49
I wrench out of the dream and back into Geneva with jarring finality. For long minutes I pant in the middle of my bed, my head spinning, heart pounding. The dry, cold air of my bedroom and the icy draft from the frosted window tug at me and yank me back to the here and now.
I’m in Geneva.
It’s winter.
I’m alone.
There’s a hollow ache, a deep hole in my chest where memories echo. I press my hand to my warm flannel pajamas and settle my palm over my heart. I feel the steady rhythm, and for a moment I’m surprised my heart’s still beating. But it is. I’m here, still living. Still breathing. If someone were to ask me, “Fi, what’s wrong?” what could I say? The man I’m desperately in love with is real and he died two years ago. His whole family and all the people I loved died with him. And I only just found out he existed at all. I only just found out they’re gone.
I had four more months with him and I willingly turned away and set him aside. I foolishly thought I had all the time in the world. That if I wanted, I could someday pick up the watch and dream of him again, just for a night or an hour. I thought he would be there forever. An eternity in a single moment. Being an expert in time, I should’ve realized, the only thing in life we can be sure of is that time moves on, and if you don’t reach out and hold onto what you love, then its time may have passed forever.
Aaron said the tears of regret are worse than the tears of sorrow. I regret leaving him. I regret not realizing he was real sooner. I regret not learning about Christmas Eve sooner.
I shiver at the icy temperature. At my regrets. Outside my window the sky is a brilliant, bright winter-blue—the cloudless kind only seen on days when the temperature is below freezing. It’s the sort of winter day where the second you step into the ice-coated snow your nose pinches, your cheeks burn, and your fingers lose all feeling. It’s exactly the type of day where Mila and I stay inside, cuddle under a soft wool blanket by the fire, and drink hot cocoa while watching a Christmas movie.
That’s not what we’ll be doing today.
It’s the day before Christmas Eve.
There’s the gala to prepare for.
And there’s . . . my dreams.
I throw the duvet off my legs, ignore the memory of lavender spritzed on the sheets, and instead jump down to the cold wood floor. I clutch the warm case of the pocket watch, not willing to let it go.
The second hand has stopped. All movement has stopped.
But does that mean the watch has stopped for good?
That everyone is truly gone?
This June, when I first dreamed of Aaron, it was June on the island. Two years ago exactly. We flowed parallel, our realities. My mountain-strawberry June for their ripe-mango June. My gentle, lake-breeze July for their humid, salt-scented July. My winery and last-days-of-summer August for their beach-bonfires-and-sunlit-coves August.
We ran parallel for months.
Last night it was December 23 on the island—of this year.
Somehow I hit the wrong time.
I need to go back two years.
When I dream tonight, I need to dream December 24, two years ago.
If Aaron is real, if all the people are real, if the island is real, then if I dream them, I can save them.
The only question is, am I dreaming reality, or am I dreaming a memory of reality? Is it a shadow, or is it the real thing?
I don’t know.
I only know that tonight, when midnight passes and Christmas Eve arrives, I have the chance to go back two years, to hours before the disaster.
If only the watch will take me there.
Let me dream again.
I can save them.
At least I can try.