“Will it ever get better?” she asks in a small voice.
He squeezes her hand, the one he has been holding.
“Yes. I promise.”
But in his mind, he is unsure. Where will they go from here?
Only a month left.
He pushes the thought away and instead focuses on the woman next to him. He knows little about who she has become this cycle. Is there still a part of her that has the propensity to love who he is?
Her beauty is just as he remembers. Her skin, warm honey and scented with lavender. Large almond-shaped eyes—brown with an amber center. Her long hair grazes the middle of her back. He yearns for the feel of its silkiness draping his skin. Somewhere in the distance a bird of prey screeches, bringing his attention back.
“We’re almost there,” she says and points to a spot ahead.
The gathering place is a large open space near the riverbed. It is under the shade of two old oak trees, the place he had come many times to get fresh water for Absinthe. The giant trees are a wonder among the stubby scrub oaks of the arid desert. Their survival reflects their perfect location near a river where water runs after storms or snowcap melts.
A crowd has already gathered. Metis looks around and sees faces touched by grief. Everyone here has lost someone who mattered to them. No one speaks, their minds wrapped inside their own sadness.
He looks over to Aris. She has been quiet. They said little to each other the entire walk here. Her tendency to disappear inside her head is still there. It does not bother him. Instead, he’s glad there is a part of her that has not changed.
In her hand is the blue origami crane. Metis remembers the day he saw the blue-dyed paper scattered across every surface in Benja’s apartment. It reminded him of his own house before each Release.
The cranes were his idea. He had read somewhere that blue birds represented happiness across centuries and many cultures in the Old World. To him, they carry a message of hope—for the memory of being loved. He looks over at Aris and wonders how she would feel if she finds out he is—was—the Sandman.
The sun is slowly sinking to the horizon. Around them darkness begins to descend. There is an orange glow in the distance. Its light brightens as the sun loses its battle against the night.
The people around him begin to move toward the glowing blaze like moths. Metis realizes they are in a funeral procession. Aris follows them. So he does too.
The sky is completely dark now. The blaze ahead is their beacon. Dots of lanterns surround them, guiding them to their destination. The sound of feet shuffling on rough sand fills the air. No one is speaking. It is as if they have come to an agreement that the event is, in its own way, sacred.
The bonfire looms large. The orange flames lick the pitch-black sky—a gate to the netherworld. Metis feels heat emanating from it, warming one side of him but leaving the other in the cold.
Layers of loose circles form around the bonfire. He looks around. Everyone is staring into the fire. Their glazed eyes watch as shadows dance on their faces to the beat of silent music. What’s on their minds? Sweet memories? Bitter regrets?
It is part of the human condition to be remorseful about what we never did. If only we had more time, we tell ourselves. Time to go back and redo some of our actions. Time to enjoy the people we miss. Time to be who we never were.
He has many regrets. Most he remembers only vaguely. Tabula Rasa took his ability to properly mourn his shortcomings. Or correct them. He wonders what Aris’s regrets are. Maybe her entire past life. Perhaps that is why she has no memory of him.
They find a spot somewhere in the middle. He glances at her from the corner of his eye. She stares at the flame, entranced like the others.
Shadows and lights dance on her delicate features. Her hand is playing with a corner of the blue origami bird—her long, slender fingers mesmerizing. They move as if they are trying to communicate, sending words he cannot understand.
She wraps her arms around her thin frame. Her breath sends white puffs into the crisp night. He pulls her close and kisses the top of her head. It is a gesture he did a hundred times before, but in this moment, he feels as if it were his first.
Somebody says something, but he does not hear the words. Aris does. She steps forward, and his arm falls. She walks toward the bonfire.
She comes to stand in front of the flames twice her height. For one moment, he is afraid. What if the logs tumble down and set her ablaze? What if she decides to jump in?
Her clear voice punctures the cold night. “I lost my friend. My best friend. He was the most vibrant human being I’ve ever met. Fearless. Honest. Open. And I miss him.”
She pauses to wipe her eyes.
“He killed himself. He did it because he couldn’t stand the pain. The pain of not being able to dream. He lost his dreams. They were stolen from him by the Interpreter Center. They erased his dreams with a machine called the Dreamcatcher.”
Metis’s heart begins to thump uncontrollably. Aris should not be saying this. There could be repercussions.
He scans the crowd from face to face. Some exchange questioning looks with each other. But most are listening to her with the innocent expression of someone who is dreaming and expecting to wake up. He slowly walks toward her, weaving through bodies that stand as still as gravestones. His steps are cautious. He does not want to disturb their
