5. Chapter Five
CHAPTER FIVE
MAVEN
The Amalfi Coast unfolds around me—cascading white buildings clinging to cliff sides that plunge into a stunning, blue sea. Somewhere in the distance, bells toll, their presence carried on a breeze that tastes of salt and lemon. The air feels nice here. Warm.
I don’t care about the landscape, though. Not tonight.
Even the beautiful sunrise cannot steal my attention.
I should be taking it in. Memorizing every detail to revisit when I’m awake. Instead, my eyes scan the empty terrace, the vacant streets below, the abandoned beach in the distance.
Where is he?
I jolt at the unfamiliar urgency in my question. My muscles tense as my heart beats faster than the moment warrants. I pace the perimeter of the terrace, fingers trailing across the rough texture of the stone balustrade, trying to ground myself in the sensation when my mind wants to race ahead.
What’s wrong with me? This eagerness is so foreign and uncomfortable—like wearing someone else’s skin. I don’t do eager. Nor do I look forward to things. I exist in a perpetual state of neutral-to-negative expectation, where the best outcome is that nothing particularly awful happens.
Yet here I stand, bouncing on my toes, searching for a figure that shouldn’t mean anything to me. A figment of my imagination. A symptom of my deteriorating mental state.
Nothing more…or so I tell myself.
So why does the hollowness grow when minutes pass and he doesn’t appear? Why does my throat burn?
The loneliness skates over my scalp, hunting for my sufferance.
It’s not the general sense of isolation I’ve carried my entire life.
This feels almost targeted, as if I’m missing something that was once there, rather than longing for something I’ve never had.
As if my mind is laughing at me for hoping he would visit tonight. Still, I wait.
The dream doesn’t progress as normal, instead choosing to remain stagnant for what feels like hours.
Eventually I seat myself in a wrought-iron chair at a small table, spreading my hands over the cool surface.
My fingers are always prettier here—more elegant with perfectly shaped nails instead of ones bitten to the quick.
I study them to pass the time, counting backward from one hundred, a childish attempt to summon him through superstition.
By the time I reach thirty-four, my patience fractures. This is ridiculous. I’m sitting in a dream, waiting for a hallucination that’s part of the same dream.
I’m literally waiting for myself.
And I can’t even do that right.
I stand as heavy heat buzzes through my veins. The water below assaults the shore, waves breaking in a pattern that I’d normally find soothing but only increases my agitation. My jaw clenches tight enough to ache, teeth grinding against each other.
“This is stupid,” I mutter aloud.
If he’s not coming, I should at least enjoy the scenery before I wake up. Isn’t that the point of dreaming about places I’ll never visit? To experience them, however falsely?
I turn my back on the empty terrace, preparing to explore the winding streets. Maybe I’ll find a café, sit alone with a dream-cappuccino and pretend I’m the kind of person who travels to Italy on a whim.
“You wait for me.”
The voice freezes me mid-step. It reverberates through my bones before reaching my ears, as if it originates from inside me rather than behind. Deep, textured, with a quality that reminds me of smoke. It’s both ancient and present, a voice that has existed forever but speaks only to me.
I face him slowly, heart skittering against my ribs.
He stands at the far end of the terrace, as if he’s been there all along and I simply failed to notice.
Tall, broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted, in that same black coat.
The white fabric still drapes across his face, obscuring his features completely, flowing down over one arm.
But something has changed…the static that usually blurs his edges has vanished. He’s solid and clear now.
The rising sun casts his long shadow toward my feet as if it’s reaching for me.
“You’re late,” I reply, surprising myself with the accusation. It’s not like we had an appointment.
For the first time, he moves; steps forward in one fluid motion. “Time moves differently where I dwell.” His voice sends a shiver down my spine as bumps rise along my arms.
“And where is that, exactly?” My pulse races so fast it thuds in my fingertips.
He doesn’t answer, instead tilting his head in that now-familiar gesture of consideration. The fabric shifts with the movement but reveals nothing beneath.
“You have questions.” Not a question of his own, but a statement of fact.
I laugh, the sound brittle even to my own ears. “Only about a million.”
“Ask.”
In my waking life, I bristle at directives from others. Here, something about his voice makes me want to comply. To please.
“Who are you?” I start easy with the question I’ve asked before.
He takes another step toward me, closing the distance by half. The details of his clothing stand out now—the way the coat fits his frame as if tailored specifically for him, the slight sheen of the black fabric that suggests how expensive it is.
“You know who I am.”
What a stupid thing to say. Why would I ask if I already knew? “I really don’t.”
“You do.” He moves closer still, only a few feet away. “You have always known me, Maven.”
My name in his mouth is almost invasive. A presumption of intimacy that I haven’t granted. And yet…something about the way he says it feels right, like he’s been calling me by my name for years.
“The flowers,” I say, veering away from the unsettling familiarity. “Are you the one leaving them?”
His head dips in what might be a nod. “They are a gift.”
“Why?”
“They are special to me.” There’s a warmth to his voice now, a fondness that wasn’t there before. “I am pleased you have kept them.”
My cheeks heat. I think of the glass jar on my dresser, filling slowly with dried blooms. “If they’re so special to you, why give them away?”
“Because they belong with you. As do I.”
My heart skips several beats before racing to catch up with itself. Something about his words strikes a chord deep within me, resonating with a part of myself I didn’t know existed.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I counter, wrapping both arms around myself as if it’ll hold back the strange sensation spreading through my abdomen. “We don’t know each other.”
“We have known each other for longer than you can comprehend.” The surety in his voice forces another tremor through me.
“Are you real? Or am I just losing my mind?”
He closes the final distance between us, near enough that I should be able to smell him, but nothing graces my senses. His height forces me to tilt my head back to maintain the illusion of eye contact.
“I am as real as you are.” One hand rises, hovering near my cheek without touching. “As real as this dream and the flowers I leave for you.”
My breathing shallows. I should step back; force space between us. But my feet remain rooted to the stone from the force of his gravity.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is the only one I can give you now.” His hand drops back to his side, along with my stomach. “You are not ready for more.”
My eyes narrow. How dare he? “Don’t tell me what I’m ready for—you don’t know me.”
“I know every version of you that has ever existed,” he says, the words quiet but so intense they might as well be shouted. “I know the shape of your soul. I know the weight of your longing.”
My throat constricts, making it difficult to swallow. Or breathe.
“What do you want from me?” I manage, the question barely audible.
He steps even closer, still no scent attached to his presence. “Everything.” The word ghosts over my skin. “But I will settle for your recognition. For now.”
My blood pounds so hard I’m sure he must hear it, must see the way the pulse flutters at my throat. The charged air between us could power this city for a century.
But as his words settle, my brows crease. “I don’t understand.”
“You will.” There’s a promise in the statement, a threat hiding under the guise of certainty. “In time, you will remember everything.”
I want to ask what he means, what I’m supposed to remember, but the dream begins to fray at the edges. The colors of the Amalfi Coast dim, sounds growing distant, as if someone is slowly turning down the volume of the world. The sensation of his presence remains strong, but everything else recedes.
“No,” I protest, reaching out as if I could grab hold of the dream. “Wait—”
“I will be waiting,” he assures me, his voice the only clear thing in the dissolving scene. “I have always waited for you, Maven.”
The dream slips away, leaving me grasping at nothing as consciousness rushes back.
I jolt awake, heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird, sheets tangled around my legs.
Sweat slicks my skin despite how cold I am, clinging uncomfortably to my back and chest. For a moment, I lie still, staring at the ceiling in an attempt to collect my scattered thoughts.
The dream feels more substantial than usual, and I still register the strange tug of his presence calling to something deep within me.
I know the shape of your soul.
What the fuck does that even mean? Who talks like that, except characters in the fantasy novels I escape into? Not real people.
Not sane people, anyway.
But he’s not real, I remind myself. He’s a delusion of my mind. A construct of my lonely, touch-starved brain, creating companions where none exist.
Except for the flowers. Those are real.
The thought propels me upright, eyes darting to my nightstand and today’s offering.
No, today’s offerings.
Two flowers lie side by side, positioned with such care.
The first is a yellow tulip with orange spots that bleed into the petals.
Beside it rests another tulip, bright purple with streaks of burgundy running from its center.
Both are perfectly preserved, neither showing signs of final decay despite their obvious age.
He’s never left two before.
I cradle them in my palm, studying the intricate patterns of veins. They feel significant, though I couldn’t begin to guess their meaning. A message I’m not equipped to decode, but one that twitches the corners of my mouth.
After relocating them to their new home, I jolt at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. For a moment, I barely recognize myself—eyes too bright, cheeks flushed, something almost alive in my expression that hasn’t been there for years. Maybe ever.
“What’s happening to me?” I whisper to the empty apartment, not expecting an answer.
Maybe the medications are finally working…but that thought is fleeting. I’ve been taking these pills for years and they’ve done nothing but ruin my appetite and cause me distress from having to visit the pharmacy.
My palms press against my eyes until colored patterns bloom behind the lids as I try to organize my thoughts into something coherent. The facts, as I understand them:
1. I dream of a man in a Victorian coat with a veiled face.
2. He leaves flowers on my nightstand while I sleep.
3. He claims to know me, to have always known me.
4. I believe him—or, want to.
The last point catches me off-guard, a truth I hadn’t admitted even to myself until this moment.
Some part of me desperately wants to believe what he says, even if it isn’t much.
Or possible. Whatever is happening to me, whatever rabbit hole my mind is tumbling down, the flowers are real.
Tangible evidence that something beyond my understanding is occurring.
Maybe I’m not losing my mind. Maybe I’m finally finding it.
The sun has risen fully now, pale winter light filtering through my curtains.
Saturday stretches before me, empty of obligations or expectations.
In Boston, this would be the kind of day where I’d drag the covers back over my head and sleep until my body forced me awake with thirst or hunger.
Here in Montréal, for the first time in memory, I find myself not dreading the hours ahead but curious about them.
Will he appear in my waking hours as well as my dreams? He must, if his confessions are to be believed.
The possibility isn’t entirely unpleasant.
“Who are you?” I ask the empty air, half-hoping that a deep voice will answer from just behind me.
Silence greets my question. Of course it does. Dream figures don’t follow you into daylight. They stay contained in the theater of sleep, appearing only when the curtain of consciousness falls.
He said that I will remember everything, in time. The statement implies that there are things I’ve forgotten, memories just beyond my grasp. I want to figure out what I could have lost.
When was the last time I felt genuinely curious about anything? Or wanted answers instead of just numbness?
I make tea and stare out the window as the mug lifts to my lips. Steam fogs my vision momentarily, and when in clears, I almost drop the drink as my feet stumble back.
For just an instant, I swear he’s standing on the roof of the building opposite mine. A tall figure in black, white fabric obscuring his features, watching me through the window.
I blink, and he’s gone. Just a trick of the light, a manifestation of my preoccupied mind. But my heart races anyway, pulse pounding in my ears as I search the empty rooftop.
“I’m losing it,” I mutter, setting the mug down with trembling hands. “Completely losing it.”