[ Well, alright, there goes Faraday's other guess for why Matthew would be speaking to him, aside from taking him to task over mooning over his widow.
Maybe that's still coming – the upbraiding, the insistence that Faraday would never be good enough, that Emma hardly deserves to be plagued by the spirit of a man like Faraday. It's not anything he hasn't already thought himself, but certainly nothing he would enjoy hearing aloud in another man's voice.
But he's no coward, not one to back down from a challenge (genuine or imagined), and Faraday takes another step closer, standing beside a watering trough in front of the porch. He peers up at Matthew as the other man leans against the wooden post. ]
Why do you keep sayin' that?
[ Because that little bit sticks with him. ]
"She let you go." "She's not hangin' on to you."
The hell's that supposed to mean?
[ If Matthew knows who Faraday is, then he likely knows why he's here, of all places. A stranger, tethered to this town for which he bled himself dry and breathed his last.
A war, waged not in Matthew Cullen's name, exactly, but certainly in his memory. A widow filled with righteous fury, who every Sunday, without fail, kneels before a modest white cross in a graveyard too full for a town this size. ]
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Maybe that's still coming – the upbraiding, the insistence that Faraday would never be good enough, that Emma hardly deserves to be plagued by the spirit of a man like Faraday. It's not anything he hasn't already thought himself, but certainly nothing he would enjoy hearing aloud in another man's voice.
But he's no coward, not one to back down from a challenge (genuine or imagined), and Faraday takes another step closer, standing beside a watering trough in front of the porch. He peers up at Matthew as the other man leans against the wooden post. ]
Why do you keep sayin' that?
[ Because that little bit sticks with him. ]
"She let you go." "She's not hangin' on to you."
The hell's that supposed to mean?
[ If Matthew knows who Faraday is, then he likely knows why he's here, of all places. A stranger, tethered to this town for which he bled himself dry and breathed his last.
A war, waged not in Matthew Cullen's name, exactly, but certainly in his memory. A widow filled with righteous fury, who every Sunday, without fail, kneels before a modest white cross in a graveyard too full for a town this size. ]
You certain on all that?