Weaver Of Starlight, Hunter Of Hearts

6: The Sun Is Dying

I blink. Day has faded. And Sorrow has returned me to my room with little memories of last night, as she always does.

The sun is dying in the sky; it bleeds out red all over the crowd's towering above Paris, as if its core has been stabbed; as if it is human, a person with a pulse, organs and the like.

I yawn as I rise from the mattress. My back is tired, aching. If someone were to tell me that I used to have wings, and that they were ripped out from between my shoulder-blades, I would believe them.

The attic's tiny room is painted a dimming gold from the sunlight. I blink. I think back to the Hunter Of Hearts. Spending time with him, fooling around together... it has brought memories back to me that I had long-since ignored.

Memories of being human.

Suddenly, I miss my family, and the world I once knew that came before this one.

It is so quiet outside, it feels like I'm the only one in the world right now. What a silly thought, though. I am far from being alone. There are so many astral mechanisms and systems in place that I won't ever comprehend. There are entities in the sky watching, waiting, for me to make a mistake.

The world is so vast, and full of things that I will never get to know. It fills me with a sense of wonder, yet dread all the same. No matter how long my life is—how many places I travel to—there will never be enough time for me to see everything, know everyone, and learn about it all.

I turn my head away from the window. I part my lips then sigh. I don't know why I feel so different today, but something has changed. And that something is stirring within me—ancient, star-filled, like a night sky draped over the waking world—it tugs and pulls at my insides, as if I am water and it is a wave.

The floorboards creak beneath my feet. As I put pieces of myself that do not want to move back together in my mind, I take a deep breath, then finally slip into the mirror again. Although I'm weightless, the universe feels heavy on my shoulders. I had forgotten what it felt like, to be human, to remember that I exist; that I am not just a mere, distant observer.

My chest tightens. It is like I have been born again, because I am afraid now—of falling into the floor, even though I have done this more than a thousand times. Go, I think.

"Go," I whisper the words to myself, for I mustn't stop now.

The moment I'll let fear take over, will be the moment I lose the parts of me for real, that I'd been holding onto so dearly.

I shut my eyes. And I drift, downward, my legs permeating wood floorboards that do not creak this time. The room is quiet, as I sink down, drown into the building, past cobwebs, beds risen like tombstones, inside bedrooms that should contain residents from this building yet don't.

Outside, I work slower than usual, for my eyes are always looking for a sign of him on the horizon.

But this part of the city is now strewn with lights, souls that are waiting to live, and move, and breathe again! So, I doubt I'll see him tonight. He has probably gone to a place, where the darkness lies.

I try to shake the thought of him away. Now's really not the time to be concentrating on someone other than my work—I fly over Paris, embracing every part of it with love, and the light that he has given me—however, although he is not by my side, I find myself still feeling his presence in the air; the meticulous ways he has of catching every soul and memory that I release.

The night grows longer, extends out over my head, a dark claw that is just itching for me to give in to emotional distractions; for me to break. I am weary, it is true. The memories that continue to flash through my mind—my family, my friends, the town that I loved yet left too soon—they remind me of my mortality.