure that the demon you have roused will not turn and rend you?

She thought it most odd and intriguing. I don't have time for this, she chided herself, tapping the end of her pen against her bottom lip, staring at the gently flowing script.

"It's from a speech by Abraham Lincoln."

She glanced up at the voice, brushing away her thoughts.

"Oh!" It was him! Standing right beside her at the table! So casual and relaxed again, as if he'd merely mentioned the weather to a stranger on a subway. His eyes were dark and unreadable, every bit as enigmatic as she remembered. The forest green banded collar shirt he wore did nothing for the pale color of his cheeks, nor did the black trenchcoat draped over his shoulders, yet he remained debonair. She blushed, unable to help herself.

"Uhm. How do you know?" God, I feel like I'm back in high school, she moaned inwardly. He smiled, lifting a hand to tap at the page with a single finger.

"It was my book. I made that notation."

"Oh...oh I see." She felt so foolish for asking now, groping for something to say. He smiled, the corners of his mouth turning up gently.

"I didn't want to interrupt you, but you seemed to be contemplating it. I'll let you get back to your paper." He paused just long enough for her to change her mind three times about asking him to stay before turning away and gliding quietly towards the bookshelves. Erica closed her mouth quickly, leaning over the table to watch his easy gait, almost upsetting her latté in the process. A subtle cologne lingered in the air about her; exotic as its wearer. Smiling, she turned back to her research, tapping her bottom lip with her pen. Thoughts of him occluded her concentration, though, and an old familiar urging filled her limbs with restless motion.

She could feel Paul's eyes on her back as she clipped the last carabiner to the harness. Metal clinked as she placed it next to the bright coil of rope on the floor.

"I wish you wouldn't make such a big deal out of it, Paul, you're always welcome to come." Erica finished lacing her hiking boots, looking up through her bangs at him. Paul snorted derisively, leaning against the doorjamb. Not in condescension at her hobby, but in refusal to embarrass himself. Erica doubted he could do a single pull-up much less tackle an F6 or F7 face like she planned to today. But that needn't keep him home. She couldn't, of course, explain to him exactly why she went to the rocks; could not convince him that spending hours wedging hands and feet into cracks barely wide enough to sprout weeds, muscles cramping as she clung spider-like to the wall, was invigorating. Nor could she confess the rapture she felt at the summit, staring into the sky with the forest in supplication at her feet. Of sitting, dizzy with effort, picking the torn skin from her hands, and listening to the rocks sing. He could no more understand that then she could comprehend the binary arrays and digital logic with which he was so familiar with. But yet she tried. How could he live in despair?

A gentle shaking at her shoulder woke her, and Erica looked up bleary-eyed and confused.

"Wha?" Her eyes finally focused right and the smear of features in front of her resolved itself into the stranger's face. Galvanized by his proximity, Erica leaped out of her chair.

"Oh!"

"Easy now," he soothed, holding her shoulders gently, "you feel asleep while reading and the store's about to close." He nodded towards the bar, where Mr. Rosetjau looked on with amusement writ large across his face. Erica could feel the blood rush to her face as she pushed a hand through her hair. How disheveled she must look! And how foolish. She grinned awkwardly, gathering her papers together in haste.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize. I guess I was more tired than I thought."

He swept his coat to the side, hands collecting her scattered material.

"Let me help you."

"No, really, that's all right." Erica stacked notebooks in her arm, papers poking out at crazy angles. She reached for her binder, watching his face and the soft smile it wore. Her right hand collided with his left. Instead of drawing back at the contact, he slid his fingers across the back of her hand, their touch dry and warm in the evening air. She looked up at him, aware of his closeness and of the fire dancing in the dark depths of his eyes. As suddenly as it had come, the touch was gone as he handed the binder to her. Placing it atop her load, Erica flashed an apologetic smile towards Mr. Rosetjau and fumbled for her jacket. His hands interposed themselves again, lifting it from the chair back and draping it around her shoulders. She smiled her thanks at him and headed towards the door, cheeks still burning. Who was he? Behind her, the stranger and Mr. Rosetjau exchanged goodnights. Pushing through the door, Erica racked her mind for some way to prolong the conversation. Hearing his footsteps on the stoop behind her, she turned to offer thanks for helping her and almost ran into him.

"May I carry your books for you?" His smile was amused, and his request so anachronistic that she laughed out loud.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she was instantly contrite. The unruly array of material vanished from her grip in any case, ordering itself under his left arm.

"I, uh, I just wanted to thank you for helping me inside," she started hesitantly, unsure of herself. He smiled again, offering her his right arm.

"Please, it was nothing. If I might be so forward as to walk you home, I would consider it ample repayment." She half curtsied, placing her arm in his.

"Of course you may, kind sir, on one condition." She smiled brilliantly at him, recovering from her earlier paralysis. Twenty five years had taught her a thing or two. He paused with his body half-turned, eyebrow arched in an elegant question mark.

"Who are you?" Erica only half-succeeded in keeping the wonder out of her voice. Shaking his head slowly, he chuckled deep in his throat.

"Of course, how foolish of me. My name is Vale, Vale Ricimer."

Vale. She tasted the name and smiled.

"Erica Townshend. It's a pleasure to meet you."

They started up the street together, Vale matching her shorter stride. She watched him obliquely even as she answered the questions he put to her. His face was a study of peace, lacking the tension found normally around the eyes and neck. Somehow, despite only suggested movements, he seemed to drink in the entire landscape; at once in control of every situation. Her own inquiries into his background were skillfully snared in a web of half-answers, leaving her with nothing but more questions. In anyone else, Erica would have lost patience and interest, but the veil of shadows he wore only heightened her curiosity.

Suddenly, they were in front of her apartment, and she blinked in surprise. Could seven blocks have passed so quickly? Opening the door, she turned to retrieve her books. Instead of giving them to her, Vale knelt and placed them just inside the door. Straightening, he held out his hand.

"What if we just kept walking?"

Don't seem too eager, a voice snickered inside her. Smiling, Erica let the door close behind her.

"Uhm, okay. But the scenery isn't so great." She slid her arm through his again, and they started down the sidewalk. Vale glanced up and down the street, and then back to her.

"Oh, I don't know. From where I'm standing it looks exquisite." She furrowed her brow in some confusion, but the slight smile he wore brought the meaning home, and she blushed, looking down at her feet. He chuckled, deep in his throat.

"Such modesty with such beauty."

"Flattery will get you nowhere," she retorted, still blushing.

"Good thing it's not flattery then," he returned, his smile sly. She glanced over at him, then up ahead. Her step faltered and she leaned heavily on his arm. Vale's left hand came up to steady her.

"What's wrong?"

Erica stared at the wrought iron gates of the cemetery, shivering in the night wind. Her father's casket had looked so small when they carried it through the gates back home. Small and frail and alone. Just like he'd died. Erica looked away, fighting not to cry.

"I'm sorry. I've had a, a personal loss recently." Her voice sounded strange to her ears. Vale slid his arms around her.

"My deepest condolences," he murmured, drawing her close. Erica let herself be pulled into him, slowly relaxing in his hold. His hand rubbed her lower back, and she felt the tension begin to ease out of her.

"These past couple of years I didn't have time for my father," she began for no good reason, "I always said I was too busy to see him. I guess I was getting back at him for all the times he was too busy to see me." She looked up into his impossibly dark eyes, finding silent understanding. "He always had some project, some plan occupying him. Always off chasing some rainbow." Bitterness suffused her voice, more towards herself than her father. She picked at the buttons on his shirt, her voice quiet.

"I never understood what could be more important," she whispered.

"You loved your father very much, didn't you?"

She nodded wordlessly.

"But you never understood him." His voice caressed her like velvet, and she shook her head.

"What do you think your father was searching for?"

Erica opened her mouth to answer, then closed it in confusion. Over the years there had been retreats, sabbaticals, hobbies, all the trips he'd taken her on, but now that she thought about it he had never once mentioned a concrete goal. She looked up at Vale with her unspoken question. He smiled his soft, enigmatic smile, and guided her down the sidewalk towards her apartment. Threads of ideas spun and collided within her, spawned by this new approach to her grief. She did not know what her father had been looking for.

"It must have been important," observed Vale, almost reading her mind. Erica glanced over at him. What could have been more important than me? she cried out silently.

"Perhaps he searched not because he needed to, but because he thought someone else needed him to."

Erica stopped dead in her tracks.

"I needed him to be there for me!"

Vale turned towards her, his face placid despite the heat in her remark.

"Don't you think he knew that? He was your father, he loved you. Think, though. Without his search would he have been worthy of you? In his eyes, would he have been enough?" He stroked her shoulders, soothing her as she fought with her memories.

"I wanted a father," she choked, seeking comfort in his arms. Vale held her close.

"He wanted to be more than just a father. He wanted nothing but the best for you." The tears came, then, as she began to understand, to accept, for the first time. Night drew her curtain close about them, Time turning its back for a moment. Erica rubbed at her eyes, sniffling.

"How do you know?"

Vale kissed her forehead gently. "What are you searching for?"

She stared at him, uncomprehending. He drew her forward gently, taking the key from her pocket to open the door to her apartment. Erica stepped close to him, the light from the hallway casting their shadows out into the street. She reached out to touch his cheek.

"Who are you?"

Vale smiled, kissing her palm.

"Death gives one a different perspective. I am acquainted with the night." Stepping back, he bowed from the waist, turned, and disappeared into the darkness. Erica leaned after him briefly, but her urge to call out to him was drowned by a warm stirring inside her. She was acquainted with the search, and those that are need not cluster together. Each will, of necessity, find the other. Smiling, Erica stood in the doorway, awash in his scent and her search. The night was cool and alive to her touch.