7. Darius Hunt Speaks
Chapter seven
Darius Hunt Speaks
I kept my composure when I met her.
But I have seen her before. Well, felt her, sensed her. Not in life. Not in any way that should matter.
In a dream. A recurring dream. It’s hard to forget.
It’s never entirely clear, like dreams can be. In a room here on the island, perhaps. But quieter. Stripped of everything unnecessary. As if only what matters remains.
She stands at a distance. Always just beyond reach. Her face is in shadow. Like something waiting to be revealed.
I don’t move toward her in the dream. I never do. But I always speak to her. To the shadow.
Because I understand something without being told: that if I close the distance, the dream ends. And I do not want it to end.
“You took your time,” she says once.
Her voice is softer than I expect. But certain. Unmistakable. I did not recognize it until today. When we met.
Now the sound of her settles into me as though I have always known her.
“I did not know I was meant to arrive,” I reply in the dream. Then for some reason, I say, “You’ve found your way back to me.”
I always say that.
The tower bell always rings when I say those words and then I wake before anything else can happen. Every single time. Without exception.
I always have the feeling that the dream is unfinished. Not ended. Just waiting.
Over the years, I’ve told myself it meant nothing. Just an odd dream in my immortal imagination.
I no longer brush off that dream. Because when Arabella Russo speaks— the distance between memory and reality narrows.
And something in my blood—
something older than reason—
responds as recognition. And interest. And maybe even desire.
Which should not be possible.
And yet, it is.