THE GRASS IS LONG BECAUSE NO ONE’S BEEN AROUND TO CUT IT. I RUN THROUGH IT UNTIL I SEE MY HOUSE IN THE DISTANCE, LIGHTS OFF ON THE FIRST FLOOR, WHITE SHINGLES BRIGHT UNDER THE STARS. THE PEEPERS SING IN A CHORUS DOWN THE ROAD AND THE AIR SMELLS OF THE LEMONS ON THE GROUND THAT WERE TOO HEAVY FOR THE TREE. I HAVEN’T BEEN HERE SINCE QUINN PROPOSED.

ON REFLECTION IT SHOULDN’T HAVE BEEN A SURPRISE THAT SHE REACTED THAT WAY. YOU’D THINK A SEASONED REPORTER LIKE HIMSELF WOULD KNOW BETTER THAT TO MAKE SUCH A COMMENT WHILE BROADCASTING LIVE FROM A LAUNDRETTE. WHAT WAS AN EXTRA SURPRISE WAS HOW GOOD THE SOAP THAT SHE STUFFED INTO HIS MOUTH WAS. IT HAD A STRONG TASTE OF ROSEMARY TO IT WITH A HINT OF MINT. ITS TEXTURE WAS SMOOTH AND IT DIDN’T PEEL WHEN IT HIT HIS TEETH.

WATCHING THE BROADCAST BACK LATER THAT DAY, HE COULDN’T HELP BUT CHUCKLE AT THE LADY’S REMARK ONCE THE SOAP WAS ALL THE WAYIN, “YOU’RE LUCKY I DON’T TAKE THAT CAMCORDER AND RAM IT UP YOUR BACKSIDE AS WELL YOU DIRTY SOD!”

HIS MORNING COFFEE TASTED DIFFERENT TODAY, OR MAYBE HE THOUGHT SO. EVEN THE SKY LOOKED DIFFERENT, THE BLUE HUE TINGED WITH WHITE COTTON BOLLS. HE LOOKED AT HIS ANGEL, RUNNING ERRANDS, MAKING EVERY EFFORT TO EMBELLISH THE ROOM TO ITS BEST. HE MEANT THE WHOLE WORLD TO HER AND SHE WAS THE APPLE OF HIS EYE. AND TODAY, SHE WANTED HIS DAY TO BE THE MOST SPECIAL ONE. SHE GRABBED HIS SWEETIE PIE’S ARM AND STARTED EXPLAINING EACH DETAIL OF THE DECOR DONE BY HER. HE WAS AWED BY THE AMBIENCE CREATED BY HIS PRINCESS. FOR A MOMENT, HE DID NOT SPEAK ANYTHING, PERHAPS HE WANTED TO SAY NOTHING BUT FEEL EVERYTHING. HE WISHED TO BE NUMB, UNTIL HE FILLED HIMSELF WITH THE BLISS AROUND. SEEING HIM MESMERIZED, SHE ASKED, “DID YOU LIKE IT?” HE ANSWERED, “OF COURSE, YOU ARE THE BEST DESIGNER IN THE WORLD.” “AND YOU ARE THE BEST PAPA IN THE WORLD”, REPLIED HIS DAUGHTER. HE WANTED TO SAY MORE, BUT HIS VOICE CHOKED WITH EMOTION, DID NOT PERMIT HIM TO DO SO. “YOUR MOM STILL LOOKS BEAUTIFUL IN THIS BLUE SAREE”, SAID HE, SMILING AT THE PICTURE HUNG ON THE WALL. “BLUE WAS HER FAVOURITE COLOUR, ISN’T IT?”, ASKED HIS DAUGHTER. HIS WIFE SMILED BACK FROM THE HEAVEN. IT WAS THEIR 25TH MARRIAGE ANNIVERSARY, AND NOW HE REALISED WHY THE SKY LOOKED SO BLUE TODAY.

AN EMPTY WOMB, A HEART FULL OF DESIRE TO HAVE MOTHERHOOD EXCEEDS SO MANY MIXED FEELINGS. AT ONCE IT WAS VERY HAPPY, GRATEFUL FOR THE START OF MOTHERHOOD. AT ANOTHER POINT, IT WAS SO DOUBTFUL. AND AT ANOTHER POINT, IT WAS FEARFUL OF LOSING. 

EVERY SECOND OF LIVING WITH DIFFERENT THOUGHTS WAS KILLING. IT’S BEEN YEARS AND IT’S STILL PAINFUL. THE DESIRE TO HOLD THAT TINY SEED OF SELF CONSUMES HER. HER EYES YEARN TO SEE A BEING THAT DOES NOT YET EXIST BUT CAN BE VIVIDLY IMAGINED WITH CLOSED EYES. HER CHEST ACHES WITH LONGING, YEARNING TO FEEL THE PRESENCE OF THAT TINY LIFE WITHIN. 

BUT LIFE, IT SEEMS, HAS DIFFERENT PLANS. IT MAY NOT GRANT HER THE FULFILLMENT OF HER DEEPEST DESIRES AND WISHES.NIGHT AFTER NIGHT, SHE DREAMS OF A DARK VOID, SHE OPENS HER ARMS TO HOLD THE BABY BUT SHE’S NOT ABLE TO REACH OR TOUCH THE BABY. 

EVERY DAY, THE PAIN OF THIS UNFULFILLED LONGING WEIGHS HEAVILY UPON HER.

YET, WITHIN THE DEPTHS OF HER SORROW, THERE EXISTS A STRENGTH BORN OUT OF RESILIENCE. SHE CONTINUES TO CARRY HOPE IN HER HEART, HOLDING ONTO THE POSSIBILITY THAT ONE DAY HER DREAMS MAY MATERIALIZE. THOUGH THE PAIN PERSISTS, SHE REMAINS DETERMINED, CLINGING TO THE BELIEF THAT LOVE WILL FIND ITS WAY, EVEN IF IT TAKES A DIFFERENT FORM THAN SHE HAD ENVISIONED. AND IN THAT UNWAVERING HOPE, SHE DISCOVERS A POWER THAT SUSTAINS HER THROUGH THE DARKEST MOMENTS, NURTURING HER SPIRIT AS SHE WAITS FOR HER HEART’S DEEPEST DESIRES TO BE FULFILLED.

The road leading to Daniel’s house stretched endlessly ahead, the autumn trees casting long shadows across the asphalt as Claire drove, her knuckles tight around the steering wheel. It had been months since she’d seen him. Even longer since they had really talked. Too many weeks spent avoiding phone calls, pretending work was too demanding, pretending the silence between them didn’t feel like a slow death.
But the truth was more painful than she’d let herself admit. Daniel’s illness had driven a wedge between them, not because she loved him less, but because she didn’t know how to face it. How to watch the person she loved slowly fade away, becoming a shadow of the man who had once filled her life with laughter and light. and now, as she drove up the long, familiar driveway to the house they’d once shared, the air around her felt thick with everything unspoken. The place looked the same as it always had- quaint, nestled beneath towering trees- but something felt different this time. Perhaps it was the fact that she had been avoiding him for so long that now, she had forgotten how to live like she once did. She parked her car, stared at the house for a long moment and finally stepped out. As Claire began walking to the door, a strange smell hit her nose. Faint at first, but lingering as she neared the house- sour, almost rotting. Had Daniel forgotten to take the trash out? Claire frowned, her mind racing. Perhaps he was not able to take care of the house as well as before. 
And you left him all alone, to fend for himself, with no one to turn to, a voice inside me whispered. Her heart clenched and she forced herself to keep walking. She had promised herself she would not pity him, not today not anymore. Daniel did not need pity, he needed love; even if it felt like the most impossible thing in the world. Claire knocked on the door softly, expecting to hear the sound of his footsteps rushing downstairs, but was met with silence. He has grown frail, she thought solemnly. As she waited, her eyes wandered off to the nameplate hung on the red brick wall beside the door. It was tarnished with age, the letters barely visible beneath a thick layer of dust that had settled over the years like a forgotten memory. Their names, once bright and clear, now seemed to reflect the passage of time. No response. After a long moment, she tried the door, finding it unlocked. Slowly, she pushed it open and stepped inside.
“Daniel?” she called, her voice trembling slightly.
The house was dim, the curtains drawn, the once warm and inviting living room now shrouded in shadows. The strange smell seemed to be stronger inside, but Claire brushed it off, telling herself it was nothing. Daniel had always been bad at cleaning up after himself, especially in the past year, when his illness had worsened.
“Daniel?” she called again, louder this time.
From somewhere deeper in the house, she heard his voice—soft, hoarse, but unmistakably his. “In here.”
Relief flooded her. She followed the sound of his voice into the living room, her breath catching when she finally saw him. Daniel was sitting in his favorite armchair, just as he had a hundred times before, his familiar silhouette etched against the window’s pale light. But he looked… different. Thinner. His skin seemed paler than she remembered, almost translucent in the dim light.
Still, his eyes lit up when he saw her, and that was all she needed.
“Hey,” Claire said softly, crossing the room to sit beside him.
“Hey,” he echoed, his voice low and rough.
For a moment, they just looked at each other, the silence between them heavy but not uncomfortable. The air was thick with memories—of the love they’d shared, the nights they’d spent wrapped in each other’s arms, the slow unraveling that had followed Daniel’s diagnosis.
“How are you feeling?” Claire asked, her voice quieter than she intended. She didn’t want to sound like she was pitying him, but the words slipped out before she could stop them.
Daniel smiled faintly, a shadow of the smile that used to light up his entire face. “Tired. But I’m okay now that you’re here.”
His words warmed her, but there was something distant in his tone, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. She glanced around the room, noticing how untouched everything looked—like time had frozen in place.
And then there was that smell again, lingering in the air like a ghost.
“I’ve missed you,” she said, trying to distract herself from the unease that prickled at the back of her mind. “I’m sorry I’ve been so… distant.”
Daniel didn’t respond right away. His gaze drifted to the window, watching the leaves fall from the trees outside. “I know why you stayed away,” he said after a long pause. “You don’t have to explain.”
Her heart twisted painfully. She’d never been able to hide her emotions from him—especially not now. “I didn’t mean to,” she said, her voice cracking. “I just… I didn’t know how to handle it. Seeing you like this.”
Daniel’s eyes softened, and he reached out, taking her hand in his. His skin felt cold, colder than she expected, and the touch sent a shiver down her spine. “I get it. It’s hard for me too.”
She squeezed his hand, holding on tighter than necessary, afraid of letting go. Afraid that if she did, he might slip away for good.
“I’m here now,” she whispered. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
Daniel nodded, but there was a sadness in his eyes that made her stomach clench. 
The hours passed in a blur of quiet conversation, the kind of intimacy that comes when two people know each other too well. They talked about little things at first—the weather, how Daniel had been spending his time, how Claire had been keeping busy at work. It was like slipping into an old routine, one that felt both familiar and strained.
But as the day wore on, their conversation turned deeper. Daniel’s voice grew quieter, more reflective, as though he was carrying the weight of something unspoken. And Claire, though she tried to keep things light, felt unease weighing on her heart .
“Do you remember when we first moved in here?” Daniel asked suddenly, his voice tinged with nostalgia.
Claire smiled, nodding. “Of course. We spent the whole first night arguing about where to put the couch.”
“And then we gave up and just sat on the floor,” Daniel added with a soft chuckle. “You were so stubborn about that couch.”
“You were the stubborn one,” Claire shot back, grinning despite herself. “I wanted it by the window, but you kept insisting it would block the light.”
“I was right, wasn’t I?” Daniel asked, his eyes twinkling with the old mischief she hadn’t seen in so long.
He was but she would never tell him that.
“You were wrong,” Claire corrected, laughing softly.  
Daniel leaned back in his chair, his expression growing serious again. “You know, I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately—about all the little moments we shared. All the things we argued about that didn’t really matter.”
Claire’s chest tightened. She could feel where this conversation was going, and she wasn’t sure she was ready for it. “They mattered,” she said quietly. “They mattered because they were ours.”
He nodded, his gaze far away now. “Yeah. But time has a funny way of putting things into perspective, doesn’t it?”
Claire swallowed hard, the lump in her throat making it difficult to speak. “Daniel, don’t talk like that.”
“Like what?” he asked, turning his eyes back to her.
“Like… like you’re already gone,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Daniel didn’t respond right away. Instead, he looked at her with an expression she couldn’t quite read—something between sorrow and acceptance. “That is the ending to our story, isn’t it?”
She shook her head, refusing to believe what he was saying. “No. I’m not giving up on you. We still have time.”
But Daniel just smiled sadly. “I’m not giving up either, Claire. But time… time doesn’t care how much we want it to slow down.”
The words hit her like a punch to the gut. Claire’s vision blurred with unshed tears, and she blinked them away, refusing to cry. Not here. Not now. Not in front of him.
But the growing sense of dread—the feeling that something was slipping away—was suffocating her. And then there was that smell, clinging to the air, stronger now, almost unbearable.
“What is that smell?” she asked suddenly, the question bursting out of her before she could stop it.
Daniel blinked, looking confused. “What smell?”
Claire hesitated. How could he not notice it? It was everywhere, like decay, like something rotting just out of sight. She wanted to press him on it, but the look on his face made her stop. He seemed genuinely unaware.
“Never mind,” she muttered, trying to shake off the unease. Maybe she was imagining things. Maybe it was just the guilt reminding her of how unfamiliar this house had become. 
She decided this was not worth wasting time upon, especially when it meant lesser time with Daniel. 
It was late afternoon when the knock came at the door. Claire and Daniel had been sitting quietly, the conversation having tapered off into a comfortable, if uneasy, silence. The knock was sharp and sudden, cutting through the stillness like a blade.
“I’ll get it,” Claire said, standing up quickly, grateful for the distraction.
She opened the door to find two police officers standing on the porch, their expressions serious. The sight of them made her stomach drop.
“Are you Claire Watson?” one of the officers asked.
“Yes,” Claire replied, her voice shaky. “What’s going on?”
“We’ve been trying to reach you,” the officer said. “We received a call from a neighbor who was concerned. They said they hadn’t seen Daniel in several days.”
Claire blinked, confused. “That’s not possible. I’ve been here with him all day.”
The officer’s face remained grave. “Ma’am, we need to come inside.”
Panic flared in her chest. “What do you mean? He’s right in here.”
She gestured toward the living room, but when she turned to look, her heart stopped.
The chair was empty.
Daniel was gone.
Claire’s breath caught in her throat. “No… he was just here.”
The officers exchanged a look before stepping inside. One of them followed the smell—the smell Claire had noticed all day but had pushed aside. He walked toward the hallway and paused at the door to the bedroom, hiding his scrunched up nose with a white handkerchief.
“Ma’am,” the officer called softly, his voice thick with something Claire couldn’t bear to hear. “You should come see this.”
Claire’s legs felt like lead as she walked toward the officer, dread curling in her stomach. When she reached the doorway, what she saw made her knees buckle.
There, lying in the bed they had once shared, was Daniel’s body—pale, still, his face gaunt, his skin gray. He had been dead for days.
The smell—the smell of death—overwhelmed her, and Claire’s vision swam. She stumbled back, her heart racing as the truth crashed over her like a wave.
Daniel had been dead the entire time.
***
The rain had started just before the service began, falling in steady sheets that blurred the edges of the world outside the chapel windows. Claire sat in the front row, hands clenched tightly in her lap, eyes fixed on the casket in front of her. It seemed unreal, like this couldn’t possibly be happening. Daniel couldn’t be gone. Not yet. Not like this.
Her body felt numb, her heart hollow, as if something vital had been ripped out of her chest and left her barely functioning. She had spent days in a daze, going through the motions, unable to fully comprehend the reality she was facing. The ache inside her was so deep, so consuming, that it was hard to remember what it felt like to breathe without the weight of grief drowning her lungs.
People had come—friends, family, people who had known Daniel before the illness took him from them. They spoke in hushed voices, offered their sympathies, but Claire barely heard them. She nodded when she needed to, whispered “thank you” through trembling lips, but she couldn’t make sense of their words. None of it made sense. Daniel was supposed to be here, sitting beside her, holding her hand, not lying cold and still inside that coffin.
The minister began speaking, but Claire couldn’t focus on the words. His voice was a dull hum in the background, meaningless against the roar of her grief. She stared at the casket, unable to look away, her mind replaying the moment she had found out—standing in that bedroom, seeing his lifeless body, and realizing that the love of her life had slipped away without her by his side.
She hadn’t been there. She hadn’t held him in his final moments. He had died alone, in a quiet house that had once been filled with their laughter. The guilt of it gnawed at her, a constant, biting reminder of the time she had wasted—time she could never get back.
Tears welled up in her eyes, blurring her vision, but she didn’t blink them away. She let them fall, hot and heavy down her cheeks, her chest heaving with the sobs she was trying so desperately to hold back. She didn’t want to break down here, not in front of everyone, but the pain was too much, too sharp. It felt like she was drowning in it, suffocating under the weight of all the things she hadn’t said, all the moments they hadn’t had.
She wasn’t sure how much more of this she could take. Every word felt like it was tearing her apart, pulling at the pieces of her that were barely holding together. But then, the minister called her name.
Claire froze. Her heart pounded in her chest as every eye in the room turned toward her. She hadn’t planned on speaking. How could she? What could she say that would make any of this bearable? But something inside her told her that this was her last chance—her last chance to tell Daniel everything she hadn’t been able to say while he was alive.
With trembling legs, she stood up and made her way to the front of the room. She stood in front of the casket, her hands shaking as she clutched the edges of the podium. The silence in the room was deafening. Everyone was waiting for her to speak, but the words were caught in her throat, too tangled in her misery to come out.
She swallowed hard, staring down at the coffin. 
“I..I don’t know what to say,” Claire whispered. “I cannot say goodbye to you so soon, Daniel. We promised each other a lifetime.”
““You were… everything to me,” she managed, her voice breaking with every word. “And I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there when you needed me most. And I’ll never forgive myself for that.”
“I want you to know that I had found the ring in your pocket, and shed tears of joy before you even asked the question. But that day, you stumbled home drunk with a file in your hand and tears in your eyes. I knew we would never be the same again. And so I ran.”
Her vision blurred, and she blinked rapidly, trying to push through the storm of emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. “I kept my distance because I was scared. I was scared of losing you, scared of watching you suffer. But I should’ve been stronger. I should’ve stayed with you.”
The guilt poured out of her in waves, crushing her under its weight. “You were the best part of my life, and I let you slip away. I wasn’t there when you… when you needed me most, and now I’ll never have the chance to make it right.”
She took a shaky breath, her chest tight with the weight of her sorrow. “I wanted to be there for you, Daniel. I really did. But I didn’t know how to handle it. I didn’t know how to watch you fade away, and it was selfish of me. I just couldn’t bear the thought of losing you, so I stayed away. I thought it would hurt less if I distanced myself.”
“Now that I stand here all alone, without your hand to hold, I wish I had chosen to stay through all the suffering rather than just watch you die.”

He stopped and then continued with a restrained voice, “I might have borne through life’s unfathomable course with perfect gallantry, but I do not—can not bear to learn the truth from you, though the truth I already know, I don’t deem myself capable of bearing more than that what is necessary. My armour is wrecked and no further delay can be sustained. Yet, I assure you, I have considered all possibilities and found none but for what should’ve had been done before. I am sorry for the discomfort and inconvenience inflicted upon you by this alliance. Take my word for it, your suffering ends now and I shall detain you no more. I apologise for realising it only after the damage was done. Goodbye and well wishes for you.”

He took his leave without glancing back at the woman left behind. Cold air and rain cast a gloomy presence over the premises. What must be done had been done. There was no way back—only steps forward. A heavy heart and a troubled mind were the best company he had ever known. Well, apart from her. Oh, how she was everything he could and would ask for—had he been granted permit. But life was not a moving picture. It had taught him how to want till it pierced his soul. And now he must learn—eventually—to let go.

The sound of footsteps echoed behind him. The splashes grew nearer. He recognised the figure immediately as he turned. His wife stood heaving, drenched in the rain—or the tears—perhaps both. Her eyes glazed with melancholy; her voice immensely strained.

“Is it so easy for you to abandon—to forgo—the shared intensity of an endearing companionship? Tell me, I must know. Were our individual shortcomings meant to carry such weight so to drive away all of the enchantment, overpower the roots of profound contentment—and to erase the very traces of a heartfelt connection?”

The sight of her powerful demeanour, her unshaken resolve and the determination in her voice rendered him speechless. Bewildered, stricken, and yearning—for the dream to last forever. 

“Tell me, I ask of you! Would you rather nip away the bud—the deserved chance of a relationship—and deny the blossoms of a wondrous lifetime? If my affections in words have fallen short, I beg of you, to grant pardon upon my soul. This world shall lose its importance and hold residence no more—for me—if I were ever to be parted from you.”

His thumb tenderly brushed the softness of her cheeks. When he finally spoke, it was as if the entire ocean had unravelled all its secrets.

“I had no idea. No idea at all. I am deeply ashamed to admit that I have misinterpreted everything. And to think of my companionship adding severity to your affliction… I have been living in vain with a heart thrashing against my chest—believing that my love was a lost cause! Are you sure—are you really sure that you want me? Because if not—”

“Our marriage may have been a convenient arrangement between two families. I may not have known you beforehand. I may have been a little anxious for what life with you would be like. But these past few years, I have come to love you—so much that it hurts—so much that I’ve fallen short of words. The ecstasy I feel with you is beyond anything and everything I have experienced in this life.”

“My love. My love. My dearest wife!”

The rain poured all the more as he gently clasped her hands and brought them to his lips. It was a small gesture; an unspoken promise—an undeniable warmth embracing their hearts.

“As much delighted as I am to enjoy this moment with you, I could stay here forever. But I don’t think the rain will stop anytime soon. Come, my love. Let us go back inside and sit by the fire.”

Nicole Wayne liked it when she actually had to read a restaurant menu. For the first quarter of her life, she had predominantly been a creature of habit, as most people are, finding a few places she liked and then revisiting them on frequent occasions. But when she turned 25, something changed within her; she grew tired of the same-old sights and craved constant unfamiliarity. She wasn’t exactly sure what sparked this inner transformation – maybe it was the number of times her dad played her the song “She’s Leaving Home” by The Beatles growing up, or her early obsession with The Travel Channel – but she knew it came from a place of deep-rooted truth rather than just temporary curiosity.
The problem remained that she was still practically fresh-out-of-college and dead broke. When you’ve got no money, it’s hard to travel the world. Hell, it’s hard just to try new restaurants and clothing stores. At least daydreaming remained free, but Nicole had come to view that as a form of masturbation, a placeholder pleasure that numbed the void but didn’t fill it. For the last two years, she had been working as a barista at two separate coffee shops – she heard espresso machines and “Are you sure this is oat milk?” in her sleep – but even that barely paid the rent, let alone allowed her the luxury of surfing expedia.com with some expectation of actually booking something. She was a little too prideful to play the lottery, but every now and then she let herself be tempted by a Monopoly scratch card at the local 7-Eleven. Beggars can’t be choosers, right?
Home wasn’t home anymore; she knew that long before her wanderlust officially began. Not that she hated her parents and siblings or anything – their relationship was still decent enough despite many disagreements – but she simply did not feel a single ounce of belonging when she walked through the doors of her childhood house. However, she had not found a suitable replacement for it yet and was aching to; perhaps this was the primary source of her now-parasitic travel bug. She couldn’t walk outside without immediately wanting to hop on the nearest plane or train, even if she had no idea where it was heading. In fact, the more unknown the better; she had a hunch that she needed to get lost before she could find what she was searching for. 
She was semi-active on Instagram but almost deleted it on several occasions because of the near-suicidal FOMO it stirred within her. Why did the people who didn’t know the difference between Epcot and actual world travel get the privilege of vacationing overseas several times a year? Did they realize how lucky they were? Probably not; everybody takes things for granted, even those who are aware that they do, like an alcoholic downing his sixth drink fully cognizant of the headache he’s in for. She didn’t have the heart for bitterness – if she were in their shoes financially, she would be doing the same – but it still bothered her.
“You kill yourself yet?” her endearingly dark coworker Dylan asked her right after she clocked in for one of her coffee shop shifts.
“Clearly not. But now that you mention it…”
“Hey, don’t blame me if you go through with it.”
“How could I blame you? I’d be dead.”
“I mean, like, don’t whisper in your parents’ ears from beyond.”
“No promises.” They both laughed. Suicide wasn’t a laughing matter, of course, but being human was, and sometimes the line between the two became blurred; the urge towards self-destruction was an almost universal characteristic. Even when people weren’t thinking of knives in their wrists or guns on their heads, they were likely thinking of wine bottles, fast-driving cars, cigarettes, a giant bag of cookies… we’ve all got to go somehow, and we often accelerate the process. 
“How long’s your shift today?” Dylan asked despite already knowing the answer.
“Just four hours.”
“Lucky bitch! I’ve been here since 7, and I’m staying ‘til 7.”
“Overtime, eh?”
“I need the money.”
“So do I. But I also don’t want to feel like killing myself any more than I already do…”
“Shut up!” They shared another laugh, their favorite form of medicine. Customers were beginning to trickle in, and Nicole and Dylan couldn’t exactly say “Have a great day” and “Good luck not killing yourself” in the same breath, so they sobered their melancholic mindsets with manufactured friendliness and prepared for a long day of latte-making. 
Nicole could tell that Dylan wasn’t doing well despite his chipper facade – his shoulders were hunched over, and his “Anything else I can get for you?” slightly less caffeinated than normal – but she knew there was nothing she could say that would make him feel better. Where others lived under the delusion that they possessed a piece of consolation or helpful advice – “I’m sorry,” “I’m here for you,” “Have you thought about seeing a therapist?” – she accepted the truth of her helplessness to help.  
When she got home that evening, she immediately surfed expedia.com; whereas she had conquered some delusions, many others still remained. A one-way flight to Indonesia was available for only $500; not bad! Although she didn’t exactly see herself moving there. Her rich friends had told her that Thailand was a fairly affordable place to travel, but she couldn’t really take them at their word. And of course Paris was on her bucket list – whose bucket list was it not on? – but even if she could score a halfway decent flight, the food and lodging would drive her over the edge. 
Her dad always semi-jested, “Why don’t you just join the Peace Corps? Or the military?” But he didn’t understand how deep-rooted her sense of spontaneity was; she needed to be allowed to relax even if relaxing was the last thing she ultimately chose. Too much structure would shatter her drive to explore; she’d never been good at following rules. Still, it remained a minor temptation due to her financial situation; it seemed increasingly likely she would not be able to travel on her own terms. Unless…
Nicole’s sophomore year English teacher made the unwitting mistake of recommending her John Krakauer’s Into the Wild as a 16-year-old. She immediately devoured it, and her life was never the same since. Of course, things didn’t end too happily for Chris McCandless, but it’s all about the journey rather than the destination, right? At least he had some profound spiritual revelations before dying. Yep, that’s what she was going to do; sell all her belongings and take to the road as an official hobo. 
Okay, maybe not. She wished she didn’t have such a strong sense of logic, but she came from a long line of scientists, so it was inescapable. The dreaming could only go so far before it crashed into a wall. On a rare ambitious occasion, it tried to break through the wall. But usually the wall remained unbreakable, taunting her with the Sisyphean nature of escape. Maybe she would never travel. And maybe she could still go on living nevertheless. 
***
“So, did you join the Peace Corps yet?” Dad was a stubborn man. 
Nicole resisted an eye-roll and promptly replied, “You’d be the first to know.”
“How about the military?”
“I’d get killed in basic training.”
“Probably.”
“Well, at least we agree on something,” Nicole said with a muted laugh. As long as they didn’t bring up politics, she and her father got on well enough. But as soon as he mentioned Bill O’Reilly… all bets were off. 
“Have you ever tried getting a report on Ancestry.com? Maybe you’ve got some long-lost cousins in Belgium or something.”
“Why Belgium?”
“I dunno, it’s just the first country that came to mind. Guess I’m thinking of chocolate. Anyway, you should try it.”
“How much is it?”
“I’m sure it’s within your budget. Probably costs less than the amount you spend on eating out every week.”
“I’ll look into it.”
“No you won’t.”
“Hey, I’m changing, you may find that I actually follow through on the things I say I’m gonna do.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.” They shared another laugh, their favorite way of saying what they did not know how to say. Not that they were afraid of uttering “I love you” or hugging or anything like that; they did so all the time. But the more you do something, the less you feel it; it’s easy to become numb to the things we desire most and therefore desire them all over again, when in fact we still have them and have just lost the ability to appreciate them. Like any artist, love has to keep reinventing itself if it wants to stay relevant. 
That night, Nicole did indeed research ancestry.com, but the report cost just slightly more than her weekly allotment of nostalgic comfort foods, and she decided it wasn’t worth it. The probability of having a long-lost cousin in Belgium or France or North Korea seemed slim, and she wasn’t going to forego her secret McDonald’s addiction for the sake of a slim possibility. Taking foolish risks based on poor odds was meant for romance and romance alone. 
Speaking of the subject, Nicole had recently returned to the most wholesome of dating apps: Christian Mingle. Just kidding, Hinge. “Wanderer looking for someone to travel the world with” was a bit cheesy for her standards, but she used it as a caption nevertheless. She would prefer to meet a wanderer in real life, but the problem with that was wanderers tend to wander around each other; unless luck found you at the same oasis at the same time, you were screwed statistically-speaking and would likely have to settle for someone whose concept of travel was limited to what city his favorite football team was playing in that week. The idea of being on Hinge truly shattered her pride, but so did being single the rest of her life, and she couldn’t have it both ways. 
A new match entered her inbox about once a week. Usually dorky-looking dudes who figured mutual wanderlust would compensate for their rather average countenances. Not that they were officially ugly or anything, they just didn’t know how to bring out the best of their bodies and adolescence-trapped faces (acne cream isn’t THAT expensive, gentlemen, even for chocolate addicts). She hated saying no as much as she hated hearing it, so she sometimes went on dates with these fellas out of sheer sympathy, but it always ended up being a one-time occasion.
Well, except for a one-time occasion in which it led to a second occasion. The guy’s name was Randy – kind of a boomer name, but he was the child of boomers, so blame his parents’ poor powers of societal prophecy – and he was the paragon of average face, magnificent soul. In fact, his soul was so magnificent that it made his face look equally beautiful every now and then. If it went where it was supposed to go, the lights would be turned off in the bedroom anyway, so what would it matter?
Randy was a teacher with some experience teaching abroad and resisting the emergence of white savior complexes. He wanted to go overseas again – maybe for good this time – but he wasn’t exactly sure what country. Nicole’s wanderlust rendered him absolutely lustful, and he was already fantasizing about role-playing 18th-century captain and chief officer in bed (in the most non-gay way possible). But beyond their shared love of travel and travel-related kinks, were they truly that compatible? After their third date – the one that was supposed to define the rest of them – it didn’t seem like it, so they called things off without calling anything off and went the way of the ghost. 
Randy was NOT her soulmate. But once in a while when she was feeling extra lonely and drinking a little too much wine, she wondered if he was the one who got away, the hidden-in-plain-sight treasure she’d cruelly tossed aside. When you’re not sure whom you’ll meet, you turn to the people you’ve already met; ‘tis simply human nature. Anyhow, she was in no place to be despairing; surely there were other Randys on Hinge or on the fringe of the Arabian desert (her ideal way to meet a man, if she could ever afford to travel there). It was just that for now, she only knew of Randy; ugh, the human mind was so cyclical. 
***
“How about a stewardess?” Dad had finally found a new option to taunt Nicole with. 
“You mean flight attendant?”
“Yeah, you know, getting paid to travel the world.”
“But I’d be on a plane most of the time.”
“Not necessarily! Your ex-aunt was a stewardess.”
“My ex-aunt?”
“Well, I haven’t talked to her since the election. But you’re welcome to reach out to her!”
“I’ll consider it.” Nicole wouldn’t actually consider it of course, she was just following the script of daughterly manners to appease her well-meaning father. 
“You won’t consider it.” Wow, his bullshit detector was stronger than normal!
“You know me too well.”
“I’d certainly hope so. I brought you into this world.”
“You helped bring me into this world.”
“Oh, whatever, Miss Feminism.”
“That’s not feminism, that’s just science.”
“I suppose.” Dad turned to leave the room; he was too prideful to admit he was running out of fatherly witticisms. 
“Where are you going?”
“To bed.”
“But it’s only 8:00.”
“Well, I’m old.”
“That or depressed.”
“You have no idea.” The heavy sigh that followed these seemingly self-pitiful words proved they were sincere, and Nicole almost teared up. She knew her dad had always carried burdens he was too stubborn to share with her or even her mother, but as aforementioned, she knew she was helpless to help; he had to sort through his demons on his own. Was this really true though? Maybe she didn’t give herself enough credit; maybe she didn’t need to do anything at all other than be herself. Maybe this conversation was helping. Or maybe it wasn’t. 
***
What was Samantha Brown doing these days? The Travel Channel host had been Nicole’s idol as a kid, but she mysteriously disappeared from the spotlight. Maybe she had settled down with her family and didn’t feel like being the face of wanderlust anymore. Still, Nicole missed her. She didn’t really have any other female role models; she never hopped on the T-Swift bandwagon or even the Michelle Obama one despite her admiration for her. There was something so wonderfully normal about Samantha Brown; she never pretended like she was more than she actually was. 
For the hell of it, Nicole googled “Where is Samantha Brown Now?” Not much came up; good for Samantha. Then out of sheer ego/paranoia, she googled her own name. “Nicole Wayne.” Oh my god, not the senior yearbook photos. Not the time she volunteered at that homeless shelter. Not the time she was desperate for cash and sold pictures of her… nevermind. Well, it could have been a lot worse. She was always terrified of googling herself and finding a picture she wasn’t even aware was taken. At least she had some control over her online image. Or at least so she thought…
“I saw a picture of you online the other day,” Dylan said while smirking, which Nicole knew couldn’t be good. 
“What do you mean?”
“You were posing nude in a forest somewhere. Just kidding! You were eating spaghetti at Olive Garden with some dude.”
“What?”
“Yeah, it was on the Olive Garden website. I was looking them up to see if they took reservations.”
“They didn’t ask my permission to use me for marketing! Wait, what did the guy look like?”
“Bearded, glasses, kinda nerdy but sweet-looking…”
“Oh my God. Randy.”
“Who the hell is Randy?”
“Just some guy I went on a Hinge date with a couple times. Once to… Olive Garden.”
Dylan laughed. “Well, it makes for a good marketing photo. Isn’t it nice to have such a fleeting moment immortalized?”
Nicole’s eyes widened, slightly grossed out by such shameless pretentiousness but also slightly impressed. “Since when did you become a poet?”
“Since I became depressed. And all depressed people are poets, aren’t they? You know, the Tortured Poets Society…”
“Don’t tell me you’re into Taylor Swift now!”
“Would you kill me if I was?”
“Possibly.”
“Okay, I’ll come clean. I still don’t listen to Taylor Swift. But Olivia Rodrigo on the other hand…”
“Now you’re just trolling me.”
“Okay. Kelly Clarkson and that’s it.”
“That’s so 2000s.”
“What can I say, I’m an old soul.” 
“I think you have a pretty loose definition of ‘old soul.’”
“What can I say, I’m a GenZer. My truth is my truth.”
“Now you’re just confusing me.”
“Mission accomplished.” They both laughed and then entertained the sounds of silence for a little while. It was proof of how strong their friendship was; they could go hours without saying anything while never growing uncomfortable. They were really going to miss each other.
Wait, wait, miss each other?? Neither of them had written a suicide note yet, nor given a two weeks notice. They just always had a vague feeling that goodbye was right around the corner, even though they weren’t sure what the source of it would be. A sense of transience ran through their veins like a sense of immortality ran through the veins of less melancholic young adults. Which was closer to the truth: the impending period or the perpetual ellipsis? The answer remained to-be-determined; there was still reason for optimism…
***
“I’m putting in my two weeks notice tomorrow,” Dylan said the next day. So much for optimism.
“What the fuck! How long have you been planning that?”
“Since yesterday. I, uh… accepted a position on a cruise ship.”
“A cruise ship? What do you mean?”
“I mean a big boat that sails the open waters…”
“Shut up!”
“I’m gonna be a singing waiter. For Disney.”
Nicole tried not to look crushed, but she couldn’t help herself. “A singing waiter for the Disney Cruise Line? When did you audition for this?”
“A couple months ago. I didn’t want to tell you because…”
“I know, you don’t have to explain. Although didn’t you think I might want to audition for something like that?”
“But you can’t sing to save your life. No offense…”
“None taken, you’re right, but couldn’t you have found out if they had other positions available? We could have traveled the world together.”
“We still can. I’ll only be under contract for a year.”
“I’m sure you’ll renew it though.”
“Not necessarily. I’ve never been a Disney Adult, as much as that may hurt my fellow queers to hear. I just wanted to try it out. You know, test the integrity of Disney’s DEI initiatives since no other company would hire a mediocre singer like me…”
“Oh, now you’re just begging for sympathy.”
“Aren’t I always?” 
“More than usual.”
“Well, I… I just don’t want you to be hurt.”
Nicole choked back tears, wanting to be mature but struggling. “How could I not be hurt? I mean, I’m happy for you, but why the hell would you just spring this on me last-minute? You know how much I.. how much I want to… to….” The tears finally came, and Dylan felt absolutely awful, immediately wrapping his arms around her.
“They might still have positions open. I can check…”
“No. I’ll… I’ll be alright. I probably couldn’t afford the application fee anyway.”
“I think the application fee is only for performing jobs.”
“Even so. I… I don’t think I’m meant to travel. I’m like the female version of George Bailey, destined to stay here forever and watch other people fulfill the dreams I once had.”
“But your dad doesn’t own the Building and Loan…”
“I’m being metaphorical!”
“I know. Well, if you change your mind, I’d be happy to send you links to other cruise ship jobs. Let me know.”
“Thanks. I will.” When Nicole was hurt beyond expression, she often resorted to a painfully formal tone of voice. “I… I’d like to go home early if you don’t mind covering for me.”
“Of course. I don’t think we’ll get many more customers.”
“Thanks.” And without even clocking out, Nicole turned and left the coffee shop. Dylan just stood there and let out a guilt-laden sigh as a party of 12 customers suddenly walked in. 
***
Santa Monica Beach. Typically not Nicole’s first choice for a getaway, but it was closest to the coffee shop, and she didn’t feel like driving any farther. She plopped herself down on the sand and stared out at the indifferent waves with shameless resentment. Although why should water care about her? And therefore, what reason did she have to be resentful? She had often prided herself on being more mature than most girls her age, but now she knew she was just as immature and privileged, wanting the universe to care about her when, in fact, it didn’t give a damn about anybody. You were either lucky or unlucky; “blessed” was a dangerous delusion. 
Glancing over to her left, she saw that someone had carved their initials in the sand. How pathetic. Probably some high school couple who mistakenly believed that they were soulmates. Or…
She took a closer look. The sandy inscription read: “NW.” Wait a minute, those were her initials. Nicole Wayne. It was probably just a coincidence, as most miracles were. Could have been inscribed by a Natalia Williams or a Nathan Warren or a whole plethora of NW combinations. No need to find any significance in it.
But Nicole couldn’t help finding significance in things when she wanted to find significance in them. “NW.” Nothing worth mentioning; no way it could have been meant for her. Except for the fact that it was incredibly close to the water, and the waves had already washed away every other romantic inscription and piece of litter around it. “NW” was untouched, and it remained so as Nicole carefully put her hand on it. She then looked out at the seemingly endless landscape of aqua blue and smiled a wider smile than she had smiled in a long long time.

The End.

The past is not past; it breathes, it lingers, a summer’s dusk, pressing against the skin, heavy with all that was and all that was meant to be. It does not fade, not truly; it only softens and smudges itself at the edges like a finger dragged across a penciled line, and yet it calls, low and insistent, a voice from just beyond the reach of knowing. And I, foolish or faithful, follow. I reach for the shape of who I once was, but the grasp meets nothing—an outline without a body, a shadow without light, and in its place only silence, vast and suffocating.

I do not speak of it. Who would hear? Who would care to see the quiet dissolution of a self slipping away? No, better to keep it still, to say it is fine, to let the hours stretch and fold and pass, because they do pass, because all things do, because death, in its quiet and patient way, will come to collect even this.

But still the mind reaches, restless, searching the dim shelves of memory for some sign, some remnant of meaning that might still be there, some proof that I was whole once, that I was real. And yet, like a dream half-remembered, like sand sifted through desperate fingers, it does not hold. Instead, the great absence swells against the ribs, burrowing deep into the marrow, filling the spaces where certainty used to be. It demands answers I do not have, as if the universe itself whispers a question I was never meant to understand, as if it waits, amused, for me to stumble over the emptiness.

And so, I move forward because movement is expected, because it is habit, because there is nothing else. Not toward anything, not away. Merely on. And I tell myself that this is enough. That I have adapted. That there is no need to name the hollow unraveling, no need to acknowledge the slow-coming part of a self I can no longer recognize. I say it is fine. I say it is okay. And maybe if I say it enough, it will be true.

The truth is unmistakable, yet it refuses to relinquish its grip. Insignificance—there is no escaping it, no clever argument against it, no soothing denial strong enough to make it less real. I am nothing, and yet I feel it, heavy as iron, a weight that settles in the chest and will not be moved. It does not dissolve with knowing. It does not ease with time. It only is.

The sheer, dumb fact of it glares, mocks without laughter, a joke without a teller, a punchline that never lands. And so the mind turns inward, restless, desperate, searching along every dim corridor for something to contradict it, some shape of meaning, some quiet assurance that it is not all for nothing. But the doors do not open. The paths lead nowhere. There are no answers, only the silence that hums beneath everything, vast and certain.

Perhaps it would be better to close the eyes, to slip beneath them, to let sleep carry it all away for a while. To let go. To forget. But even in forgetting, it waits. The thoughts creep. The thoughts persist. And always, always, the same whisper: they reached for themselves and found nothing. They reached for warmth and found only cold. The loneliness was vast, and yet, what did it matter? No one saw it. No one needed to.

They say that the deepest definition of youth is a life that has not yet been touched by tragedy. But I know better. Dashed illusions are every bit as destructive to youth as tragedy.

My childhood ended on a Friday night in October of ’89, when I was in sixth grade.

My little sister Shelby and I were lying at opposite ends of our Grandma Bea’s couch watching T.V., when our Grandma Bea hollered, “Brownie’s are ready, girls!”

Shelby scrambled off the couch so fast she kicked me in the face and then staggered into the coffee table, sending Grandma’s Bible flying to the floor.

My hands immediately flew to my nose. “Hey!” I cried. “She kicked me in the face!”

Shelby was already halfway to the kitchen.

“Mama! Shelby kicked me in the face and didn’t even say sorry!”

Mama closed her eyes and leaned her head against the back of the recliner. Emerald, Grandma Bea’s cat, was balanced on the back of the chair with her head tucked between her paws. “She’s little, Jane.”

“Well, she also knocked Grandma’s Bible on the floor and didn’t even pick it up,” I huffed. “Ain’t that sacrilege?”

Mama sighed. “It’s been a long week. Can you please just go get us some brownies?”

“Fine,” I huffed, and shuffled toward the kitchen.

The smell of warm chocolate was overpowering, and Grandma Bea was dusting the warm brownies with icing sugar. My mouth watered.

“Mmmm. You make the best brownies, Grandma. I don’t know how you do it.”

Grandma winked at me, and for the first time all evening, she seemed like herself. “Magic,” she declared.

I sighed happily as I carried two brownies back toward the living room but stopped when I found Emerald standing exactly in the middle of the threshold between the dining room and living room.

I stumbled backward but managed to catch myself.

“Move, Emerald,” I whispered.

Emerald was a beautiful cat. She had silky black fur, and the most intense green eyes I’ve ever seen on an animal or human. When Grandma got her as a kitten the previous fall, all my cousins fussed and bickered over her.

Except me. I absolutely adore animals, but I never liked Emerald, not even a little. And for the life of me, I couldn’t say why, other than she made my skin prickle and my stomach feel funny.

Emerald stayed put and looked up at me with her piercing, glittery eyes.

I straightened and took a deep breath.

“Move, Emerald,” I hissed. 

She stayed put and tilted her serpentine head, as if mocking me.

I swiped at her with my right foot just as Mama was coming through to go to the bathroom during the commercial break.

“Jane Caroline! Lord, what is wrong with you?” Mama squatted down to stroke Emerald’s head.

“I don’t understand your issue with Em,” Mama said as she stood back up. “You love animals.”

I shrugged. “I guess we just don’t get each other,” I mumbled.

“Well, you don’t have to ‘get’ her, but I’ve raised you to you know better than to kick at an animal,” she said.

I looked down. “Sorry,” I mumbled.

Emerald stood, finally, and swished her tail as she rubbed against Mama’s leg. I took the opportunity to hurry through and back to my spot on the couch.

As I savored my brownie and watched Catherine and Vincent retreat to their safe, subterranean world on Beauty and the Beast, I felt myself relax again.

Mama worked nights at the factory, so Shelby and I practically lived with Grandma Bea during the week. You’d think that by the weekend we’d be eager to spend time at our own house, but we weren’t.

We were always a little on edge in our tiny clapboard house that looked like it had dropped out of the sky into the middle of Mississippi Delta farmland. It felt exposed, like the windy nighttime universe that surrounded our house had actual substance and was seeping in through the cracks around the old windows and doors.

Like our house, Grandma Bea’s house was small and old, but it had pretty hardwood floors and it was always warm and lamplit, and we always moved around confident that we were tucked safely inside and the darkness that howled around against the house was an entity we didn’t need to worry about. We simply let it do its thing while we did ours.

Grandma Bea’s house was the only place where I ever felt truly safe and relaxed.

As soon as the ending credits started rolling, we heard the squeak of the back screen door. “Uncle Jack!” Shelby squealed, as we ran into the kitchen to greet him.

“How’re my girls?” he said, giving us bear hugs.

“Uncle Jack! I want to show you my new Rainbow Brite, doll!” Shelby shouted before scampering off toward the bedrooms.

“Dadgum—the weather out there tonight,” Jack said as he shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair. “Spooky!” He grinned and winked at me.

“Stop it, Jack,” Grandma Bea admonished.

“What?” He grinned. “It is spooky.”

“Jack,” Mama warned, “remember what we talked about when we were on break at work this morning?”

Uncle Jack’s face fell. “Oh. Sorry Mama. And I was real sorry to hear about Tina.”

Sensing where the conversation was headed, I quietly walked across the kitchen back toward the front of the house and took my place up against the side of the tall China cabinet closest to the dining room. If I was quiet, I could sit there for hours and listen to the grown-ups’ unfiltered conversation.

I could see Grandma Bea standing at the kitchen sink. She was quiet for a few moments as she braced herself against the counter with her arms before turning to face Mama and Uncle Jack. “Thank you, Jack,” she said quietly.

Mama wrapped Grandma Bea in hug. “Tina was a special girl. We’re all going to miss her.”

Uncle Jack cleared his throat. “How’s Verna?”

“Verna is devastated. I’ve known her forever and I can tell you,” Grandma Bea’s voice broke, “I don’t know if she’s going to survive this.” She swatted away the tears with the backs of her hands, picked up the dish towel and gave the chili pot one last swipe dry. “’Scuse me a minute,” she said and hurried out of the kitchen.

Mama and Uncle Jack sat down at the kitchen table. “What happened?” he whispered. “I’ve just heard a few things.”

I held my breath. Everyone knew Tina Alden had been killed. I was still in the middle school, but it didn’t have a cafeteria, so every day we walked across the dusty schoolyard to have lunch at the high school, and for the last two days, the atmosphere inside had been quiet and heavy.

“Well, she was heading out of town after supper Wednesday night, in that little Ford Escort her daddy bought her. JC Penney over in Stoneville is having a big sale on jeans, so she was going to the mall, although I have no idea why Verna would have let her take off like that that so late in the day on a school night.”

Tina’s mama had died when she was in kindergarten, so her Grandma Verna helped raise her. Her daddy, Bruce, Verna’s son, worked at the factory just like Mama and Uncle Jack, and Verna was a widow who didn’t have a whole lot, either. But somehow, between the two of them, they kept Tina in the most fashionable clothes and had even managed to buy her a car the summer she’d turned sixteen.

Tina Alden was teen royalty, and it always felt a little weird to me that I was linked to someone so beautiful by way of my grandmother. Grandma Bea had known her since she was a baby. Since Tina started high school, Grandma Bea had even been the one to perm her bangs once a month.

“Anyway,” Mama continued, “she stopped at the T-intersection—I know she was a responsible girl, even though Verna and Bruce spoil her rotten—but as she was making the left onto the frontage road, a semi came speeding through. He had the right-of-way, but he was flying. I doubt Tina even saw him coming when she stopped.”

Uncle Jack shook his head sadly. “Probably didn’t know what hit her,” he said. “I hope she didn’t.”

Mama winced. “Me too.” She took a deep breath. “My foreman’s brother knows the coroner. Said she was killed on impact, but there was barely a scratch on her face.”

I shivered—we stopped at that intersection almost every day.

“Just did a number on her poor insides,” Uncle Jack said, grimly.

“Broke her neck,” Mama whispered.

Uncle Jack sighed. “You’re right—despite all the ways Verna and Bruce spoiled her, she was real nice.”

Grandma Bea walked back into the kitchen and sat down at the table.

“We were just saying what a sweet girl Tina was,” Mama said.

Grandma Bea nodded. “Burial’s Sunday morning.”

“In town?” Uncle Jack asked.

“No, in the churchyard right here.” Grandma Bea gestured in the direction of the small church and cemetery that stood a quarter mile behind her house, just through the cotton field.

Uncle Jack looked surprised. “Bruce and Verna don’t want her in the cemetery in town?”

Grandma Bea shook her head. “Tina was born and raised here. She went to this church. Norm Masters got her ready for burial, and I believe they transported her back to the church late this afternoon. I think Bruce plans stay with her until the service—” Grandma Bea’s voice cracked.

Mama sighed. “Well, it will be a comfort to have Reverand Baker give the sermon.”

Grandma Bea huffed. “That old coot? He just likes to hear himself talk.”

“Mama!” my mom and Uncle Jack gasped.

“Since when don’t you like Reverand Baker?” Mama asked.

Suddenly, Shelby sped past the China cabinet and catapulted herself into Uncle Jack’s lap.

“Munchkin!”

Grandma cleared her throat and lightly slapped her hand on the table. “Now, might be best if we change the topic. Little ears.”

The adults turned their conversation to the shift changes at the factory, and their voices eventually blurred into a drone in my tired ears. 

***

I awoke confused. The house was dark and I was on the couch, where Uncle Jack must have deposited me. I had kicked off the blanket he’d covered me up with and I was cold. I sat up and rubbed my eyes for a minute. A sudden yowl from the dark room made me jump, and I realized that Emerald was sitting at the front door, which stood wide open. I gasped and rushed to the door. The night had gone wild and flickery. The wind howled as it pushed clouds across the sky that obliterated the light from the full moon. Then, once they were past, the moon would burst forth in its full brightness again, only to be snuffed out again by another bank of clouds seconds later. 

As I approached the door, Emerald looked directly at me. Then, she turned and ran out into the night.

I should have closed the door and gone to Grandma Bea’s spare room. I wish to God I would have. Instead, I walked out the door and followed Emerald into the night. She crossed the front yard, and for a moment, I thought she just wanted to explore for a minute and would turn around and come back inside, but when she got to the side of the house, she turned right to head toward the field that lay behind it.

As I crossed the field, the wind kept blowing clouds across the sky so that the night undulated between light and dark, making it impossible for my eyes to adjust. I lost sight of Emerald and for a moment, wondered if I should give up and go back to the house. Just as I was getting ready to slow down so I could spin around and head back, the clouds cleared, and the moon re-illuminated the landscape. Emerald was trotting across the cemetery, just ahead of me, and I picked up my pace. But as we entered the graveyard, the jagged rows of tombstones forced us to weave in and out of the stones toward the copse of giant elm trees that shrouded the back half of the cemetery and the churchyard. I was focused on trying not to fall and keeping Emerald in my sight, but a hint of movement ahead caught my eye. I slowed to look in the direction of the movement, and for a moment thought I saw a figure. I gasped and dropped to a crouch behind a large headstone.

For several seconds I crouched. Flicker, flicker went the moon, and then, with one big gust of wind that shook dead leaves off the elms and blew them into a spiral with twigs and bits of grass in a parchment-paper rattle whoosh, the graveyard burst into full moonlight. I inched my face forward until I could see around the headstone.

In the middle of the churchyard, Grandma Bea stood, motionless, while Emerald weaved between and around her ankles in a slinky figure eight. Bruce was emerging from the backdoor of the church, and he was carrying someone like a baby. 

Bruce approached Grandma Bea, squatted at her feet, and gently laid the person he was carrying on the ground. One of the person’s arms flopped to their side, and Bruce immediately grabbed their hand and held it for a moment, before gently laying it on their chest.

As the clouds cleared again, I caught a glint of gold from the head of the person lying on the ground. It was Tina.

I cupped both hands over my mouth to stifle my gasps and the sob I felt rising in my chest.

Bruce stood, and backed up next to Grandma Bea as she raised her arms toward the moon, lifted her head and let out the most haunting sound I’ve heard still to this day. Emerald did one final figure eight between Grandma’s ankles and settled into line next to Grandma Bea and Bruce.

Grandma Bea began to chant something in a whisper. Slowly at first and then faster and faster. As her cadence quickened, her voice became louder, but the words—if they could be called that—were a mystery to me.

As she chanted, the very night seemed to speed up. The wind pushed banks of clouds across the moon so quickly that it flickered like a strobe light.

Grandma was bellowing now, while Emerald yowled, and Bruce tried to brace himself against the wind.

Suddenly, both Grandma Bea and Emerald grew silent. I watched them intently for a moment, until I sensed movement.

I shifted my gaze. Tina Alden was stirring. I blinked hard three, four, five times, unable to comprehend what I was seeing. Her arms were moving. Her palms, which had been lying across her chest, were traveling—slowly, as if the movement required extreme effort—to her sides and planting themselves on the ground. Now, her elbows were bending.

“No, no, no,” I whispered, as I closed my eyes and shook my head.

I opened my eyes, and Tina, whose spine had been severed, was pressing her palms against the cold dirt and trying to raise herself into a sitting position.

“Bruce!” Grandma Bea bellowed. Sobbing, he hurried to where Tina lay, squatted down at her side, and ever-so-gently helped her to her feet. Tina swayed for a moment but managed to remain standing after Grandma Bea summoned Bruce back into line. 

Tina’s head hung at an odd angle to the right, and it took a moment for me to realize that it wasn’t because of the wind, but because Tina’s neck had been broken when the truck had collided with her driver’s side door.

Suddenly, the chili I’d had for dinner at Grandma Bea’s house was on the grass in front of me.

Still heaving, I wiped tears from eyes, and raised my head to see Grandma Bea moving her arms slowly as if she were conducting a symphony.

“Tina,” she cooed, “sweet, sweet Tina . . .”

Tina stood there for a few more moments, unsteady in her cabbage rose Laura Ashely dress.

“Tina…Tina…Tina…” Grandma Bea continued to murmur. Tina took one jagged step forward and to the right. Her head lolled drastically, and I doubled over again and vomited the rest of my dinner.

In response to Tina’s step forward, Grandma Bea took a step backward and to the left.

“Tina…Tina…Tina…” Grandma Bea, continued her incantation, arms still raised to the heavens as she and Tina continued their clumsy series of steps and Tina’s reanimated body jerked and lurched.

Suddenly, I was back in Grandma Bea’s living room during Christmas the year before. The room was bathed in the glow of Christmas lights, and Grandma was teaching me to foxtrot. I was clumsy at first, but soon, I fell into the pattern of the box step with its slow, slow, quick, quick cadence. Once I got the hang of it, we danced and laughed for almost an hour, while the rest of the family sang and clapped.

Now, Grandma Bea was doing the same sequence with Tina. They danced. But instead of the smooth, slow, slow, quick, quick rhythm, it was jagged. Grotesque. Tina’s head continued to loll as her feet lurched unnaturally in response to Grandma Bea’s movements.

I retched again, but there was nothing left of that night’s family dinner. There was nothing to do but turn and run away from the church toward the safety of home.

It was only once I started running that I realized I had no idea where I was going.

The San Fernando Valley was the hottest region of Los Angeles that day, at least ten degrees higher than the rest of the city. In the heart of NoHo Arts District, the laundromat was a welcome refuge from the heat. The air con was on full blast and the oscillating fans slowly scanned its surroundings. At the back of the room, the young man was shovelling dirty laundry into a washer. The perpetual repetitive rhythm of machines in constant rotation. He had been on the road for a week and this was the first opportunity he had to wash his clothes since setting off on his travels. 
The young man contemplated his journey so far. The places he had experienced, every transient encounter. He remembered the gas station in the middle of the desert. The tumble weed that glided past the old timer sat in the shade, like a scene from a classic western. The curious expression of the attendant as he watched the young man enthusiastically gulp a chilled bottle of Mexican coke, how refreshing the bubbles felt as they danced around his mouth.‘I could do with one of those right now’, he thought to himself. 
He felt grimy, the heat wasn’t helping, but if he could find a hostel nearby, he would finally be able to take a much needed cold shower. But the first thing was to look presentable again. He reached into his pocket and realised that he had no coins for the machine. He looked over to see that, at the counter, cigarette smoke was billowing from behind a newspaper.
“Excuse me”, he approached hesitantly, “do you have change for ten dollars?”.
There was no reply. 
“Excuse me-”
Before he could ask again, an arm emerged and pointed to a sign on the opposite wall that said ‘NO CHANGE’ written in marker pen. 
“Ok thanks”.
The young man walked outside onto Magnolia Blvd, a clear blue sky visible amidst the symmetry of towering palm trees that lined the sidewalk. He wandered a couple of blocks and over an intersection, until he eventually came across an inviting looking diner. He stepped inside and felt like he was stepping back in time. A row of aged leather booths that sat in parallel to the rust brown walls that were covered in photos of famous patrons, mostly stars from Hollywood’s golden age. He proceeded towards the long narrow counter that divided the room. A middle aged woman greeted him as he sat on a nearby stool. 
“What would you like sugar?”, she asked 
“Black coffee and… what kind of pie is that?”, he gestured towards the pastry displayed in a glass cabinet. 
“Cherry”
“Perfect, a slice of that as well”
Although coffee and cherry pie may have seemed a strange choice on the hottest day of the year, it gave the young man some much needed comfort. Travelling alone had taught him to appreciate the simple pleasures, and how these pleasures can help to create a deeper connection to an unfamiliar environment. As she poured his coffee, the young man considered where he should go next. He checked a battered bus timetable that constantly resided in his back pocket. There were a couple of options, he could go inland to San Jose or continue to head north along the Pacific Coast Highway up to Santa Cruz and figure out where to go next from there. This appealed to him the most, as it would allow him to experience the beauty of the West Coast shoreline for a little longer. But before this could happen he needed some clean clothes, so he finished the last mouthful of pie and was ready to complete his original mission. He paid, thanked the server and went on his way. The sun was starting to set as he returned to the laundromat, bathing the street in a light that only existed in movies. Once reaching the entrance he discovered that the door was locked and the proprietor was nowhere to be seen. The young man sighed, it was clear that his clothes were not getting washed anytime soon. His only option was to find somewhere to shower, get a few hours sleep and hope that they were still there in the morning. 

The next day, the young man got up early to check whether his laundry was still in the washer. Fortunately for him, it was exactly where he left it and, thanks to the previous day’s trip to the diner, he had the exact change he needed. The young man put everything on a quick wash, checked his bus timetable once again, and was pleasantly surprised to find that the North Hollywood bus station was only a couple of blocks away. As soon as the cycle was complete, the young man swiftly packed the clothes with the efficiency of a seasoned traveller and headed over to the bus stop. As he approached, the Greyhound bus was already waiting for him, its sleek, silver, corrugated body reflecting a glimmer of sunrise. He boarded, observing that it was surprisingly busy for this time of the morning. After lugging his backpack into the baggage area, he slumped into the seat below. Sitting next to him was a man in his early to mid sixties with a long, slim, lived in face.  
“Hey I’m John” he said, holding out his grizzled hand. 
“Alex”, the young man replied. 
He noticed that John’s grip was firm but unthreatening. The engine roared and they were on their way. 
“Are you from Australia?” John asked curiously.
“No, I’m from the U.K”.
“Ah, London”.
“Yes that’s right”. Alex didn’t have the heart to correct him.
“Does it rain all the time in London?” John questioned further. 
“Sometimes…Are you from L.A?”
“Nah, I’m from Chicago but I live in Vegas now. I used to be a cop but I retired and moved out west”.
John had witnessed it all, the best and worst in humanity, Alex could see this in his eyes. He held onto the sadness of stories that could never be told. 
“Chicago is cold, and now I can sit by the pool everyday”. 
Alex could imagine John on his recliner, drinking a scotch while the Nevada sun turned his leathered skin a flushed shade of red.
They spoke some more, John talked about visiting his daughter up in the wine country where she lived with her husband and two kids, Alex revealed that he was backpacking across California. 
“It’s a beautiful, beautiful state” John said enthusiastically, “you couldn’t have chosen a better place to visit”.
“Have you done much travelling outside the U.S?” Alex asked. 
“No, America is enough for me. I have everything I want here”. 
This concept was alien to Alex. For him, travelling offered the prospect of adventure and a feeling that anything was possible. But, with this form of escapism, came a constant state of restlessness and, often, an inability to experience true contentment. John did not seem to wrestle with any of this, something Alex admired but could not understand.
“Look out there” John said pointing to the window, “Have you seen anything more beautiful?”
As the sun rose across the west coast shoreline, painting the landscape golden, Alex could understand John’s enthusiasm. He watched as the coastline turned to desert, the desert turned to forest and the forest turned to mountains. Only in California could you be in this many places at once. Alex briefly closed his eyes, allowing his face to bathe in the warm glow of the radiant morning sun. He wanted to hold on to this moment, forever. 
Somehow Alex knew that years later, he would become me, and that I would be writing these words, on such a winter’s day, yearning for a feeling that would never truly exist again.
“Bet you wouldn’t see that in London” John said proudly. 
He wasn’t wrong.