A Trespass

We were sitting on the roof of our FC house when you crafted my dress. The roof was where we spent most of our time. For all the thousands of gil and hours we spent decorating the interior, we hardly ever went inside. Inside was boring. The roof felt like adventure—like somewhere we weren't supposed to be. From our vantage point sitting on the home's eaves we had a clear view out to the shore. To an island in the distance. A ship sailing through the waves. “Just take it,” you said.

The trade window sat open on my monitor. I hadn't put anything up, but you'd already accepted the trade. You crafted the dress with materials we won off of a treasure map—I didn't need to check the market board to know it was worth nearly more gil than I'd ever had. Glamor gear wasn't even my thing. “You should sell that.”

“Nah.” You didn't cancel the trade. “You take it. We'll clear Turn Four in style.”

I didn't argue. You didn't care about the gil. Never did. The trade went through and the dress was in my inventory. “Thanks.”

“It's nothing.” We sat for a few moments before you said, “Try for that clear tomorrow?”

“I might be off for a few days. Got to start studying for the Bar.”

“I thought that wasn't for a few months.”

“It's not. Prep course starts tomorrow.”

You said something that wouldn't make it past a profanity filter. Then you said, “We'll clear it next time you're on.”

The ship we were watching traveled along its programmed course. I always wondered what happened to it when it reached the end of its line. Did it still exist when it was off screen? “For sure,” I said. Then I logged out.

---

When I log back on our home is gone. A house stands on the plot, but somebody else lives there. Our Free Company has disbanded. All of my contacts are gone.

Eorza is larger than it was when I last logged off. Ishgard opened its gates. Adventurers travel to the Far East. I can meet new races and fight new Primals. Learn new jobs. Even fly, if I want. I can experience it all. I can do it now.

Instead I walk across a stranger's lawn. Our fountain is missing, and so is our sign post, but with a pinch of patience and a heaping of creative acrobatics I make it up to the roof. It's the same as it always was. Clear line of sight to the beach. An island in the distance. A ship disappearing over the horizon—trapped on the same route it traveled five years ago.

Your dress still sits in my inventory.

And I wonder for a moment if I could send you a message. Would you read it if I could? If I put a letter in a bottle and threw it to the tides, I wonder if maybe you'd see it glisten in the waves from your spot on a rooftop overlooking whatever new shore you've found. I wonder what I'd say.

Honest truth is I don't know.

I put on the dress and walk to the eave of the stranger's roof.

/sit

(Scarf of Wondrous Wit)