The Awkward Love Song of Abigail Archer

Chapter Fourteen

Desperate, Marcus whirled to the right. Could Abigail have gone in that direction, downtown toward the Timekeeper? He turned left. Maybe uptown, toward the record store or her home? Probable destinations too far apart. He paused. He had to choose one. It was a gamble and the wrong choice could cost him everything.

Confusion and despair bathed him in a cold sweat. He looked out at the ocean of souls. They laughed, argued, and daydreamed as they drifted about the avenues. Had any of them seen her? Marcus blew out a breath. Perhaps they had. But if so, by then, in this concrete labyrinth of streets, she could be anywhere. He closed his eyes. The beat of the surrounding world pulsed by, but with the sands of the hourglass at a dangerous low, Marcus stood perfectly still. The past had been exposed and, with it, his future determined. But then and there, lost in the starless black, Marcus stood still. Something had to give. It had to.

His lips barely moving, he anchored the last of his hopes onto one final prayer. One not of forgiveness or for mercy, no. Prostrated, his soul begged for the miracle that would speak clearly of pardon and of grace. Marcus implored for a second chance. He didn't think he deserved it, but regardless he prayed. Maybe, just maybe, a hundred years had granted him some favor in God's eyes. However little, it would have to be enough.

An eternal moment passed. He stood firm, his heart pounding. Panic blared for him to run somewhere, anywhere, in hopes of finding Abigail. Undoubtedly Margaret was preparing to go to the Timekeeper, ready to end her life and, in turn, his as well.

Nevertheless he waited. His answer would come. He was sure of it. How or when, he didn't know, but he could feel it coming the way Mrs. Kensington said.

A frigid breeze whipped past, carrying away all sound. Marcus fixated on the constant hush of nothingness and the memory of Abigail's breaths. For a while, there was nothing, except maybe desperation crumbling the edges of his sanity. If an answer did not come, he vowed that the Shadows would not have to come for him. No, all on his own, he would take his sanity and walk straight into the fiery pits of hell.

A small sound came then from somewhere in the outside world. It was faint, but unmistakable. Marcus's pulse quickened. He blinked his eyes open. Searching the crowds, sure that madness had finally come, he froze. A slight distance away, lost to a world of tuneless love songs, a vagabond swayed as his blackened fingers pressed onto the keyboard at his lap. Invisible to the eyes of most, Marcus saw the man for what he truly was—Forgiveness. And his awkward love song was the singular melody of answered prayer.

Was Marcus sure? No.

Was there time to doubt? No.

Was there anything left to lose? Everything.

Marcus clenched onto faith and ran. Carelessly, in the clear light of day, he willed himself unseen before the eyes of whoever saw. It didn't matter. It was now or never.

Streets smoked by. Sounds faded to the violent beatings of his surging pulse. Faster and faster, avenues and streets, soul after soul, fell to the dark tunnel at whose end was Abigail.

Marcus reached her building at an alarming speed, and took the stairs two by two. Without a breath, he misted through the door of apartment 1C. The chaos was the same, but the apartment empty. Marcus hastened up the stairs to Abigail's room. He tore through the door, desperate to reach her.

His heart panged to a stop. The world blurred to smears of colors behind his tears. There was anger, fear, and regret. And seeing the blond-haired stranger, the collector of Abigail's past there in her room, there was pain.

Marcus clutched the doorframe as he was thrust into a new nightmare, a new regret. Maybe if he had left Margaret sooner, or made up his mind quicker—if only he had run a little faster, maybe he would have made it on time.