Lonesome Souls - Tales of the Souls, Vol I

Chapter One

8 Mirage Street in Presborokum, Central Zemjia

House number eight seemed as gloomy and cold as its exterior. The interior was dark and plain, the air chilled and all curtains were drawn despite the seeping daylight. The only thing mismatched was the merged, floral, and spicy aromas coming from the direction of a long Blackwood table. On top of the table, neat, glass compartments protected many ingredients, from many essential oils to flower pedals and other spices such as cardamom and star anise. In the middle, on a mirrored pedestal, stood an elegant yet compact black glass bottle, its lid tall and graceful.

The cloaked woman approached the table and grabbed the bottle into her pallid, smooth hands. With closed eyes, she held it close to her heart as if the small object had the ability to feel its gentle beats or even its warmth.

'Stefania, please talk to me.' A croaky voice resonated behind her.

Stefania lifted the lid from the bottle and sniffed its contest in melancholy; a floral fragrance, Arina's signature scent, stroked her soul; a vision of Arina's face entwined with deep, age lines caused by endless, genuine laughter, passed through her centuries-old mind.

The fragrance, the last remembrance Stefania allowed herself to have of her best friend.

Memories, a painful reminder.

Arina's hands, covered in veins and age spots, carried out the process of perfume-making with ease. Until a completed product stood on the table. Stefania was content in Arina's mother-figure company, as she periodically whiffed the heavenly aroma of the perfumes.

'I don't know if I ever told you, but I appreciate our friendship. It's crazy how after fifty years of knowing each other, we still find the time to spend time together,' Arina said.

'Indeed. It is unreal.'

No matter how much Stefania wanted to convey into words, how much she appreciated their friendship, she said nothing else.

A lone tear slid down her cheek: The trail, a reflection of sorrow.

The last fifty years flashed in her mind and although her existence was somehow isolating, Arina was the only presence in her life which made her feel ordinary and normal. Arina, although many years younger, was the closest to a mother figure she experienced in a very long time.

As part of the Grim Reaper's battalion, Stefania had months to prepare for the inevitable and heard the names in her mind as if it was a list of mere groceries. She felt the struggles of her assignees up until the very last second of their mortal life. But she was not prepared enough for Arina's death, and she was not prepared enough to be the gatherer of her soul.

She did not let her mind linger further; therefore, Stefania walked towards a glass, display cabinet, and opened its doors. Objects which served as memories of past encounters decorated its shelves. A glorious bracelet of the founder's wife, a letter from a famous author, a hat of an orphan boy who died of tuberculosis, and many more, all held its own weight on her shoulders. These objects belonged to all the befriended humans. All the humans she ever cared about and despite that, eventually collected their souls.

In more than fifty years, however, not a single object strayed into the collection. Smooth coolness weighted her hand as she placed it in the middle of the cabinet and slowly let go.

Doors shut in silence as she rested her forehead on the cool glass of the doors, 'Emotions, why do you remain?' she murmured.

'Very melancholic of you. I should start giving you bonus points for all the depression,' said the croaky voice again.