Chapter Twenty-Five #2
I count the chirps. One. Two. Three. Pause. One. Two. Three. Pause.
The gentleman in the cardigan rounds the corner ahead of me, whistling his cheerful tune.
I know—with absolute certainty—what he will say before he opens his mouth.
“Beautiful tidings!”
“Beautiful tidings,” I reply, but the words taste wrong.
How many times have we had this exact exchange? Hundreds? Thousands? How long have I been walking this path, hearing these same words, offering these same responses, without ever questioning the repetition?
I want to stop him. To ask, Do you not grow weary of saying the same thing every day? Do you not long for variation? For spontaneity? For something … anything, that has not been predetermined and arranged for maximum pleasantness?
But I do not ask. I just continue walking.
The path leads me toward the Tiny Soul Center, where I teach the children.
But I stop short before reaching the entrance.
An empty ache blooms in my stomach. It’s deep and hollow. What is this feeling? Have I skipped a meal?
A chill of recognition runs through me.
Loss. I am feeling loss.
But I cannot identify what I have lost, or when I lost it, or why the absence suddenly matters when it never did before.
I stand frozen on the path, one hand pressed against my midsection, as though I might physically contain the ache.
That is when I hear it.
Crying.
An infant’s cry, high-pitched and desperate and utterly wrong for The Bliss.
There is no crying here. No distress. No discomfort. Infants exist in The Bliss—the Innocents, the souls who departed mortal life too young to carry burdens—but they do not cry. They coo. They smile. They exist in states of permanent contentment.
Yet I hear it clearly. A baby’s wail, distant but unmistakable.
The sound pulls at something deep inside my chest. Something primal and painful and completely at odds with the pleasant numbness I have carried since arriving here.
I know I must get to school, but instead, I find myself running.
My feet carry me away from the Tiny Soul Center, down the cobblestone path, past Infinity Lake with its optical illusions, toward the sound of crying that grows louder with each step.
The River of Remembrance.
The sound is coming from the river.
I run faster, my skirts catching on bushes, my hair falling from its perfect bun and spilling over my shoulders.
A baby is crying, and I must find it, and I must—
What? What must I do?
I do not know. I only know that the sound is tearing something open inside me, exposing a wound I did not know existed.
I round the final bend, and the river comes into view.
But there is no baby.
Instead, there is a man.
He lies stretched across one of the benches near the water’s edge, one arm draped over his eyes in a pose of studied relaxation. His other hand tosses something into the air and catches it repeatedly—a black sphere that I cannot quite identify from this distance.
It’s the man from before, though he wears no hood today.
I can see his face clearly for the first time.
Blond hair that catches the moonlight. Sharp, handsome features that suggest both beauty and danger in equal measure. A toothpick dancing between his lips, moving from one side of his mouth to the other without him touching it.
I recognize him instantly.
Which should be impossible.
Memories fade in The Bliss. Faces blur. Names dissolve. Yet I remember this man with perfect clarity. The dark clothing. The playful menace in his voice. The way he directed me to stand in a different section of the river, giving me memories that refused to fade the way they should.
The crying has stopped.
Or perhaps it was never real at all.
I slow my approach, suddenly uncertain. My heart still races from the run, from the nightmare, from the ache in my stomach and the irritation at my yellow dress and the mechanical chirping of birds.
The man does not move. Does not acknowledge my presence. Simply continues tossing the black sphere into the air.
Catch. Toss. Catch. Toss.
I could ignore the crying and the stranger lounging beside the river like he owns it.
But I find myself speaking instead.
“It was you.” My voice sounds strange to my own ears; it’s less measured than usual. “You made me hear that crying.”
The man catches the sphere one final time and sits up, removing his arm from his eyes. He regards me with an expression of delighted recognition.
“Beautiful tidings, Miss Whitcomb!” His voice carries that same playful energy I remember. “Lovely time for a run, isn’t it?”
“There is no baby,” I state, moving closer despite myself. “There was never a baby.”
“Wasn’t there?” He holds up the black sphere, and I can see it clearly now. A black ball with the number eight on it. “Let’s ask the Magic 8 Ball, shall we? Was there a baby crying?”
He shakes the sphere, then turns the small window toward himself to read the answer.
“Cannot predict now.” He looks up at me, grinning. “Well, that’s not very helpful, is it?”
“This is not amusing,” I inform him.
“I disagree. I find it quite amusing.” He pats the bench beside him. “Sit. Let’s chat.”
“I do not wish to chat with you. I wish to understand what is happening to me.” I remain standing, my hands clenched at my sides. “Why am I remembering things? Why do I notice the repetition when I never did before? Why did I wake from a nightmare, screaming a name I should not know?”
“Excellent questions! All excellent questions.” He shakes the 8 Ball again. “Should I answer Miss Whitcomb’s questions?”
He peers at the answer.
“My sources say no.” He shrugs apologetically. “Sorry. The 8 Ball has spoken.”
“You are infuriating,” I inform him.
“I am many things. Infuriating is definitely on the list.” He tosses the 8 Ball from hand to hand. “But I’m also the only one who’s going to tell you the truth about this place. When the 8 Ball permits, of course.”
“And why should I believe anything you say?” I huff, taking half a step back. “You’ve done nothing but cause me problems since our first encounter. How do I know you aren’t here to lie or deceive me once more?”
His smile remains frozen, but his eyes sharpen. I gasp as they begin spinning like a wheel, going from a bright green to a deep red.
“I am many things, Miss Whitcomb,” His voice is even, but I feel the icy warning lying just below the surface. “A trickster, chaos, insatiable, but something I am not”—his smile drops—“is a liar. I do not lie, Miss Whitcomb. I don’t need to. You would do well not to insult me like that again.”
I stare at him for a long moment. Then, against every instinct that tells me to flee, I sit on the edge of the bench.
“Who are you?” I ask quietly.
“Ah, now that’s a question I can answer without permission!” He grins, his eyes spinning again and turning bright blue. “I’m Chance. Deity of chaos, randomness, and things happening for absolutely no reason whatsoever. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Again.”
“I remember you,” I say, and the admission feels dangerous somehow. “From before. You brought me here.” I gesture to the section of river where we stood last time. “You gave me a memory that would not fade.”
“Did I?” He shakes the 8 Ball. “Did I give Miss Whitcomb an unfading memory?
“It is certain,” he reads. “Well, there you have it! Guilty as charged.”
“Why?” The question emerges as barely more than a whisper. “Why would you do that?”