Under_The_Whispering_Door_by_TJ_Klune

Hugo ran his hand over his hair. Such a small action, and a wonderfully
human one at that, but it gave Wallace pause. Everything about Hugo did. He
was struck by this man and the quiet power that emanated from him. Hugo
was unexpected, and Wallace thought he was sinking once again. “Curiosity,
maybe? A desire to understand that bordered on desperation. I told myself
that if I did this, I might find answers to questions I didn’t even know I had.
I’ve been at this for five years now, and I still have questions. Not the same
ones, but I don’t know that I’ll ever stop asking.” He laughed, though it was
strangled and soft. “I even convinced myself I might be able to see them
again.”
“You didn’t, did you?”
Hugo looked out at the tea plants. “No. They … they were already gone.
They didn’t linger. There were days I was angry about that, but the more I did
this job, the more I helped others in their time of need, the more I understood
why. They lived a good life. They’d done right by themselves and me. There
was nothing left for them to do here. Of course they’d cross.”
“And now you’re stuck with people like me,” Wallace muttered.
The smile returned. “It’s not so bad. The bikini was a nice touch.”
Wallace groaned. “I hate everything.”
“I don’t believe that for a minute. You may think you do, but you don’t.
Not really.”
“Well, I hate that.”
Hugo made an aborted attempt to reach for him. His fingers fluttered
above Wallace’s hand on the railing before he pulled away, curling his hand
into a fist. “We live and we breathe. We die, and we still feel like breathing.
It’s not always the big deaths either. There are little deaths, because that’s
what grief is. I died a little death, and the Manager showed me a way to
cross beyond it. He didn’t try to take it from me because he knew it was mine
and mine alone. Whatever else he is, whether or not I agree with some of the
choices he makes, I remember that. You think I’m a prisoner here. That I’m
trapped, that you’re trapped. And in a way, maybe we are. But I can’t quite
call it a prison when there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
“The pictures. The photographs. The posters hanging on the walls inside.”
Hugo looked at him but didn’t speak. He was waiting for Wallace to put it
together, the little puzzle pieces scattered between them.