Price of Forever

He sat down on the bench overlooking the bustling street. An older gentleman sat at the far end of the bench, reading his newspaper silently. A young man with a dog stopped to check his phone. The stranger looked over.

“Excuse me, how long has that restaurant been there?” the stranger asked. The young man with the dog looked up.

“Huh? Oh, there? Uh... about eight years I think. Been a while since you've been in town?” the young man asked.

“A bit, yes,” the stranger confessed. The young man nodded and continued on down the sidewalk. The old man cleared his throat. The stranger looked over.

“It's been fifty years since you've been here,” the old man said.

“Pardon?” the stranger asked.

“You weren't asking about the business in the building. You were asking about the building itself,” the old man chuckled. The stranger looked over at him, puzzled.

“It was a rainy day, and the drainage was as bad then as it is now. Water was almost knee deep out in the street. A branch fell and caught the power line, tearing it down. A piece of cable slashed a young boy across the face, and you grabbed him and ran to safety before the water got electrified,” the old man cited. The stranger nodded.

“That sounds like quite a story. I must have an ancient twin,” the stranger smiled.

“No, it was you. Because you didn't get through the water before it electrified. The cable hit that water. Somehow you kept running. It should have fried you, but it didn't,” the old man said. The stranger now cleared his throat. This was becoming uncomfortable.

“It's okay. I'm not going to rat you out. I've been sitting here for some time thinking of how to say hello to you,” the old man said.

“Well, hello,” the stranger said as pleasantly as he could muster.

“And I wanted to say thank you,” the old man said. He turned and the stranger could see the jagged scar that etched down the left side of his face.

“I'm sorry I couldn't get to you before the cable struck,” the stranger confessed.

“You saved my life. I'd have been dead if not for you. And I've had a good life. Even found a good woman that looked past this mark on my face. So for all the days I've had since then, thank you,” the old man said. The stranger was quiet a moment.

“How did you know the cables struck the water? Your face was covered with blood,” the stranger said.

“Heard it. Felt it,” the old man said.

The stranger looked over curiously.

“You took the brunt of it, sure. But I felt it surge through me. My entire body clenched like one big balled fist. It hurt like hell. I couldn't for the life of me figure out how you were able to keep running. More I've learned of electricity since then, the more it's a mystery to me,” the old man said.

“There are many mysteries in this world,” the stranger replied.

“What's got you in town?” the old man asked.

“Funeral,” the stranger replied. The old man nodded.

“Older you get, the more of those you go to,” he said, then caught himself, realizing this man was likely far older than he.

“Until they grow fewer than you ever imagined,” the stranger replied. The old man felt awkward, and sorry for his comment.

“Name's Bud Tanner,” the old man said. The stranger nodded.

“Alan Southwark,” the stranger introduced now.

“Southwark? Don't think I've ever heard that last name,” Bud mused.

“There weren't many of us left. Two world wars saw to that. After tonight, the family name will be no more,” he said matter of factly. Bud could sense the edge of sadness, although Alan was clearly not the type to wallow in it. Bud nodded.

“My condolences,” Bud said.

“Thank you,” Alan answered. They were quiet for a few moments. Alan stood.

“My grand kids own a little restaurant around the corner. Bud's Burgers. Clever title eh? Anyways, you should stop on by if you're in town for a bit. Don't worry, I won't tell 'em about you. Just say that you the son of an old friend of mine,” Bud offered. Alan nodded.

“Thank you,” Alan said again and headed off down the road.

Alan headed to the clearing where the body was being buried. There were a handful of people in attendance. Alan sighed. He could recall the Southwark weddings and funerals of old, with hundreds in attendance. It seemed as though they would stand forever. Or perhaps no one was really thinking of tomorrow. Tomorrow is such an obscure idea anyway.

He approached the small gathering quietly, not wishing to draw attention to himself.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” the priest said as he sprinkled dirt over the casket. Alan found himself murmuring the words to himself. He looked up to see a familiar face he hadn't expected. Dorian Ballentine. Dorian smiled. Alan nodded. Another person in the gathering looked up and noticed Alan. A young, pale woman with dark hair and dark eyes. Alan closed his eyes for a moment and considered leaving.

No. This was Gloria, his last living descendant. He would not be chased from this place. He stood in place until the funeral was concluded. He walked forward and set thirteen red roses upon Gloria Southwark's grave. He stood looking at her headstone as though an endless chasm yawned forth before him and he fought to keep himself from falling in. Instead, a fathomless gray enveloped him. He found a kaleidoscope of faces and places cascading in his mind. So many years, so many people. Many names he could no longer recall.

“Are you Alan Southwark?”

He breathed deeply and slowly. He had stayed too long. He had been discovered. He opened his eyes slowly and looked over to see the young woman again.

“I'm sorry, I know this is a difficult time, having just lost your aunt and all, but I need to go over some legal documents with you,” she said.

Aunt? he thought to himself.

Reluctantly he followed her to her office. He followed her black Lexus through the winding roads heading well outside of town. She eventually brought him to a secluded manor. Inside was an office furnished with aged mahogany chairs and desk. She set some tea to brewing and pulled out a series of folders. She opened up a folder and handed it to him. He looked it over. There were a series of deeds, estates, stocks, bonds and bank accounts listed. He glanced over them, then back up at the woman.

“Having no other surviving heirs, sole control of her estate goes to you it seems,” the young woman said with an awkward smile.

“How do you know who I am?” Alan asked.

“All I've got is the photo she had of you. It looked old. Honestly, I was surprised when I recognized you. It must have weathered prematurely,” she offered. Alan nodded. He looked back over the files.

“How did Gloria... Aunt Gloria come about all of this?” he asked.

“She apparently spent her later years tracking down all of the lost estates and accounts of the Southwark family. There were apparently quite a few scattered across the U.S, Canada and Europe,” she said. Alan had spent centuries amassing a fortune so that the Southwark family would want for nothing. His condition often forced him to travel. Often unexpectedly. As the 20^th century loomed and the world seemed to grow smaller, he diversified his investments and even left himself foxholes and safe houses to retreat to should he need to drop one identity and draw from funds elsewhere immediately. Gloria had found them all.

“Clever girl...” he murmured to himself.

“Excuse me?” the lawyer asked.

“Nothing. Sorry. Lost in thought. Also, I beg your pardon, but I never formally introduced myself to you,” he said.

“Well, I already know you're Alan Southwark. I'm Veronica Ristani,” she said, extending a hand. He shook her hand.

“Albanian?” he asked. She nodded.

“Yes. How did you know?” she asked.

“I just read a lot,” he replied.

His eyes fell on the folder as a mist gathered at the edges of his eyes. He remembered a daydream he had had ages ago, about the end of the world. Everyone on Earth had died off, and he would wander its empty streets like a ghost forever. The thought had horrified him, yet here it was. The indomitable Southwarks, bright and brilliant and full of life, were gone. Alan was simply an echo, a whisper of what used to be.

“What will you do now?” she asked. “That's quite a fortune.”

“It is. Aunt Gloria did well for herself.”

“Most people would be ecstatic at being suddenly wealthy.”

“You're probably right.”

Before he could stop himself, the tears fell. He turned his head as his face reddened, but he couldn't stop himself. He mourned for his lost family. He mourned more for their passing that he could never be a part of. It was selfish, he knew; but sometimes we are. He heard something slide across the table. He looked up to see that Veronica had pushed a tissue box across the table. She was sitting razor straight. Alan took a tissue and nodded his thanks.

“Mr. Southwark, I'm not exactly the comforting type, but you have me at a loss. Are you going to be alright?”

“Honestly? No.”

Alan blew his nose and threw the tissue in the trash. He stared out the window into the hills and forest beyond the manor. He sighed and chuckled to himself.

“But I'm going to do something I swore I'd never do,” he said as he turned. Veronica's hand was inside her purse, her face rigid. Alan held up his hands.

“No no no! Nothing to you! Oh god! Wow, I must sound mad over here carrying on like this.”

“A bit. Yes,” Veronica replied, her hand not leaving her purse.

“I'm going to tell you who I am.”

“I know who you are. You're Alan Southwark, last surviving heir of Gloria Southwark.”

“She's my last surviving heir. And that photo isn't prematurely aged. It was taken just before the second World War.”

Veronica's face was a mask of incredulousness.

“I don't expect you to believe me, but I just buried the last of my family, and I've kept this secret for so long because I wanted them to be safe. That's... not really a concern any longer, I'm sad to say.”

Veronica shook her head.