This is something I wrote for a writing contest on GaiaOnline. The theme was a Harris Burdock mystery, if you've ever heard of them. The prompt I chose was a picture of an open window in the middle of the night, with dove wallpaper, where one of the doves was peeling off and another was missing. The textual prompt to go with it was "It all began when someone left the window open."

The title came from the song "Rooftops" by lostprophets. It honestly doesn't fit the mood of this story, but I can't think of another title and I already have something called "Untitled".

I was feeling Frenchy, so I set it in France. Go me. Plus Thierry is my absolute favorite French name, so I had it use it sometime. XD

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When I was a little girl, Grandpa used to sit beside me on my bed and tell me the stories of his youth: Of magic and fairiesand things I could not possibly believe in, but did anyway. He used to stand up and dance around my room until my mother yelled at him to settle down, but she did it with a smile on her face: One that never wavered, not even as she drove home from work that fateful night. Or so my aunt told me when she moved into this big old house. I believed her--I believed that my mother, battered and broken in the twisted metal remains of her car, was smiling. A nine-year-old would.

But now, as sit watching Grandpa sleep, almost fifteen years later, I know better. Grandpa, in his 1890s-style nightgown, lying on the bed he will most likely die in. It is the bed I was born in, one that bore life, and now will claim it.

He opens his eyes, and I swear I can hear every crinkle in his old skin as he turns his head toward me. "Aurelie," he says, his voice hoarse. "Let me tell you a story."

I smile, tears in my eyes. Carefully, I sit beside him on the old four-poster bed. "Go ahead, Grandpa."

"I used to tell your mother this story all the time." He coughs, his lungs rattling dangerously. "She never believed in it." Smiling derisively, he weakly pushes himself further up the pillows and lays an arm around my shoulders.

"It all began when someone left the window open," he begins, the tale one of my favorites. I do not think I will enjoy it as much, however, without him running around my bedroom and flapping his arms like a bird. "The wind blew the curtains and the moonlight shone brightly onto the carpet. The walls were alight with the reflection and the magic that shone in the light, and that's when he came. Him, the leader of the fairies, the most magical being to walk the Earth." He has to pause for a few wheezing breaths, and I wait patiently for him to go on.

"He came in through the window and stood tall on the carpet, his entire being shimmering in the night, every part of him--from the goose feather in his hat to the fabric of his shoes--seemed to glow with magic." He pauses again for a breath. "He looked about the room--at the toys and the clothes--his gaze finally coming to rest on the tiny form lying in bed, the covers pulled up to her chin against the chill of the night behind him.

"He knew this little girl: He had visited her night after night for weeks. He knew she was growing up, and he knew she was loosing her belief in his world." Grandpa coughs harshly, and for a moment, I think about calling his nurse; he recovers quickly, however, and continues with the story: "He knew that with each passing day, more and more children lost their imagination, and if everyone lost their imagination, who would be left to believe in him?

"So he woke the little girl, but not by any mortal means. Instead, he looked around her room and noticed the wallpaper, covered in pearly-white doves. Smiling, he brought one to life, watching it fly around the room once before landing softly on the little girl's shoulder. It hopped around and cooed once, but the tiny sound was enough to awaken the girl. She rubbed her eyes and sat up slowly, and when she noticed the little bird, her eyes grew wide." His words had gone slow, and I pulled myself out of my reverie to find him asleep on my shoulder, his chest rattling in a low snore.

I smile at his shiny head, the remnants of once-blond hair frizzy in the humid afternoon. Carefully, I slide out from beneath him, laying his head gently down on his pillow.

He begins to wheeze, a horrid sound I am not used to. I do not know what to do, what is wrong, or if I should go get someone. I choose the last, feeling it is the safest. As fast as I can, I run downstairs and to the kitchen, praising the size of the house the entire way, and find his nurse--Ms. Levesque--in the kitchen. She follows me back up the stairs to Grandpa's room, where he is still wheezing, but seems to have woken himself up.

"Mr. Fournier?" Ms. Levesque says. She is a pretty woman for her age, as Grandpa has mentioned on numerous occasions. "Mr. Fournier, can you tell me what is wrong?"

Grandpa does not reply, but signals me over instead. I am leaning on the doorway, shaking uncontrollably, but I go to him anyway.

"Aurelie," he wheezes, drawing me closer. I sit beside him on the bed and lean close to him. "You know the rest of the story. Find him. I want to meet him before I go."

"But, Grandpa," I object immediately, not thinking. He could be dying in front of me, and the nurse knows it as she tries to make me leave. I smile as I stand. "I will, Grandpa. I'll find him."

I know it will not happen. The story is just that: A story. There is not a man out there who can make wallpaper doves come to life, no king of the fairies. It is fantasy, and will always be fantasy.

Yet Grandpa believes he exists, and the least I can do is try to find something in the story to bring back to him.

I slowly descend the stairs, trying to think of where to start in my search. I know I will not be able to think in this house, so I take my jacket from the hook beside the door and step outside, where the chill of autumn in France awaits me.

Poitiers has always been my home, and my mother's, and Grandpa's. Our family has lived here almost since the city was built. I love walking the streets, especially in the older sections of the city, where you can see the years on the buildings and the streets. This place has always helped me to think, magical in itself, and filled with just enough secrets for me to wonder about as a child.

Now, however, I hate it. I hate the way every street reminds me of a time with Grandpa or my mother. It is not fair, not the least bit.

I am walk down a sloped street when two things happen: two young men chasing a football crash into me and I find myself suddenly believing in everything. In reality, I have fallen to the ground and hit my head pretty hard on the street, causing stars and little fairies to appear before my eyes. Around me, I can hear the voices of the two men, but I cannot discern one from the other.

"Arêtes!" one of them shouts, worried. I hear footsteps moving away from me. Then, a pale blob appears before my eyes and slowly sharpens into a face. "Are you okay?" he asks.

Like a drunk, I smile. He is cute--très joli--with dark hair, dark lashes, and pale blue-grey eyes. His lips are perfect--not to thick and not too thin--and his skin is the creamy color of coffee with lots of milk and sugar added. And the best part is that he is glowing ever so slightly. I hear myself giggle as I close my eyes.

"What's your name?" he asks, laying a hand gently on my shoulder.

I laugh out one more breath then open my eyes and answer him breathlessly, like a girl from a 1930s romance movie: "Aurelie."

"Aurelie," he repeats. I like the way my name sounds coming from his tongue. "Listen to me, Aurelie. My friend and I collided with you. You hit your head pretty hard. Can you sit up?"

Carefully, with a hand on my back, he helps me to slowly sit up. My head spins, and for a moment, I think I am going to faint, but I close my eyes and the wave passes slowly.

"You're bleeding," he says, examining the back of my head, "but I think it's because you scraped your head on the ground."

What he says makes no coherent sense to me, so I drop my head into my hands and start to cry. I do not know why, but I just started and could not stop, my head beginning to hurt more and more with each sob.

"Hey, hey," the man coos, his voice soothing. He slides an arm around my shoulders. "I'm not that hideous, am I?"

His attempts at humor do nothing to calm me.

"Aurelie. Let me take you home." He squeezes my shoulder gently until I calm down. "Is there someone there who can help you?"

I nod and wipe my eyes on the sleeve of my jacket. I still feel light-headed, but I am in better control over my emotions.

"Are you cold?" he asks. "You're shivering. Do you want my jacket?"

Come to think of it, I am cold, but not in the way he would imagine. Before I can say something to him, he slips his jacket off and lays it across my shoulders, still warm with his body heat.

"Do you think you can stand yet?" he asks.

I look up at him. Now that my mind has returned a bit, I realize he is not glowing, and that his hair is messy, not at all like the kempt man I saw in my state of insanity. He is not pretty anymore, but handsome.

"Who are you?" I ask suddenly, not replying to is question.

He smiles. "My name is Thierry. I like playing football and running over poor women. I have no intent to hurt you, if that's what you mean. Well…" He trails off, staring at the football lying on the side of the street. "I would like to take you home. I know nothing about medical stuff."

Weakly, I smile back at him. Slowly, I push myself to my feet; my head spins and I stumble, but Thierry takes hold of my arm and keeps me up.

"Do you do this often?" I inquire.

"Do what? Run people over?" Letting me stand for a brief moment, he runs to get the football. Then, with it tucked beneath his arm, he says, "I want to go back to my place and drop this off. My friends would kill me if I lost it. Do you mind a brief detour? You can wait outside, if you're worried about it."

"You're the one with a clear mind," I said, taking hold of his offered forearm as a dizzy spell overcomes me.

"Okay. It's just through here." He directs us toward a narrow alley between two houses and takes a step forward. It takes a second for me to follow suit, until I trust my legs to support me as I walk.

"You should tell your friend to be ashamed of himself," I said, watching my feet and trying to make conversation.

"Oh, Joël?" Thierry laughs. "He doesn't care about anything. You could have been eighty-four and he would not have cared. He's just a coward with a tough resolve, though."

"Your personal opinion?" I step carefully around a plastic bottle, fearing it will trip us both if I step on it.

"I have a way of knowing things about people," Thierry replies. He watches my feet as well. "None of my friends know, though, so keep it quiet, please?"

Smiling, I fling out a hand to steady myself against a wall as another wave of dizziness comes over me. "What can you tell about me?"

"Something is bothering you," he says slowly, staring straight ahead. "A boyfriend, maybe? A lost pet?"

With my free hand, I trace the wall, hoping my legs do not give out beneath me. "I wish it was that simple."

He makes an affirming sound. "I guess you're right. You're wearing simple clothes, which means you have something on your mind, something heavy enough that you don't have time to think about what you're wearing. Maybe there is someone you need to see, and whom you can't stand to be away from? Possible a dying friend or family member?"

I stare at him. "How did you do that?" I asked in disbelief.

We have come to the end of the alley. Thierry makes a left and climbs the stairs silently to the porch. "It's sort of a gift I inherited from my father," he says slowly as he tossed the ball through the front door.

"It's amazing," I say. I try to go down the stairs by myself, both hands wrapped tightly around the railing. Thierry remains on the porch.

"Hold on a sec," he says, and disappears inside the building. A few seconds later, he returns with a hat in his hand, which he places carefully on my head. "People would think I was a danger to you if they saw you walking down the street with blood in your hair."

I smile and adjust the hat slightly. I have a similar one at the house. Thierry offers his arm again, and we set out back down the alley.

"It's my grandfather," I say, staring at the ground. "He's dying."

Thierry sighs lightly, staring upwards a bit. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"The funny thing is," I say, smiling, "that I came out here to find some creature from this old story he used to tell. He wants to meet one before he…goes. I feel so useless, because I can't insist it's just a story. It would ruin the time he has left."

"Nah, don't feel useless." I turn right at the end of the alley and he follows. "What's the story?"

"It's one he used to tell me all the time when I was little. My mom, too, apparently." I pause to collect my thoughts in order to make the story as short as possible. "It's about this fairy who comes into a little girl's room and brings her wallpaper to life to rekindle her belief in magic. He wants me to find the fairy, because he honestly believes the story is true."

Thierry is silent for a few moments. "I believe in magic," he says, "but the days of fairies are gone. The world has become a place where science rules all, and the only people who believe in the fairies are too young to be listened to."

He sounds as if the fairies are his neighbors or his cousins. I look up at him; his eyes are focused on empty space, distant and removed. We stop walking.

"That sounds like the moral of the story," I said.

Shaking his head abruptly, Thierry draws himself out of his reverie and gives me a soft smile. "It wouldn't be so strange if it weren't true."

Our feet begin to move again. "I want to bring him something real--like a real-world connection from the story--but I have no idea where to start."

"There is no beginning and no end to a story like that, Aurelie." He has that distant look in his eyes again. "Someone didn't get up one day and say, 'I'm going to create magic'. Magic has always been around, if you know where to look for it."

I stare at my hand, wrapped around his forearm. "What do you think I should do? I can't go out and find a real fairy--that's ridiculous."

He grins. "When my father died," he said, "my mother told me that even if he is gone, I would still grow up like him, because I was his son. She told me to imagine myself as my father, and I would eventually find him again. It wasn't that I didn't want to be my father, but that I didn't believe that I could be as great as he was. I look back now and wonder why I ever thought that, and even though I am still working toward him, I feel like I have done his justice. I can't see him, but I know he is all around me. I know that somewhere, he is smiling at me, and that makes all the difference to me.

"Your grandfather wants to see this fairy, but it isn't what he needs. He believes in magic, so he does not need proof, just like a Christian believes in a God. What he needs is you. He needs you to be beside him now, because he is no doubt frightened of dying. Don't think that he will not be proud of you if you return empty-handed, and don't think that the magic will die with him."

I can make no sense of what he just said, but I stay quiet. The last part sticks with me: Don't think that the magic will die with him. Is that what this is all about? Wanting to keep the magic alive?

"I don't want him to die disappointed," I say. We are walking down a crowded market street now.

"He won't be," Thierry assures me. "I promise you that."

"Could you do it?" I ask, keeping my eyes down.

"Do what?"

"Could you pretend to be the fairy? I just remembered this drawing Grandpa made once of the fairy. You look similar to him, and you know a lot about magic. Please, Thierry. It would only be for a few minutes."

We turn down my street, and pause. Thierry looks at me, his eyes soft--but I can see him working the situation out in his mind. Then he smiles.

"Okay," he says. "For a few minutes."

I reach up and hug him, sending myself off-balance and leaning into him for support. He helps me to regain my balance, then we walk the last few meters to the porch of my building.

Inside, I take him to the sitting room, handing his jacket back to him as I take a seat on the sofa. Then I call for Ms. Levesque, and she comes in an instant. And just as quickly, she realizes I am hurt.

"What happened to your head, Aurelie?" she asks as I take off the hat. She looks at Thierry. "And who is this?"

"I'm okay, Ms. Levesque," I say. "Really. Thierry and I sort of had an accident, and he walked me home. Is Grandpa awake?"

Ms. Levesque fusses with the wound on the back of my head, making my skull hurt again. "He's stable for now," she says. "I'm afraid he doesn't have long, however. He's sleeping."

"Ms. Levesque, I'm fine. Really." I pushed her hands away. "It looks worse than it is. Can you tell me when Grandpa wakes up?"

She nods, then leaves the room.

I rub the bridge of my nose, wishing my head would stop hurting. Thierry takes a seat beside me and stares at the fake fireplace in front of us. There is no fire burning in it.

"Have you ever just screamed?" Thierry asks after a few moments of silence.

"Screamed?" I repeat, sitting back and looking at him.

He nods. "Have you ever gone out into the middle of no where, or up on a roof, or just in your car, and screamed until your lungs hurt?"

"No," I reply. "Why? Have you?"

"I have." He lets a second pass before continuing. "It's very…liberating. I don't know if that's the most accurate word to use, but something about completely losing control like that is soothing to your heart."

"What are you saying?" I stand and move to the fireplace, turning a knob and lighting a fire in the hearth.

"Your grandfather is dying, and it must be a hard time for you. I don't see your parents around, so I'm assuming both are dead. You really want to be alone, but company is nice. Company can be a friend or a lover, or your own echo, or the sound of your voice piercing through whatever you're feeling." He stares at the fire.

"When he goes," he continues, "you will feel emptier than you do now, and even more useless. You will sit here and silently watch the fire, but it won't help. Winter will come, and it will freeze your bones even further. You need some way to release all the tension and anger and sadness, to be alone without actually being alone. So you scream. You scream your heart out until it feels almost literal. It helps. It lets you feel things that were suppressed before, and letting those emotions in will dramatically improve your emotional standpoint."

I shake my head. "What have you been smoking?"

"Life." His voice and expression are entirely serious. He turns to me. "Aurelie, don't let this destroy you. There is nothing you can do except be there for him."

I stare at my hands, folded nervously in my lap. "I just wish--"

"Leave it at wishing."

My gaze moves to him, but I say nothing. Neither does he for a long while. Occasionally, he shifts his position, slouching, then crossing his legs, uncrossing them. I remain still. I fear that if I move, I will do something awful. Eventually, I excuse myself to shower, and tell Ms. Levesque to keep an eye on Thierry.

In the shower, I stare at the opposite wall, letting the water run down the back of my head and down my body. Closing my eyes, I think of Thierry and everything he has said. None of it made any sense. None. If he was trying to tell me something important, it was not working.

Furious and frustrated, I felt like screaming. Instead, I choked and slid to the floor, the water now falling directly on my head. Thierry would do what I asked, then he would leave, taking his nonsense with him. I do not need it right now.

Half an hour later, I return to the sitting room, my hair in a loose braid. Thierry is waiting, still watching the fire.

"How does your head feel?" he asks, looking at me as I sit.

"Okay, I guess. It doesn't hurt so bad."

"That's good." He was quiet for a few minutes. "Aurelie, I hope you aren't angry at me. I have a tendency to pry and force myself on others."

"That's for sure," I reply, raising my eyebrows.

He smiles weakly. "I hope I can make up for it with your grandfather."

At that moment, Ms. Levesque steps into the room and announces that Grandpa is awake. I jump up too quickly, sending my head reeling momentarily. When the world settles, I lead Thierry up the stairs to Grandpa's bedroom, with the dove wallpaper and mystical air.

Grandpa's eyes are closed, but I know he is awake. He is weak, I can tell: His breathing is slow and even.

"Hi, Grandpa," I say, taking a seat in the chair beside his bed. Thierry lingers awkwardly in the doorway. "How are you feeling?"

His eyes open slightly. "Aurelie, mon petit chou. Did you find him?"

"I have, Grandpa." I smile, hoping he does not see through my façade. I stood as Thierry approached and let him take a seat in the chair.

"Hey, Arnaud," Thierry says gently, leaning forward so Grandpa can see him clearly. I do not recall telling him Grandpa's name.

Grandpa's eyes open wide. "Mon Dieu," he whispers. "It really is you."

"I'm afraid not," Thierry says, sounding incredibly convincing. He reaches across the bedspread and takes Grandpa's hand. "I'm his son Thierry. He used to tell me stories of you like you tell Aurelie stories of us."

I slowly move to the wall opposite Grandpa's bed, letting Thierry continue with the improvisations. Behind me, doves fly toward the window, open to allow the dusk air into the room.

"I knew--I knew you were still out there somewhere," Grandpa says, a tear falling down his cheek. "I didn't think Aurelie would find you so fast."

Thierry looks at me over his shoulder. "I sort of found her," he replies, grinning. "I'm sorry I couldn't meet you sooner. Dad said he would bring me eventually, but he died before he could."

"Do you remember the first story he told you?" Grandpa asks.

"The one where you ran out of your bedroom before he could do anything?" Thierry laughs. "I like that one the best, just by his impression of you."

Grandpa laughs as well, but falls almost immediately into a coughing fit. Thierry pushes himself away from the bed, standing and moving backward toward the door. His eyes were wide when he looked at me.

I stepped up to the bed. "Are you okay, Grandpa?" I ask. "Do you need me to get Ms. Levesque?"

He shook his head, taking a few deep breaths to calm his breathing. "Thierry," he says, looking around me. Thierry is standing in the doorway, looking panicked. "Thierry, can you do it? I want to see it one last time."

I look at Thierry, my eyes questioning. I think Grandpa means the trick with the dove on the wallpaper, but there is no way Thierry will be able to fake that. How could I be so stupid? Of course Grandpa would want to see that.

Swallowing thickly, Thierry takes a step forward, then hesitates briefly before coming the rest of the way to the bed. He gives me a strange, unreadable look, then kneels beside the bed.

"You want to see the dove?" he asks gently, and Grandpa nods.

Thierry stands and covers the distance to the wall in three confident steps. I prop Grandpa up with another pillow and climb onto the bed to watch. I am so afraid Grandpa will be disappointed by what he sees--or does not see.

"Can I shut the lights off?" Thierry asks.

"Go ahead," I say, thinking he will use the semi-darkness to conceal whatever trick he will perform.

Thierry turns the lights out and returns to where he was standing previously, his shoulder to the wall. The thin curtains on the window gently touch his back as the wind blows outside, and the last rays of sun show purple and orange on the carpet.

Beside me, Grandpa smiles and tries to sit higher up.

"Ready, Arnaud?" Thierry asks. He holds his left hand in the air above the head of one of the doves. Watching, he moves his thumb and index finger into a position that suggests he is pulling on a string. As he pulls the invisible string upwards, the dove seems to come away from the wall, leaving behind it the purple background of the wallpaper. When the entirety of the dove comes away, it becomes three-dimensional, fluttering around the room, a real dove.

Grandpa seems ecstatic, but I launch myself off the bed and back away, my mouth open in shock. With wide eyes, I watch the dove land on Grandpa's blanket, but my gaze is drawn to the movement from Thierry, coming toward me. He obviously had not seen the consequences of what he just did.

"Aurelie," he says.

"You didn't tell me," I whisper so Grandpa will not hear. "You freak! Why didn't you tell me?"

I approach Grandpa and kiss him on the forehead. "I'm sorry, Grandpa. I have to leave for a minute." Then I walk out of the room.

In the hall, I close the door and lean against it briefly before heading to the stairs to the roof. This cannot be happening. This is impossible. Grandpa's fairies are real, and there is one in my house right now. It is all too much for me to handle.

I use more fore than necessary on the door to the roof, and it slams back on itself with a metallic clatter. On the Stucco roof, I can see the buildings all around my little townhouse. I can see the sky, now completely black except for a sliver of purple in the west.

I do not know if I am so upset because Grandpa's stories are real, or because I never believed in them whole-heartedly. There was always some level of doubt in my mind, but now, who can I blame for that but myself?

"Aurelie." I hear Thierry, but my back is to him.

Grandpa is dying. He may not make it through the night.

"Aurelie, would you listen to me, please?" His footsteps come near.

Fairies are real. One is standing behind me.

He touches my shoulder gently, and I drop to my knees. I feel as if my life has been ripped from underneath me. My mother, my father, Grandpa: Was everything they did for a reason? Were they somehow manipulated to make the younger generation believe?

"My father--"

"I don't want to hear about your father." My voice is flat.

Thierry lets silence pass for a few moments. I can feel him staring down at me. "My father told me once that he would let me meet your grandfather. He told me that no matter what, I would. When he died, I didn't think it would ever happen, but then you came along. I'm sorry your head had to be involved, but if it makes any difference to you, it was my father that kicked that ball at you."

He sat beside me and rested his elbows on his knees. "Your grandfather is a wonderful man. He is a happy man, no matter what he sees or doesn't see. You, on the other hand…You need to be shown things, and I understand that. You are no where as naïve as some. Not that your grandfather is naïve, but he lives a life where magic exists whether he can see it or not, where anything is possible and one day the doves may come alive on the wallpaper, a last hurrah before he dies."

"Stop talking," I say. I do not want to hear his confusing monologues anymore.

"Scream."

I glare at him. "I'm not going to scream, Thierry."

"Yes, you are." He stares across the other rooftops. "I want you to try it."

In the distance, the orange sliver disappears, blocked by a cloud moving quickly toward us. A flash of lightning illuminates the sky, and I jump to my feet, frightened.

"It won't hurt you," Thierry says, also standing.

My hands are shaking, but not from the nighttime chill. Thierry tucks his hands into his pockets and watches me, waiting. Rain begins to fall from the sky, sprinkled with rumbles of thunder.

This scene is too much to take. Too much fantasy and disbelief. Grandpa always used to say I was as stubborn as my mother.

From the third-story window, a dove flies, up over the roof and into the horizon. I know then. I know that Grandpa is gone. With the dove as the last piece of him, he has gone.

Thierry's fault. All Thierry's fault. I turn to him, strands of hair pasted by rain to me cheeks and neck.

"You did this," I yell, pointing at him. "You did this!"

He simply stands as I near and begin beating on his shoulders, begging him to bring back both Grandpa and my parents. It is as if he is used to it by now, as if he has done it before.

"Aurelie," he said, taking his hands from his pockets. "I'm so sorry. I've known you for a couple of hours and I have already messed up your life. I understand if you don't want to see me again."

I am sobbing now, my hits becoming weaker as my body slowly refuses any movement.

Thierry pulls me to him, holding me tightly and refusing to let me go as I continue to hit him, crying into his shoulder. He messed it all up, and now he wants to try to help me. There is no way I was going to give in to him.

I scream into his damp shirt, the sound muffled. This is what he wants, so this is what he will get. I scream again and again, like a little kid put in a corner.

And Thierry just stands there, his body radiating heat despite the rain, the comforting air of someone who can make anything possible reaching every corner of my being. He knows, he has seen, and he is willing to help others through it. In the future, he will begin his own crusade for belief, but he will always have my heart, and the dove that has long disappeared into the night.

---

Ack, I was so aloof when I wrote this. Thierry's little monologues make no sense. Meh.