An Elegy For The Soul

Chapter Twenty One

Memories and Ghosts

For eight years, Aven lived her life right on the edge of sorrow, where things could still be beautiful. When all her emotions had collapsed into each other, like a dying star consumed by its own gravity, a singularity had settled in her chest. It swallowed every bit of sorrow that dared to fly too close to her heart.

Hopelessness bound her to her wish, fueling her desire to fade into the beyond. Like a poison, it seeped into her soul, its potency increasing until the dosage grew too strong. Life was this perpetual ache in her muscles, a relentless throb that twisted her tissues into painful knots no amount of stretching could untangle.

And if pain and sorrow were her only companions, why would she resist disappearing? The dead did not suffer; they were not tethered to the whims or desires of the living. Only in death did Aven feel she could ever truly be free.

That was until sorrow eased its grip around her throat, allowing her first clear breath in eight years, and that breath scorched her lungs.

Aven adjusted the canvas bag on her shoulder, filled with Veronique's things. "If memory serves me right, her family's home should be just ahead," she called over to River.

They weaved through the crowd on the cramped pavement, politely declining handouts from the myriad of street vendors scattered haphazardly along the main drag. Carts and wagons jutted against the curb, while swaths of people stood around, eating steaming hand pies with fried potatoes in paper sacks.

Life, once so empty, now overflowed all around her and within her. As Aven filled up with these new sensations, she realized she couldn't return to the emptiness. Though she didn't think she could accommodate more, when the fullness spilled over and pieces trickled out, she found herself grieving their loss. Because empty things never truly understood what they had lacked until they were filled.

All around her, the threads of her wish were unraveling. Surgeon's hands had delicately altered the seams of poorly anchored, fraying stitches. With their expert care, Aven felt whole again. 

All because of a kiss.

River was a wish breaker. With the press of his lips, he undid years of nothingness and pulled her from a cold, mossy grave back into the land of the living. He fed her fantasies that morphed into promises-- promises that made her dizzy with need.

She wanted to gaze up at the blue sky and spin wildly round and round until the fever of his lips reduced her to ash. And she wanted to lay by his side for a lifetime of sleep, where dreams were birthed from their moon-soaked love.

And despite all the wonder, she was still afraid. Who would she be, if given the chance to decide for herself? Would she be a someone she could love?

People bustled as she marched down the streets of Wellington with River at her side. The city was loud and vibrant, full of boisterous conversations and the high-pitched wail of automobile horns. Horseshoes clattered against the cobblestone roads, and a lone man with a trumpet practiced on the street corner. The cacophony mimicked life: loud, invigorating, and inescapably all-consuming.

A young man by a flower stand stepped in front of her. "A rose, Miss?" His cap partially obscured his sandy blond hair, but his playful smile shone as he offered a yellow rose to Aven. "A beauty such as you ought to be lavished with roses."

One of the more mundane flirtations she'd encountered, yet Aven couldn't help but feel a touch charmed. The rose seemed drawn to her. She could sense its silent song resonating in her chest, as if her very breath fueled the melody. How lovely it would be to cradle its final moments of bloom, cherishing every fallen petal until the rose faded away. Beauty destined for dust. A gold that could not stay.