Metis scoffs. It is quintessentially him to philosophize death in order put it at arm’s length. He forces himself to look at Benja’s lifeless body.
Black markings on Benja’s upper arms catch his attention. Metis pulls the sheet covering his chest down and sees writing inked on both arms. He squints at the words and recognizes them.
“. . . life obliges.”
He looks at the other arm.
“. . . give birth to themselves.”
These are words from the passage of Love in the Time of Cholera he reads at each meeting with the Dreamers. Memory does have a way of seeping back in the oddest manner, he thinks. Is the brain a labyrinth of doorways that leads to pockets of information held like furniture in a room? Perhaps the dream killers shutter the rooms they find useless.
Maybe the brain is more like the universe, with galaxies, nebulas, and dark matter existing at once in harmony and chaos. And Tabula Rasa and the Dreamcatcher are like black holes that swallow and destroy.
He touches Benja’s skin. It is icy.
So this is death.
“Rest in peace, Benja,” he says and walks out of the room.
He bumps into a man outside the door. The man with brown hair looks startled, as if he has seen a ghost.
“I’m sorry,” Metis says.
“Uh. Sorry,” the man says.
Metis continues walking. He does not see the severity of the man’s stare on his back.
“Benja’s dead,” Thane tells Professor Jacob and Apollina, “He killed himself.”
The words make him want to vomit the last meal he ate.
He saw Benja today at the morgue. His was the first dead body Thane had ever seen. Benja looked like an imposter of himself—like someone had made him into a droid. His skin appeared as if made from rubber draped on plastic and his hair from a synthetic. Life left Benja, and it made all the difference.
Thane wonders how Aris is doing. She must be shattered. He has not spoken to her since she yelled at him for betraying her trust. He wants to reach out, but he does not know what to say. What can he say that will make things better?
Nothing.
“Why would he kill himself?” the Interpreter asks. “We erased his dreams. He should have been fine. He had everything he needed.” She seems truly perplexed.
It is a question Thane cannot begin to answer. He does not know anyone else who had committed suicide. It is a rare thing in the Four Cities for a person’s unhappiness to lead them to see death as a better alternative to life. Whatever problems one has in a cycle will be wiped away in the next. The next one is just a little over three months away.
Why didn’t you wait?
Aris feels as if she is in hypnagogia, that hazy borderland between sleep and wakefulness. The bench under her is hard. The occasional wind is bitterly cold. It ruffles her hair and brings with it a sad memory. She sees, hears, and feels all these things, but she still wonders whether there is a chance she is not here.
It’s mid-February. The branches of all the deciduous trees are bare. The flowers are asleep in the earth. The only bright color in this place is the blue origami crane in her hand. She plays with its frayed edges and wonders the point to the weather changing. They live in the desert with sand and cacti as natural habitat, not in the Mid-Atlantic, where leaves change colors before dropping for winter. The Planner must have had a sick humor. Or a controlling side.
Darkness is descending. The temperature drops further.
“Hello, dear, aren’t you cold?” a kind voice asks.
Aris looks up and sees the familiar face of the bird lady, the one who taught her to feed the birds. Her question makes her realize she cannot feel her cheeks.
“Can I share this bench with you? My legs are tired,” the lady says. The end of her platinum hair is flying in the wind.
Aris gives her a smile as an answer. At least she thinks she is smiling. It is just as possible she is crying. In this moment, it’s hard for her to know the difference.
The lady sits. “I’m Eirene.”
“Hi. I’m Aris.”
“I miss being here. I came here most every day when the weather was nice.”
“The birds trust you,” says Aris.
Eirene laughs. “Oh yes. I make a special blend of seeds they seem to be partial to. I see you have one yourself.”
Aris looks at the inorganic bird in her hand.
“That’s a special bird. Paper isn’t easy to come by,” the lady says.
“My friend made it for me. He was a writer.”
“Is he not a writer anymore?”
“He’s dead now.”
“Oh! I’m so sorry you lost your friend. It’s heartbreaking.”
Aris smiles sadly. “Sometimes I still see him in my dreams.”
“I have a few origami cranes myself.”
“Did a friend make them for you too?” Aris asks.
“Yes, I suppose I can call him my friend. He makes them for many people, so they’re not as special as yours.”
Eirene places her warm palm over Aris’s. Her papery skin feels delicate and fragile.
“Dear, your hands are freezing. You should get inside.”
“Just a little longer,” Aris says.
“There’s no heartache comparable to when a loved one dies,” Eirene says. “In the Old World many people believed that there’s life after death. They found solace in believing that one day they would meet those they love again.”
“I don’t know if I believe in that.”
“Maybe you can wear it a bit and see if it fits.” Eirene squeezes Aris’s hand and walks off.
Aris looks at the crane in her hand. The bitter wind blows, threatening to send it
