A puff of smoke wafted out of my pipe into the chilled night air.
If only I could taste it. I glanced wearily over to my old desk, papers strewn everywhere.
"Sir Grey, we cordially invite thee..."
"My love, if only we could be together..."
"'Can such things be and overcome'..."
"Athos Grey. Dead 11:34 PM February 6th, 1833"
"Athos Grey. Occupation: Librarian"
Thunder echoed outside.
My own portrait glared down at me. I pulled a hand over my face, touching my permanently young cheekbones and jaw.
The wind bashed against the shutters.
He has arrived.
My senses were aroused.
That's not possible.
Unless...
I drifted down the twisting stairs.
A fire...heat.
Something I hadn't felt for years.
But if he also was a spirit, why would he need heat? He could just be doing it for entertainment. Fire was very...mesmerising.
I settled myself near a bookshelf, not being able to bring myself to look at him.
I could hear him sigh, a deep, mournful sound. My body trembled, remembering all those things we did together...when no one was watching.
I pulled a nearby book from the shelf and held it.
I used to read to him... as he lay next to me in a graceful white shirt whilst we lounged on the balcony.
I pushed those thoughts out of my mind, or at least I tried to. The reason, I think, that people believe ghosts to moan is the longing for people they once knew. And now, I know, I do long for him. I long for Helio.
His name rang true, him being my sun.
Yet I can't feel the sun anymore.
And how I long for it.
I clutched Macbeth in my arms, my hands trembling. In a burst of emotional pain, I threw the book down.
A rustling near the fire caught my senses.
Helio.
His face illuminated by the fire, his hair drenched with rain, his clothes worn by poverty. He was handsome, he was glorious.
He was back.
Good Lord, he was back.
He picked up the book and returned to the fire and lounged on the couch. He held a hand to his head as he read, his pose accentuating the curves and lines of his body. His eyes darted across the page in streaks of gold and beauty. His dark curls lay on his temples in perfect coils.
Tears fell from my eyes, silently disappearing before they hit the floor. My heart was wrenched and wrecked. I had to prevent wracking, shuddering sobs from escaping me.
So many years.
So many lives.
And he was here, alive.
He was alive, thank God.
YOU ARE READING
From Death Unto Life
ParanormalMan with no memory of his life before the war stumbles by accident back home and returns to his childhood mansion. Through a twist of fate nothing is how it was and nothing is how it seems. Will he manage to remember what he lost before he loses him...
