9. Chapter Nine
CHAPTER NINE
MAVEN
He doesn’t answer. Of course he doesn’t.
My mind can conjure a ghost with perfect posture, but apparently it draws the line at giving him a real voice.
What would he sound like if he spoke here?
I imagine his words would curl through the air like smoke, hushed and gravelly but strangely calm, as if emerging from the far corner of a darkened room I’m standing outside of. Like my dreams.
The thought sends another shiver racing along my spine, joining the lingering tremors from my panic attack.
My tears have slowed to a trickle, but my lungs still struggle for air, each breath scraping against my throat.
Swallowing feels like sandpaper at this point, but I’ve no energy to grab water.
“Who are you?” I ask again, just as I did in dream Italy.
No answer comes—again. Just that peculiar tilt of his head that I find intriguing.
Why won’t he speak to me now? In my dreams, he’d uttered a few sentences with that otherworldly voice. Each word vibrated through me deliciously. I remember how his statement had pulled at something deep in my chest, tugging on a thread I didn’t know existed.
You wait for me. I shudder once more.
But here, in the hard reality of my apartment and a crumpled dress, with tears painting the floor, and my dignity far gone…silence.
I suppose even hallucinations have limits.
Visual apparitions are one thing, but adding perfect auditory mirages would push me firmly into territory that ends with a psychiatric hold and a lifetime supply of grippy socks.
Dr. Voss would have a field day—finally vindicated in her persistent insistence that I need more intensive treatment.
That witch of a woman will never leave me alone.
My breathing stabilizes as I study him. He sits perfectly still, legs crossed, hands resting on his knees.
The fabric covering his face doesn’t ripple with breath, and nothing about him suggests the fidgeting, unconscious movements of a living person.
Yet somehow, his presence fills the space in a way that feels more substantial than my own.
“Are you going to hurt me?” I ask, altering my approach.
He shakes his head, the movement deliberate and controlled.
A thought occurs to me—what if this is a different man from the one in my dreams? “Did you leave the flowers?”
A nod.
“How?”
No response to that one. Not a question with a yes or no answer, I suppose.
“Are you…” My voice falters. What am I even asking? “Are you some kind of ghost?”
Another head tilt, this one accompanied by a slight shift in his shoulders. Not quite a shrug, but something similar. The closest thing to uncertainty I’ve observed from him. Strange.
“Can anyone else see you?”
A slow shake of his head.
That confirms what I suspected from the sidewalk earlier. He’s visible only to me, which leans heavily toward the hallucination theory rather than the ghost one. Though I’m not sure which would be worse—being haunted or crazy.
My legs have numbed from sitting tensely on the hard floor. I shift positions, wincing as pins and needles cascade through my calves. The man—entity—whatever he is, doesn’t react to my movement. He simply watches, the white veil over his face revealing nothing of what might lie beneath.
“Are you going to stay?” I don’t know why I ask this. Don’t know why the thought of him disappearing makes my stomach twist into knots.
He nods, and an inexplicable warmth blooms beneath my sternum, spreading outward until it reaches my fingertips.
We continue this strange, one-sided conversation for a while longer.
I ask questions; he responds with gestures.
His presence should send me scrambling for my phone to call for help.
If I’m not hallucinating, someone has broken into my apartment and is just…
sitting with me. But fear doesn’t surface.
Instead, a peculiar calm has settled through my bones; his presence has introduced a new gravitational force that steadies me at the cellular level, slowing the frantic vibration.
His form fizzles at the edges when I observe him from certain angles, as if he’s not fully materialized in this reality.
That, more than anything, convinces me he’s not a flesh-and-blood intruder.
I don’t know what he is, but the threat of physical harm seems remote.
Whatever danger he presents must be of a different nature entirely.
I’ve run out of questions that can be answered with gestures. The silence stretches between us, but it doesn’t feel awkward or strained. It’s like a conversation of its own—one conducted through shared presence rather than words; through the simple act of witnessing and being perceived.
When was the last time someone simply sat with me? Not speaking or demanding, not judging every little thing—just being there? I can’t remember, if it ever happened at all.
A tear slips free against my will, tracing a hot path down my already salt-stained cheek. It dangles at my chin for a moment, heavy with whatever emotion pulled it from its duct.
The man stiffens, his stillness becoming more pronounced, if that were possible. Then, with a deliberateness that appears almost ceremonial, he reaches out. His gloved hand moves toward my face, the motion so slow I could easily flinch away if I wanted to.
I don’t. I hold my breath instead, anticipation and wonder freezing me in place.
His glove hovers over my cheek, not touching the skin, but close enough that I feel…
something. Strangely, it isn’t light pressure or warmth, but more of a disturbance in the air, the same way I picture hairs rise along your arms the moment before lightning strikes.
The tear wobbles on my chin as if responding to his proximity, then breaks free, dropping to join the collection that has soaked into the fabric pooled in my lap.
His hand doesn’t retreat. It remains suspended beside my face, never making contact.
I focus on the almost-touch, fascinated by the sensation.
I’ve never known the concept of touch; the promise of connection without physical fulfillment.
I imagine this must be what it feels like to grab fog—present yet intangible, there but not there. Heavy yet nonexistent.
My heartbeat slows to a normal rhythm as I concentrate on this strange moment, each pulse gentler than the last. The ragged edges of my breathing smooth out as my muscles unclench in waves, starting from my jaw and flowing downward through my neck to my toes.
The panic that had gripped me since James’ departure has receded completely, leaving behind a hollowed-out calm. I’m exhausted suddenly, the aftermath of adrenaline making my limbs heavy and my thoughts sluggish.
Time loses meaning as we remain, my body melting gradually into the floor beneath me. The silence wraps around us with the force of a weighted blanket, muffling the world outside my apartment.
It occurs to me that it must have been hours since he first appeared.
The panic attack that seemed intent on tearing me apart from within stopped the moment I registered his presence.
He did that. This hallucination, ghost, whatever—he halted the spiral and anchored me when I was drowning in my own body’s betrayal.
I have no idea who or what this man is. No idea if he’s just a particularly detailed fantasy my mind has constructed to cope with my isolation. But I know that his presence has calmed me in a way no medication or therapy session ever has…and that doesn’t bother me in the slightest.
“Thank you,” I whisper, unsure of what exactly I’m thanking him for. For stopping the panic? For not being a James? Perhaps for simply existing in this moment when everything was unbearable?
His head inclines in acknowledgment, the gesture carrying a dignity that contrasts with the absurdity of our situation.
Fatigue crashes over me, forcing my eyelids to droop despite the effort to keep them open. I need to sleep. Allow my body to recover from the night’s emotional whiplash.
But I don’t want to move to the bed or break whatever fragile connection has formed between me and this ghost. So instead, I shift onto my side, using my arm as a pillow against the cool vinyl.
While the floor is hard and uncomfortable, the discomfort soothes me—a physical anchor tethering me to reality.
My eyes grow heavy, the effort to keep them open becoming too much to maintain. The last thing I see before consciousness slips away is the man, still sitting cross-legged, watching over me with that faceless attention that somehow feels more present, more genuine, than any gaze I’ve ever known.
“Thank you for staying,” I manage again, the words slurring with approaching sleep.
Then darkness takes me.
* * *
The sound of morning traffic drags me awake. My body aches, stiff from spending the night on the unyielding floor. For a moment, confusion whirls through my mind—why am I here instead of in my bed?
Then memories of last night emerge. I bolt upright, eyes scanning the apartment. Empty. No sign that anyone was ever here besides me. The dress I wore last night twists around my body as if I shifted a million times, and my mouth carries a stale taste.
Was it real? Any of it?
My gaze falls on the circle of crystals still arranged on the table, positioned exactly as I left them yesterday. They catch the weak morning light, creating tiny rainbows across the ceiling. Hm, doesn’t seem they worked.
My head pounds as I move to the kitchen and gulp a glass of water, ignoring the drops that spill down my chin.
When would it be reasonable to really question my sanity? My safety? That seems like the right thing to do in this situation. Instead, I feel something I haven’t felt in years: curiosity. I want to know more…about him, about the flowers. Mostly, I want to understand what’s happening to me.
I glance at my reflection in the bathroom. Dark circles shadow my eyes, and my hair is a tangled mess, but there’s something different in my expression. A spark where there was only emptiness before.
Turning away, I make a decision I know I’ll probably regret. I won’t tell Dr. Voss about any of this. She wouldn’t understand. Would see it only as evidence of deteriorating mental health and call it a psychotic break.
The shower beckons, promising to wash away the dried tears, the lingering sensation of James’ unwanted touch.
As I step under the hot spray, I wonder if my mysterious visitor will return tonight.
Do I want him to? The answer comes without hesitation—yes.
I want him to come back. Need to ask more questions and unlock the mystery of his existence and why he’s chosen me for these visitations.
I want to understand the connection between him and my dreams, and why his presence calms the storm that’s raged inside me for twenty-seven years.
I’ll get my answers, eventually.