Chapter Nineteen
The Bell Tolls for Me
The Bliss
This moonturn begins the same as every one that has preceded it.
I wake in my small cottage with its pale yellow walls and white trim, the window with lace curtains that never gather dust. The bed is soft, the sheets are clean, and the temperature maintains that perfect equilibrium, requiring neither blanket nor breeze.
Everything is as it should be. Everything is as it always is.
But I’m not, am I?
I shake the thought away, rise, and dress in clothes that appeared during my slumber. A simple dress in soft blue, comfortable shoes, everything fitted precisely to my form. I cannot remember selecting these garments, yet they prove exactly what I would have chosen.
Beyond my window, the moon hangs in the sky. Fuller than yesterday, I think. Or perhaps that was several days past. Time moves with such peculiar fluidity here.
I step beyond my cottage door and regard the street before me. The same row of identical homes stretches in both directions, each painted in soft pastels, each possessing the same white picket fence, the same carefully tended garden, the same lace curtains.
I begin my walk down the cobblestone path, and my thoughts should turn to the day ahead, to the pleasant activities awaiting me, to the routine that brings such comfort.
Instead, they turn to him.
Thomas.
The name surfaces unbidden, carrying with it a flood of sensations I cannot seem to dismiss. The scratchiness of stubble against tender flesh. The taste of a first kiss. The feeling of callous hands pulling me closer. The way my entire being thrummed from a single point of contact.
I shake my head slightly, attempting to dislodge the memory. But it does not leave.
The memories from the River of Remembrance always fade once I depart its waters. They dissolve like morning mist, leaving only the vaguest impression of something satisfying behind. That has always been the way of things here.
Yet this memory remains. Continues to linger, eating away at my focus and consuming my mind. The easy pleasantries of life in The Bliss do not placate me anymore. Not when memories from a life I forgot for so long continue to take shape before me.
“I love you, Thomas.”
“Oh, Maddy.”
I can hear our voices as though we spoke just moments ago rather than … how long? I cannot say. The memory exists outside of time somehow, both distant and immediate.
Most peculiar.
I continue along the cobblestone path, attempting to focus on my surroundings. Trees line the way on either side, caught in that eternal first blush of autumn. The air carries its usual faint sweetness. Other souls pass me, offering their customary greetings.
I am approaching the bend where the gentleman in the cardigan always appears, whistling his cheerful tune.
And with sudden, inexplicable certainty, I know that in precisely three more steps, he will round that corner and say, “Beautiful tidings!”
One step.
Two steps.
Three.
He appears exactly as anticipated, his cardigan the same shade of warm brown it always is, his expression pleasant and content.
“Beautiful tidings!” he calls, raising his hand in greeting.
“Beautiful tidings,” I respond automatically, returning his wave.
But my feet have stopped moving.
I stand frozen on the path, staring after him as he continues his walk, whistling that same tune he always whistles.
How did I know?
How did I know precisely when he would appear and exactly what he would say?
I have walked this path countless times. Perhaps I have simply memorized the pattern through repetition. That would be the logical, reasonable explanation. Yet it feels like something more. Something I cannot quite articulate.
As though I have lived this exact moment before. Not similar moments. This precise one.
The thought unsettles me the way darkness can.
I force my feet to resume their forward motion, shaking off the strange sensation. Surely, it means nothing. Surely, I am being fanciful.
I continue toward the Tiny Soul Center, passing the same bushes heavy with vibrant vegetation, the same flowers blooming in perfect pastels, the same trees bearing their colorful fruit.
Everything is as it should be.
Everything is as it always is.
So, why does it suddenly feel … wrong?
Not unpleasant. Nothing here ever proves unpleasant. But wrong nonetheless. Like a painting hung slightly askew. Like a note played just a fraction off-key.
I push the thought away as I enter the school building with its white clapboard siding and charming bell tower. The children will be arriving soon. I must prepare for today’s lesson.
Inside the classroom, everything occupies its designated place. Small desks in neat rows. Supplies in labeled bins. The same abundant light despite the absence of direct sunlight.
Today, we shall work with clay, I decide. Something tactile. Something grounding.
The children file through the door in their usual quiet procession, with soft footsteps and warm smiles.
“Good afternoon, Miss Maddy,” they speak in perfect unison.
“Good afternoon, my dears,” I reply, moving to assume my position at the front of the classroom.
But before I can begin the lesson, the door opens once more.
A young boy enters, perhaps nine or ten years in appearance, with messy hair and bright eyes.
Behind him trails a smaller child, a girl of perhaps five or six, who clutches his hand with obvious trust.
“ ’Ello,” the boy says, his Cockney accent thick and voice steady. “Miss Maddy, this here is Rebecca. She’s new to The Bliss. I thought perhaps she might enjoy your class.”
I find myself smiling at him, though I cannot recall having met him before. Yet something about his presence feels … familiar. As though I should know him.
“Of course,” I tell him warmly. “Rebecca is most welcome here. And you are?”
“I’m Seek,” he responds with a slight bow that strikes me as oddly formal. “I help guide the newly arrived children to their activities. Make sure they feel safe and welcome.”
“That sounds like a wonderful responsibility, Seek.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I do enjoy it. Makes me feel important.” He glances down at Rebecca, giving her hand an encouraging squeeze. “Rebecca, Miss Maddy is going to teach you about art today. You’ll have a lovely time.”
The little girl nods, her eyes wide but trusting.
Seek releases her hand, and she moves to join the other children, who have already begun gathering around the table where I laid out the clay.
Seek turns to me and gives me a pleasant smile before offering another slight bow and departs, leaving me with a strange sensation I cannot quite identify. I shake off the feeling and turn my attention to the children gathered expectantly before me.
“Today, my dears, we shall work with clay. I want each of you to create something that brings you joy.”
The children set to work with focused concentration. Their small hands shape the clay into various forms. A bird. A flower. A sun. A star.
Rebecca, the new arrival, sits somewhat apart from the others, watching them work before tentatively reaching for her own portion of clay.
“What would you like to make, Rebecca?” I ask, kneeling beside her.
She considers the question with great seriousness. “I don’t know yet, Miss Maddy.”
“Take all the time you need, dear. The clay shall wait patiently for you to decide.”
She smiles at that and begins to work, her small fingers pressing and shaping with growing confidence.
School time progresses, as it always does in The Bliss—effortlessly. The children complete their sculptures, clean their workspace with appropriate thoroughness, and file out through the door with the same quiet grace they demonstrated upon arrival.
“See you tomorrow, Miss Maddy!” the children call.
“Until tomorrow,” I agree, raising my hand in farewell.
Tomorrow will prove identical to today in all significant respects.
Or will it?
The thought arrives on a cloud of doubt, and I find I cannot dismiss it as easily as I should.
The sonorous gong of The Bliss Bell reverberates through the air, informing me that the time has come to make my way to the River of Remembrance.
I step outside and proceed down the winding cobblestone pathway, past the same bushes and flowers and trees I have walked alongside countless times before.
The sound of water flowing over stones grows louder with each step, calling me forward, as it always does.
But as I approach the river’s edge, I find myself slowing.
Before me stretches the familiar expanse of crystalline water. I can see my usual spot, where the current flows softly and the memories arrive vaguely.
But I can also see the other spot. The one where the stranger in dark clothing directed me yesterday.
Or was it longer ago than that? Time is so difficult to measure here.
I stand at the river’s edge, caught between two choices.
My usual spot promises comfort, safety. The gentle fade of memory that leaves only agreeable feelings behind, nothing sharp or painful or real.
The other spot promises … what?
I close my eyes, and the memory surfaces again, vivid and immediate.
Thomas’s lips against mine. His arms around my waist. The intensity of feeling I could never have imagined.
“I love you, Thomas.”
And beneath this memory lingers the knowledge that something more exists beyond that moment—a continuation of the story that the river’s memories deliberately obscure.
The pleasure and the pain, intertwined.
I open my eyes and regard both sections of the water.
A choice.
I have never before been required to make a choice in The Bliss. Everything simply happens as it should, in its predetermined order, without need for decision or deliberation.
Yet here I stand, suspended between two possibilities.
Return to the comfort of vague contentment.
Or step into sharper clarity, regardless of what those visions might reveal.
My feet begin to move before my mind has fully decided.
I walk along the river’s edge, past my usual spot, toward the section where the stranger positioned me.
The water rushes with greater force here. The current stronger. The depths less certain.
I pause at the edge, my toes nearly touching the water.
Am I happy?
The question surfaces from somewhere deep within, and I find I cannot answer it with the same automatic certainty I once possessed.
Surely, I must be content. Everyone here experiences contentment. Such is the nature and purpose of The Bliss.
Yet if I am truly at peace, why does this memory refuse to fade? Why do I find myself seeking more of it, even knowing that more might bring pain alongside pleasure?
Why do I stand here, choosing the uncertain over the safe?
I do not know.
But I step into the water nonetheless.
The coolness rushes past my legs and around them and through them, and I feel my feet sinking into the soft earth beneath the surface, and my mind begins to sink as well, down into memory, seeking what comes next in a story I can no longer leave unfinished.
Even if the ending proves sad, even if it hurts, I need to know.