Octavia would have been lying if she said she wasn't sad.
She thanked her rickshaw driver quietly and climbed out onto the sidewalk, depositing a hefty tip in the stallion's cup.
"Thank you, miss," he said, tipping his hat. "Should I stick around to pick you up?"
"Hm?" Octavia turned back to look at the stallion. She had a distant look in her eyes. "Oh, no. That's quite alright. I'm sure you have other fares."
The stallion chuckled. "I surely hope so. With Hearth's Warming coming up and all. Have a nice day, miss."
Octavia did not answer. Not to be rude, of course.
She was standing on the sidewalk outside of her fillyhood home. The lawn was overgrown, the windows dingy, the front door sun-faded and sickly-looking. It was a miracle her parents had managed to sell this property. As they put it, "must be somepony as young, dumb, and broke as we were!"
The "For Sale" sign was the cleanest thing on the property. The realtor had added a nifty little "SOLD!" placard which hung off the bottom, and was swaying gently in the breeze.
Her parents had recommended that she stop by for a last visit, since this would likely be her last chance to do so. They had also strongly implied that they knew about her… additions to the home, and were, perhaps, hoping that she might clean up after herself.
She walked slowly up the fractured sidewalk, her gaze wandering ever upwards to the top of the holly tree in their front yard. She wondered if any of her old frisbees were still stuck in those branches. It was strange to think about. They may as well have been ghosts hanging up there.
With considerable finesse, the front door clicked open, and Octavia was granted entry into the familiar structure.
The smell was particular, and yet Octavia had never smelled it before. It had been years since she'd set hoof in this house… that's just how long you have to go before you can smell your own home, she supposed.
It smelled like… like roses. But the fake kind. And a little bit mildew, though Octavia hoped that was a recent addition. And something like shampoo, and a just-blown-out candle. She breathed it in as deeply as she could, and was immediately sent into a coughing fit from the dust-saturated air.
"Need a glass of water, there, lassie?"
Octavia shouted in surprise and leapt over to one side, a hoof to her heart.
There, in her living room, was a burly blue stallion. Octavia wished she could say that she had never seen him before, but that wasn't remotely true.
Her heart clenched in her chest, and a million less-than-perfect fillyhood memories came flooding back. Schoolyard bullies, crying on her little mattress, the desperate struggle to find a cutie mark…
For a second, she was scared. How, after all, could he be here? He wasn't…
"Octavia!" His accent was thick as always. "You look like you've seen a ghost!"
Not a ghost. But not… not real.
He had a pronounced Roman nose, a full red beard, and a long, thick braid hanging down by his ear. He was grinning, absolutely beaming with pride. The way his eyes sparkled almost made him seem real.
Octavia rubbed her eyes. She must be seeing things.
She opened them again.
Still there, still beaming.
She tried one more time, this time muttering "it's not real, it's not real," to herself very softly.
She opened her eyes.
Still there. Not quite as happy this time.
"What's this?" he asked, cocking his head. "Aren't you happy to see your old pal, Rockhoof?"
Octavia blinked several times.
He certainly looked real. His beard hairs were very well-defined. His eyes were shimmering in the dappled sunlight through the blinds. His teeth were pearly-white and not entirely straight.
But…
"Ach, can't an imaginary stallion check in on his little filly?" Rockhoof asked. "It's been so long… I thought I'd seen you for the last time!"
Rockhoof lumbered towards Octavia, one leg open for a hug.
Octavia took a few scrambling steps backwards.
Rockhoof paused. "Sorry. I s'pose you need a moment or two."
Octavia sighed, and turned her gaze down to the floor. "I don't need a moment, I just need you to leave."
"You're not… surprised?" Rockhoof said, smiling awkwardly.
"Of course I'm surprised," Octavia spat back. "But it's not exactly a good surprise, now, is it? I must be going mad…"
"What, you think you grew out of your imagination?" Rockhoof asked, wiggling his eyebrows. "You're smarter than that, lassie."
Octavia growled under her breath. "As if today wasn't hard enough…" She began to rub her eyes again. "I just need to do this alone, I can't have my imaginary friend hanging over my shoulder!"
Octavia looked up, bleary-eyed, and surveyed the room.
Rockhoof was gone.
Octavia smiled proudly to herself. She held her snout high and marched through the living room, back towards where her fillyhood bedroom had been.
The floor creaked predictably and, for once, Octavia made no effort to avoid the noisy boards. It was nice to hear their sound again.
Her old bedroom was nearly unrecognizable. The music-note wallpaper had been torn down, all of her old stuffed animals and instruments long since removed. There were no bow ties in the closet. There was no candle on the windowsill.
Her parents had left a few pieces of furniture in here, though. Stripped of their other contents, though, they were still strange and unfamiliar to her. A too-small bed frame, a baby-blue bookshelf, a bureau covered in pen doodles… things that an adult pony would have no need of, and yet she found herself longing for.
Octavia pulled her bookshelf out from the wall a few inches. The back face was covered in a great variety of drawings, notes, and musical musings. Octavia smiled to herself, remembering the way she would trace the shapes over and over again, the pen held so tightly in her hoof--
"Your practice board," remarked a familiar voice. "Ach, I remember that. Strengthening those little hooves, learning those deft and precise motions you'd use on your cello… strange foal, you were."
Octavia cursed and looked back over her shoulder. Rockhoof was standing behind her, leaning in close to examine the doodles with a squint.
"What are you still doing here?" she asked snidely.
"Me?" Rockhoof held one of his massive hooves to his chest. "I live here. Or, rather, I live there." He pointed to Octavia's forehead. Octavia swore she could feel the weight of his hoof pressing into her skin.
She swatted the hoof away. This time, her own limbs passed through it as easily as through fog. "I don't need you anymore."
Rockhoof snorted in laughter. "Ach, sure you don't. Just like you don't need this house anymore. Or your practice board."
Octavia sighed and pushed the bookshelf back in towards the wall. "And?"
"And…" Rockhoof gestured around the room. "You're still visiting all of us, aren't you?"
Octavia sat back on her haunches and folded her hooves over her chest. "I'm here for a reason."
Rockhoof arched his brows. "And that reason is…?"
"To, erm…" Octavia looked down at the floor. "To clean out my stash…"
Rockhoof laughed once, loud and powerful. "You don't mean your music collection, I hope."
Octavia rolled her eyes, then stepped on a floorboard to her left. The board sprung up on a pivot, revealing a hidden compartment under the floor. In it were a few small cassette tapes; least-favorites that had been forgotten over several moves, collecting dust ever since.
Rockhoof chuckled. "Still hiding them, are you?"
"Not hiding. Just… private," Octavia commented tersely. She reached into the compartment and drew out one of the tapes. "Iron Broodmare," she read off the label.
"Not many classical instruments on that tape, I'll bet," Rockhoof said with a wink.
Octavia giggled. "Precisely."
Rockhoof went silent, watching as Octavia emptied this compartment, closed it up, and moved on to another. She did it so casually, as if hiding music around one's home were the most natural thing in the world. A few metal tapes here, a few harsh noise tapes there. All of them made Octavia smile a secretive smile.
"You're still playing the cello, then?" Rockhoof asked.
"So my flank says." Octavia waggled her cutie mark in Rockhoof's direction.
"And I'll bet ponies don't call it a unicorn's instrument anymore, do they?"
Octavia's heart clenched again.
The cello. An instrument that was never meant, never hoped to be in the hooves of an earth pony. "We can find you something else," her parents had said. "Perhaps a piano. Or a nice Prench horn."
They had meant well. They didn't want to see their little filly disappointed.
But she knew what she wanted. What she was meant to do.
"Not to my face, they don't," Octavia said softly. "Who knows what they say behind my back…"
Rockhoof smiled a warm and gentle smile. "Ah, but remember: what other ponies say is none of our business. True strength--"
"--comes from inside," Octavia finished. "I know. I remember."
"Well, would you look at that." Rockhoof puffed out his chest. "Somepony still reads my old stories, hm?"
"Don't flatter yourself," Octavia said with a smirk.
"Ach, but you'll concede I was a major turning point in your life," Rockhoof said. "Aye?"
Octavia rolled her eyes.
"Hm?"
"Ugh…" Octavia slumped her shoulders, as if she were being nudged along by a pushy and over-supportive parent. "Aye, Rockhoof."
"Aye!" Rockhoof agreed in a roar.
Octavia stifled a giggle.
The room felt warmer with him in it. More like home.
Octavia kicked low on the wall, and a panel tumbled open. Inside were several ancient records, likely ruined by the recent rainwater leaks this house had been weathering. She retrieved them anyway, stacking them with the dozen-or-so tapes she'd dug up.
"That's the last?" Rockhoof said.
Octavia nodded. "Should be. Unless I've forgotten something."
Rockhoof shook his head. "Not you. You'd never forget a song."
Octavia did not respond, but she fought a smile.
Rockhoof walked to her side. He still towered over her nearly a whole head, but not in an intimidating way. Although, if Octavia remembered correctly, she often imagined Rockhoof leering down upon her grade school bullies.
No, this was comforting. A big, warm presence that could protect her. Keep her safe. Give her strength.
"I remember the day you thought me up," Rockhoof said. "Do you?"
Octavia sighed. A part of her didn't want to remember such a painful and depressing time in her young life. But, at the same time, it just felt right.
"I remember giving up on the cello," Octavia said softly. "My parents had given me a harmonica, in a poor attempt to convince me that other instruments were worthwhile. I was young, and I couldn't afford a cello myself. So I… I gave up."
"And then you read a book of legends," Rockhoof said. He pointed at the bookshelf. "From that very shelf!"
Octavia chuckled. "Yes. I read about you and your strength, the way you proved your worth through practice and discipline."
"It wasn't meant for a musician, but you certainly needed to hear it," Rockhoof said.
Octavia sighed. "Yes, I suppose I did."
Rockhoof watched expectantly, waiting for Octavia to continue her tale. But the whole thing had struck Octavia as rather silly--a grown mare, talking to herself in an empty house--and she had clammed up entirely.
"And you started to practice," Rockhoof said. "You recited my words to yourself, traced them over and over on every surface you could think of…"
Octavia's gaze wandered to her bureau, which was covered in the phrase 'there's nothing you can't do with hard work' over and over, each repetition getting stronger and more confident. Every letter was living proof of Octavia's struggle to become the first earth pony cellist.
She held the pencil like a bow. She guided it swiftly, in time with her favorite songs. She worked her hooves over the harmonica until she was an expert. By the time she, at last, laid hooves on a cello, she was practically a master. It came as easily as breathing.
"And, eventually, I was standing over your shoulder," Rockhoof said. She sighed, a deep and warm sound. "Remember?"
Octavia stomped her hoof. "Yes, or course I remember. It's my past. It's my mind."
Rockhoof shrugged. "Maybe you needed a reminder. It's easy to forget our strength when we're having adversity."
Octavia scoffed. "What adversity?"
"Isn't it obvious?" Rockhoof said. He wrapped a ghostly foreleg around Octavia's shoulders. "Letting go. The hardest thing there is."
Another silence fell between them. This time it was tinged with a different feeling.
Not sadness. That was far too simple.
It was frustration. It was nostalgia. It was anger. And… it was sadness, too, she supposed. All of them blended up together and spat back out in a big, wet, disgusting glob of horrible things.
"Shouldn't you be thanking me?" Rockhoof asked smugly.
Octavia quickly wiped away a tear. "Oh, please."
Rockhoof chuckled. "Aye, well, thanking me is thanking yourself. And one thing you could never do was give yourself credit."
Octavia groaned loudly. "Fine, fine." She turned to face her imaginary friend, this living part of herself that had carefully guided her through the most difficult parts of her fillyhood. "Thank you, Rockhoof. I… I appreciate what you did for me."
"Ah, ah!" Rockhoof held up a hoof. "What you did for you. That strength is yours, Octavia."
"Well, I can't very well thank myself," Octavia argued. "I'll sound like a lunatic."
"Perhaps, but you'll have the strength to endure it," Rockhoof reminded her.
"That doesn't even make sense…" Octavia muttered.
Rockhoof chuckled again, but said nothing.
Maybe it was the power of suggestion, but Octavia was starting to feel the sadness sink into the pit of her stomach. She'd been doing so well… she was almost disappointed in herself for losing it at this later stage.
She took a deep breath to try to steady herself, but ended up letting out a choked sob.
Rockhoof looked down at her. "It's alright to cry, lassie."
Octavia sniffled. "No, it isn't. It's not very strong of me."
"Of course it is," Rockhoof said. "Only weak ponies try to bury their feelings. By facing them head-on, you are showing some of the purest strength I've ever known."
Octavia laughed, but it came out like a little cry. "You mean that I've ever known."
"Aye, now you're getting it," Rockhoof said, punching playfully through her shoulder.
Octavia sighed.
Leaving is hard.
Goodbyes are hard.
Change is hard.
"We should leave a note," Octavia said suddenly.
"A note?"
Octavia nodded. "To the new owners. From us. Don't you think?"
Rockhoof rubbed the back of his head thoughtfully. "Where would we leave something like that?"
Octavia thought for a moment, then trotted over to the bookshelf and pulled it out from the wall. While the outer edge was covered in little filly's scribbles, a large patch in the center was entirely blank.
Rockhoof nodded.
Octavia popped open a compartment in the wall and retrieved her old pen, which was likely very nearly out of ink. But that was okay-- the message didn't have to be long.
Hello, new homeowners!
Welcome! If you're seeing this message, you've decided to do a little redecorating. Us, the old homeowners, want you to know that we expected you to. We know change can be hard… so take some of our strength to get through it, and make this place your own.
With love and determination,
O.M. and R.H. <3
"Ach, I don't like the heart."
Octavia scrubbed it out. "Well, what should I draw, then? It needs a drawing, I think."
"A shovel!" Rockhoof suggested. "Or-- a music note!"
Octavia thought a moment, then moved quickly (all that practice had paid off, after all) and drew in a shovel and a treble clef.
Rockhoof smiled proudly. "That's the way."
Octavia capped her pen and tossed it over on the stack of music. She pushed the bookshelf back against the wall. She surveyed the room one last time, her eyes scanning over all her old hiding places.
"Well," she said. "I think that's everything."
But Rockhoof was gone.
That was okay.
It was time to go, anyway.
