It was a dark street, especially in the small hours right before dawn. Many of the houses here had those automatic light timers and several had already winked out in anticipation of morning. Bruce stood in the middle of the street, swaying a bit. He felt light headed and a little woozy.
It's the house. It has to be the house.
How long had he been standing here? He could make out frost on the lawn now, cold and beautiful. Was that there before. I don't think so.
It was always the same house. Same street, same strange feeling. It even felt like the same night, although that couldn't be. Something about this place… it's my true north. Now what does that mean?
He stood there, ignoring the chill. The house wasn't completely dark. He could see soft yellow light playing against the bay window. Candle light, if he wasn't wrong. It was muted, probably coming from a room deeper in the house. A bedroom maybe. He'd dated a woman once who loved candles, especially when she was taking a bath. Those big, Yankee Candles, vanilla scent. They were pretty.
Pretty expensive. I must have dropped one hundred dollars easy on Valentine's day. Walked in there thinking I could get away cheap. Bruce smiled to himself.
Inside was all shadow and muted yellows. The living room was as dark as it looked from outside. Nothing extraordinary here, as far as he could tell. A nice couch. Nice TV. Glass coffee table with a deck of cards and a book with those pictures of babies dressed like flowers and whatnot. There was a small fireplace that looked unused, probably just for show, and —
And what am I doing inside?
It didn't feel odd, being in a stranger's house (and isn't that odd in itself?). What bothered Bruce was not remembering walking in here. The candlelight spilled into the room from a hallway that, he assumed, led to the bedrooms. Well, in for a penny… Bruce made his way down the hall.
He found her in the first bedroom, sleeping on top of the covers, cloaked only in the soft light of two candles. She was beautiful. Not on the outside beautiful, although part of him was aware that physically she was attractive. But everything else about her overwhelmed him. There was no other way to explain it. She was —
She was a taste of orange and cinnamon; a memory of sugar. She was the dark chocolate of past romance, salted with tears from false starts and promises. There was a music about her that made Bruce woozy. All brass and strings, sweet with promise and countered with dark tones of regrets and grieving. He'd never seen anything like it before.
Has anyone?
Everything seemed to breathe with her, expanding slightly and then contracting. Bruce fell to his knees. She was so… so
So alive! She's alive and I'm not. I'm not alive. Something happened…
The woman turned her head and whispered something, but he couldn't make out what she was saying. Her hair fell across her face and the world turned silver. That's the color of peace. For her. He knew.
“Are you here?” She sat up and looked past him.
The question is, why am I here?
“I know you're here. I think.” She leaned forward and Bruce was treated to a bouquet of jasmine and spring rain.
She smells like hope.
She said something else, but it was lost on him. Background noise to the othersomething that was really her. She was expecting him, Bruce realized.
The cards. They were tarot cards. She summoned me!
“Please. If you can hear me, give me a sign. Something. Anything!”
Now he could taste sea salt and sand, and cold and he knew it was fear. She's afraid I'm not real.
At that moment, Bruce would have given everything to let the beautiful woman know he was there. The thought of disappointing her was unbearable.
But that's not how it works! I can't speak. I can't move anything. I can't—I can't.
“Please, just this once. Just one time. I know I'm not crazy. Please.”
A tear. A perfect, amazing tear rolled down the side of her face.
That is the sound of stillness. The whisper of expectation.
And then Bruce knew what he could do.
He surrendered. He gave up trying to hold on and surrendered to the beautiful woman. He embraced her, permeated her. Everything he was clung to her.
This is why I'm here. This is my reward.
He didn't fade. Not really. His last thought was
I don't know what I am. But I'm happy. Of course I'm happy. Look at her.
The woman sighed, and blew out the candles. “Stupid of me to fall asleep with them burning like that.”
Wen she again fell asleep, there was no disappointment; no sadness in her song and her life. Her life glowed a little brighter that night and all the nights that followed.
The 3rd story of seven promised.
