A letter from a deceased lover

Tinkling notes of a song flittered like butterflies entwined with the pitter-patter of raindrops hitting the roof. "Fly m- to the m--n, fly me to the mo-on..." The CD player is covered in dust, the lyrics of the song hitched every now and then.

Benjamin slowly staggered through the door of the cottage. His liver-spotted hand gripped the soaked hat that rested above his white hair. He slammed the door closed. "To hell with this fucking weather." He scowled. The living room. A smell of warm freshly made bread, yet there was nothing in the oven. Home.

Glancing around the room, Benjamin noticed something unusual.

A pristine white, yet slightly damp parcel. In front of the smooth entrance wooden door, waiting.

Upstairs. A quaint bedroom. A soft and cozy purple sofa chair for resting on, with lots of thick pillows. And another chair opposite, but it was beige. One for him. And one for another. He tightly held onto the parcel with one hand and with the other he clenched a porcelain tray. A porcelain teapot sat on the tray, with steaming hot jasmine tea resting inside. On the side, a plate of homemade vanilla cookies. Perfect for dipping in tea.

On the purple chair, Benjamin placed the tray on the small table beside him. Careful calloused fingers tore through the letter. His breath abruptly stopped as he saw the familiar cursive handwriting that was signed on the letter. Benjamin's hands shook. The permanent grumpy frown etched on his face seemed to flicker for a second. Benjamin studied the letter. He carefully noted the details of how every word was written. Every curve of the Y. The flick of the T. The shape of the handwriting as familiar to him as the back of his hand. As he reached the end of the letter, he let out a tired old sigh.

"Fuck." He gruffly muttered to himself. "Even when you're already dead you still find a way to haunt me." He carefully opened the drawer of the table beside him. The letter went in. Benjamin was careful not to crease the edges. He sank into the purple chair again.

The candle on top of the small table seemed bright. The candle seemingly held two bright figures made of flames dancing on top. One seemed to be wearing a bright fiery dress. The glow of the two figures became larger. The background seems to fade until he could only see the molten white of the flames. His fingers reached out towards the flames, as soon as its tips touched the white light drowned out everything.

Frank Sinatra's fly me to the moon sang louder, and clearer. its notes stopped hitching. A piano could be distantly heard.

When the white glow died down he was standing in a field of pure white daisies, as far as the eye could see. The sun was blinding, and the sky was a vivid shade of azure blue. Not a single cloud in sight. He was holding someone's hand. A young woman's hand. Her hand no longer gaunt and there was no longer an IV drip attached. She wore a flowy long white dress. Her smile was kind and soft. This kind smile had never changed, up until the moment he had held her hand as her breathing stilled. His own hands had no creases or wrinkles anymore. He felt lighter than he had in 50 years.

She grabbed his other hand, and they spun around, dancing in the field. Dancing to the beat. It was something they had done together all those years ago. The lyrics of the song coursed through the air, entwining with the memories from years passed.

They had danced the years away. But every song had an end. This song was no exception.

Her grip on his hands begins to loosen. Her figure becomes translucent. Benjamin's eyes widen. his hands try so hard to meet with hers again. Unsuccessfully.

"Don't leave me again." He pleads. years ago he had asked this of her as well. But the answer was the same.

The end came anyway.

She fades away. And he is left behind. Again.

Benjamin slowly opens his eyes to a familiar wooden ceiling. In a purple chair with no one in the beige chair next to him. Alone again.