𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 | 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐢𝐧

𝐗𝐗 : 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡

For a long time, you heard only screaming. Blood-curdling shrieks intermixed with intense sobbing. All of it was unintelligible to you, but after a while, the screaming turned to talking, to whispers, then to nothing. The sobbing turned to crying, to sniffling, then to nothing. The chirping of crickets and tiny droplets of water plopping into puddles replaced despair until the dampened sounds filled every space.

Serenity roused you from sleep where the screaming failed. Your crusted eyes cracked open.

The heavens were rich with shades of cobalt, indigo, and lilac on a black canvas. Celestial dust sparkled with white, purple, and cyan streaks. Beautiful seafoam beams shot into the sky at hundreds of distant locations. The rays connected in root networks in the clouds. The crystal waters before you reflected the sky's beauty.

The air was as sweet as any summer night, but the smell of wet mud seeped from the spiky ground you lay upon. When you twisted your head around in the grass to see your surroundings, it looked alarmingly like your lake. You searched for your house, garden, cabins, and dock. Everything was there, except no candles warmed your condensation-covered windows, and no life lurked in the structures.

It was your home, but at the same time, it wasn't. Wherever you had found yourself, it felt like you had been there a million times before, but it was also the first time visiting. Comfort permeated through your flesh, sucking your back deep into the damp ground.

At first, you thought you were entirely alone. You scanned every structure, from the house to the barns, but found nothing. You didn't notice a silhouette kicking its legs over the dock until you sat up and stared out over the waterfront.

Picking yourself up from the dirt, you trailed after the entity, curious as to what brought it there.

Sweet humming swelled over wind-swept waves. It was that same melody you had heard each time Niccolo napped on his wife's lap so many years ago and that Mr. Kirstein had sung alone in your kitchen as he cooked. The shadow gained features—simple but crisp clothes, a slouching spine, and flowing auburn hair.

You briefly believed it must be another of your strange dreams, but even with all the books you read and the daydreams your mind made real, you lacked the strength to build pillars of light and cosmic diamond dust.

There was only one other explanation for seeing a ghost: you must be dead.

You tried to recall your end, but nothing came beyond a bit of tension in your throat. The last thing you remembered was the edge of the tavern taps, a hand on your mouth, Floch's smirk, and nothing. Any other memories from before were muddier than the ground you stood on.

"Sasha," you barely choked out. Hot fog bled from your lips when you pushed out her name. "Is that you?"

"It is," she replied, but no breath blurred her figure like yours. "Is that you?"

"It is."

"So, it's over then, huh? Is it wrong that I'm glad that it's over? It was hard to watch," she said without turning around. You could hear the smile coloring her voice without seeing her mouth. Tenderness still surrounded her soul. "Did you know Niccolo went to the opera tonight? Armin surprised him with tickets for his birthday. Tristan and Isolde. It was the same opera he and I saw with the boys in London. Niccolo sniffled the whole third act. Poor thing. I can only imagine what he'll feel when he gets home." She finally looked over her shoulder and greeted you with teary eyes. "Come sit with me for a while. Our hearts will ache less if we face eternity together."

Sasha had never appeared so somber in all the years you had known her. She gestured for you to join her on the dock's last plank, and you followed her gentle authority as you always did when she was alive.