The porthole window was open, so Arnett could hear the sound of the city wafting into the Landship. He lay on his bunk and just stared at the ceiling. His arm was bandaged. He had gotten burned badly. He was trying not to think of it.
Looking over he stared at the now empty bunk. Joseph Abbot had sat there. He hadn’t cleaned up his things yet. Arnett looked over Joseph’s neatly made bed and his lock box of personal effects.
Arnett spotted Joseph’s favorite liquor, tucked away beneath the bed. Pulling it out, he also grabbed the lock box.
“I hope you don’t mind, will you Abbot?” asked Arnett out loud, and he poured himself a drink.
Looking at the lockbox, Arnett frowned at the keyhole. He looked over at Abbot’s stuff again, but he knew most likely the key was on him when he died.
Taking out a knife, Arnett jammed it into the keyhole before forcibly turning the lock. The brute force tactic worked, and the lock shattered off the face of the box and Arnett opened the lid.
Inside was everything Arnett expected to find. A roll of Ciams, some banknotes and bank information, and some letters home.
Arnett frowned, thumbing through the letters. His heart sank when he thought of his family in Sorditudo. Arnett didn’t even know his family. The Abbots. He assumed his father was a miner. Everyone was a miner in Sorditudo.
Arnett’s hand brushed something cold and metallic as he grasped for more letters. Arnett pulled out a slightly beat up harmonica. Arnett let out a groan.
“I hated this thing, so much,” he said, examining it in his hands, “You used to play this and I’d throw stuff at you. You annoyed the crap out of this.
Arnett went to pretend to throw it away, but instead he kept it. Looking at the neat bunk, Arnett fiddled with the harmonica. Finally he put the lock box aside and laid down, staring into the roof.
He brought the harmonica up to his mouth, giving it a blow. It made a flutter of sound. Breathing in through it it sounded higher pitched. He went up the scale and then down it again, letting out a chuckle.
“Well, I’m no maestro,” copied Arnett, trying to put on his best Abbot, “No… but you at least made this box sound like… music.”
Arnett continued to blow on the harmonica, staring into the darkness. He attempted some sort of melody, but he knew he would never amount to what Abbot had been able to do.
“Hey, shut up!” yelled someone outside, “Knock that racket off!”
Arnett grinned, his eyes darting around the ceiling.
“Yeah, shut the hell up with that chanka-shit!” called Arnett, his voice filling the quiet of the landship.
With that, he blew on it a little more. More cries and threats came up around the landship. Arnett found himself silently chuckling to himself. He joined in, even getting up, reaching his revolver outside pointed upward and letting off a round, silencing the night. When he lay back down, he couldn’t stop silently chuckling in the silence.
Arnett was so caught up in capturing that moment again, he didn’t notice the tears slowly falling down the sides of his face, threatening to pool in his ears.