6. Chapter Six
CHAPTER SIX
MAVEN
Snow whips against my face in icy pellets as the wind stirs my hair into a frenzy. I’ve only been outside for ten minutes, and already my toes have gone numb despite the double layer of wool socks and boots.
The address saved on my phone claims the crystal shop is just a few more blocks.
Some place called Mystic Minds, with a five-star rating from people who probably think carrying a hunk of rose quartz will fix their relationship problems. But the empty silence of my apartment was too much, and I am in desperate need of distraction.
My lungs heave as people hurry past, heads down against the wind, shoulders hunched into their coats.
No one makes eye contact or acknowledges each other.
But someone is watching me.
A prickling in my spine alerted me to eyes tracking my movements. One’s I’ve grown semi-familiar with. Because they’re not just any eyes.
They’re his.
I don’t turn around. What would be the point? Either I’d see him and confirm I’m hallucinating, or I’d see nothing and feel the tart sting of disappointment. Both options make my stomach flip and contract.
A sick sort of thrill travels through my blood, warming me from the inside. Someone—even if he is an illusion—wants me. Has singled me out and chosen me.
Of course my brain would conjure a ghost to want me. Not a real person with flesh and blood, or actual tangibility.
A small, very small, piece of me wants to call Dr. Voss just to brag that I have something I look forward to now.
The woman has been trying to find me a hobby for years.
I wager she’d rush to adjust my medications, raise the dosages or add new pills to the cocktail I already choke down each morning.
I’ve been on so many combinations over the years, each one worse than the last. They never make me better, only different.
Less sad but more hollow. Less anxious but more distant.
They smooth out the peaks and valleys of my emotions until I’m left with nothing but an endless, featureless pain. A numb desert of a soul.
And without the meds, I’m a raw nerve, too sensitive to everything. Bright colors, white lights, mild to loud sounds—all of it suffocates.
Right now, as the cold seeps through my layers and the wind rips tears from my eyes, I wish I weren’t alone.
I wish I had someone walking beside me, their arm linked through mine, their voice a distraction from the bitter cold.
Someone to laugh with about how Canadian winters are as brutal as everyone says.
Someone like him, maybe. Even the thought of his voice settles me a bit.
The thought makes my cheeks flush hot despite the atmosphere. Ridiculous. Wanting companionship from my imagination.
But…isn’t that what my brain is for? To do things that would keep me from ending its meager existence? I mean, it’s done a pretty shit job at it so far, but maybe it’s learning, and he is just what I need.
The muscles connected to my sternum constrict. God, I’m pathetic.
I turn a corner, and my feet instantly lock in place, refusing to carry me forward another step. My breath stutters, the sound of my pulse drowning out even the chorus of the wind.
He’s there.
Standing in the middle of the sidewalk about thirty feet ahead of me, his tall figure unmistakable even through the curtain of snow.
The long black coat hangs to his knees, perfectly still despite the wind that tosses everything else on the street.
The white fabric covering his face remains equally undisturbed, defying the physics of the storm around him.
People flow around him like he’s encased in a bubble, never breaking stride, never glancing his way. They swerve to avoid him without any apparent awareness that they’re doing so, their paths curving naturally as if his presence exerts its own gravity.
Do they see him? Can anyone see him? Or is he visible only to me, further proof that I’m losing my grip on reality?
The crowd between us thickens, but my focus narrows to him alone. The rest of the world fades to an inky gray—the buildings, the snowflakes, the bustling pedestrians—all of it receding until there’s nothing but him and the beautiful contrast of his coat against the bright backdrop.
I don’t move. Neither does he. We stand frozen in our respective places, separated by distance and people but connected by an invisible thread that pulls taut between us.
I still can’t see his eyes, but I feel his gaze like a physical touch, shivering as it breezes over my skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake.
The saliva in my mouth disappears as tingles overtake my fingertips.
The cold becomes a distant concern as heat spreads through me, radiating outward from my core.
It’s the same sensation I feel in the dreams—that peculiar mix of fear and anticipation, of wanting to run away and needing to move closer.
Why am I so entranced?
This is the first time I’ve seen him while awake and fully conscious. He’s here. Solid and undeniable.
Well, to me at least.
Which means I really am hallucinating. Or perhaps there’s something growing in my brain, pressing against the tissue, creating false images.
A tumor might explain everything…I’m not sure how I should feel about a possible abnormality in my head, because I’m certainly not upset.
At least a tumor would make sense. It would be something concrete, packaged with a nice little medical explanation.
The snow falls harder now, thick flakes that stick to my eyelashes and melt on the pink of my cheeks.
The crowd between us grows denser as more people spill out of storefronts and office buildings.
I want to push through them, to cross the distance until I’m standing right in front of him.
I want to demand answers. Reach out and touch him, to prove to myself that my hand will pass straight through, that he’s nothing more than a projection of my declining mental state.
But the thought of doing so in public makes my stomach twist. What would people see?
A woman talking to empty air, gesturing wildly at nothing?
It would take one concerned citizen to call emergency services, and I’d find myself back in a bright as shit room with scratchy sheets and orderlies who speak to me in that special tone reserved for the unstable.
No, I can’t risk it. Not here.
A man in a hurry slams into my shoulder as he rushes past, the impact knocking me off balance. I stumble, instinctively reaching out to steady myself against a building. For the briefest moment, my eyes leave the figure down the sidewalk.
When I look back, he’s gone.
The space where he stood fills with ordinary pedestrians, none of them remarkable or the tall man with no face. I scan the street frantically, whirling to search behind me. My gaze sweeps across the road in every direction.
Nothing.
The absence burns behind my eyes, leaving me short of breath and slightly dizzy. The bitter temperature rushes back in, seeping through my clothes now that the strange fever of his presence has faded. I wrap my arms around myself, trying and failing to hold on to the remnants of that warmth.
I need to leave before I panic over whatever that was.
I force my feet to move again, shoving through people as I shuffle toward the crystal shop.
My thoughts race, theories forming and dissolving with each labored step.
Maybe I didn’t see him. Maybe I did. Maybe he’s real, just not in the way I understand reality. Maybe I need to stop thinking about it.
The storefront appears ahead, a small space wedged between a coffee shop and a vintage clothing store.
The sign above the door features a crystal ball with Mystic Minds written in flowing script beneath it.
Normally, I’d roll my eyes at such cliché imagery, but today I barely notice as I push open the door.
A bell chimes softly as I enter, the sound mellow and resonant.
The warmth inside is immediate and welcome, enveloping me like a blanket just pulled from the dryer.
The shop smells of sandalwood incense and chocolate—which catches my attention because what a weird thing for this place to smell like.
Unlike most crystal shops I’ve visited in other cities, this one embraces darkness, thank god. The lighting is dim, provided mainly by salt lamps that cast a rosy glow over the merchandise. Glass cases line the walls, each one illuminated from within to showcase the minerals inside.
I brush snow from my coat and stomp my boots on the mat by the door, flexing my extremities as circulation returns.
The shop appears empty except for an older woman behind the counter, her silver hair piled in an intricate braid atop her head.
She peers up from arranging something in the display case, her eyes finding mine immediately.
“Welcome,” she says, a smile in her distinct accent. “You look half-frozen. Come closer to the heater.”
She gestures to an old-fashioned radiator in the corner, its metal grilles glowing orange. I move toward it with a grateful sigh, holding my hands out to the warmth.
“Nasty day to be out,” she continues, watching me with an intensity that makes me a bit uncomfortable. “Must be important business to bring you through such weather.”
I shrug, avoiding her gaze. “Just browsing.”
“No one just browses in a blizzard.” Her tone carries no judgment, just a matter-of-fact certainty.
My defenses rise automatically, spine straightening as I prepare to change the subject. But I’m too cold and too tired to manufacture polite conversation.
“I wanted to see your crystals,” I remark with a flat tone. “I collect them.”
Her eyes brighten with interest. “Ah, a collector. For beauty or purpose?”
“Just…because.” I don’t elaborate. How do I explain that I collect them for their uselessness? For their perfect indifference to human concerns? Or the comfort of owning something that will outlast me by many lifetimes?
I mean, they’re also pretty to look at.