19. Chapter Nineteen #2
A low growl sounds in his throat. “I fear your kindness will be your undoing in this life.”
I smile, my fingers tracing the shimmering veil. “Then I’ll simply find you in the next one.”
“I do not want to wait any longer.” His hands try and fail to grip my waist. “I would rather take you home now, where you belong. You will be safe and happy there.”
“I belong where I’m needed,” I say, the words soft but firm. “And right now, that’s here.”
His jaw clenches, anger evident in every line of his body. But he doesn’t argue further. Instead, he leans down to hover his forehead against mine, our breath mingling in the space between realms.
“I will return when the snow melts,” he promises. “Sooner if you call for me.”
“I know.” I stretch up on my toes to brush my lips against the ghost of fabric. “I’ll be waiting.”
I want him to kiss me properly, his mouth claiming mine with a hunger that speaks of the separation to come. I crave to melt into him and memorize the lines of his body, the taste of him on my tongue, the scent of him filling my lungs—
The train jolts to a stop, throwing me forward in my seat. I blink as a robotic voice announces my stop. Passengers bustle around me, exiting and entering, the rhythm of commuter life continuing uninterrupted while my world fractures and reforms.
I join the flow of bodies and journey to my apartment. My mind races with memories of another life where I loved him but chose to stay. Another version of me who seemed so different from who I am now—confident, compassionate. Needed.
By the time I reach my building, my head throbs with questions I can’t answer. The climb to the sixth floor feels endless as my legs grow heavy.
Inside my apartment, I lean against the closed door, surveying the small space I’ve called home for the past few months.
It’s sparse and impersonal—a temporary shelter rather than a place of belonging.
Nothing like the cottage in the snow or the riverbank in the sun.
Nothing that speaks to who I am or what I value.
Has this version of me ever known those things?
I shed my winter layers, the fabrics slipping through my fingers. All this time I’ve been longing for him without knowing it. A tremor slithers through my body, a ripple of recognition that feels a lot like truth.
All of this is so fucking crazy.
I guess insanity is the price of truth.
My muscles relax as I shower, though my mind continues its frantic pace. If those memories are real—what was I so afraid of losing?
And more importantly, am I still afraid?
The answer comes with startling clarity: yes. But not for the reasons my past selves were.
They feared leaving behind purpose and connection as they belonged in the mortal world. They had things worth staying for, people who needed them, and work that fulfilled them.
I fear the opposite.
I fear discovering that I could be happy. That I could belong somewhere, with someone. That all this emptiness and loneliness wasn’t inevitable but a choice—my soul’s stubborn refusal to accept what it knows is true.
Because if that’s the case, what does it say about this life I’ve lived? And the years I’ve spent as a wandering shadow, pushing away anyone who tried to get close? About the scars on my wrists, abdomen, and thighs, physical manifestations of a pain I couldn’t name but was desperate to release?
What a waste. What a pointless, needless waste.
My vision blurs, and I shove my face under the hot spray. I’ve spent twenty-seven years feeling broken and alone.
When all along, it was my fault.
The decision settles in my bones, heavy but certain. I want him. Want to be with him. Want to discover if the happiness I glimpsed in those memories could be mine again. How could going with him be any worse than this, even if he is lying?
I shut off the water with hands that tremble slightly, wrapping myself in a towel as I step onto the cold tile floor. Steam billows around me, fogging the mirror and obscuring my reflection—a liminal state that’s certainly appropriate for this moment.
In my bedroom, the dresser drawer slides open before my fingers brush past practical cotton in search of something else.
At the back of the drawer, still wrapped in tissue paper, I find it—a silk nightgown I bought on impulse months ago and never wore.
Black, with thin straps and a hemline that falls mid-thigh.
Simple but elegant. Revealing without being obvious.
The silk slides cool against my skin as I drag it over my head. It molds around my body perfectly. I feel exposed. Not just physically, but emotionally. This is a declaration of intent, a signal I can’t take back.
I run a comb through my damp hair, letting it fall in dark tresses around my shoulders. No makeup—I’ve never bothered with it much, and it feels dishonest to start now. This is me, unadorned and imperfect. If he wants me, he’ll have to want this version. I suspect that won’t be an issue.
My reflection stares back at me from the mirror, and my lip twitches. I look… different. Not beautiful, exactly, but alive in a way I haven’t been before. My eyes seem brighter, my skin flushed. There’s an anticipation in my posture, surrounded by a readiness in my aura.
I move to the center of the room, heart pounding. My mouth dries as I struggle to swallow around thick saliva.
What if I’m wrong? What if I’m about to proposition a hallucination?
Does it matter? Real or not, he’s the only thing that’s made me feel anything beyond the dull ache of existence in years. The only one who looks at me and sees something worth wanting. Worth loving.
My eyes drift closed as I draw in a deep breath and speak his name into the quiet of my apartment.
“Ash.”