Page 48 of A Ballad of Phantoms and Hope
The greatest discoveryin the history of phantoms is the coffee station at the front of this train. I slip behind the workers, who are ferociously serving savage early birds starved for caffeine. I giggle at their furrowed brows and devotion to their jobs. It makes me a bit melancholy that they cannot see me as I sneak by and familiarize myself with the espresso machines.
My years spent as a barista in college are paying off, and luckily, there isn’t much to new technology when it comes to making a good espresso. I make myself a white chocolate caramel latte and an Americano for Lanston. Between my teeth are two bagged blueberry muffins.
I walk through the train compartments until I reach ours, nestled quietly in the back. Everyone riding in this cart has already left, so it’s just us now. A tightness coils in my chest as I stop a few feet away from him. His head is tilted to the side and peace draws at the corners of his lips. His high cheekbones makehis face sharp and cold in appearance, but I know how soft his skin is, how welcoming and alluring his heart is.
He stirs as I sit down across from him. I place my latte between my thighs and hand him the cup I made for him. He blinks a few times to cast away the lingering sleep and takes the drink with a lovely grin.
“Did you poison it?” he jests as I toss his muffin at him. He doesn’t even try to catch it and it lands in his lap. His eyes only shut softly as he takes a sip of the Americano.
Satisfaction leaves his lips on his next breath.
“Perhaps I should have,” I say teasingly, taking a sip of my latte without looking back at him. He makes me feel many things that I’ve sworn off. Love only ever brought me pain. I think ofhim, my last lover, my failing.
I shudder at the thought of him. In my last hours of life, he only brought me anguish. Whether he intended to or not, it was my truth. Sometimes I think it’s the memory of him that lures the darkness to me. It can smell the misery.
At least we’re moving. Those Who Whisper won’t be able to catch up with us for some time at this pace.I hope.
Trees and vibrant green grasslands stretch out as far as the eye can see. It’s been raining ever since we entered Oregon. I love how the raindrops look against the glass, bubbling up and clinging until they ultimately fall. Lanston has been reading a book he snagged from the bookshop at the train station in Portland. His hair falls over his forehead as his gaze scours the pages. I watch his lovely hazel eyes carefully studying the words, absorbing each into his imagination.
I often wonder what he thinks—if I linger in his thoughts the way he does in mine.
It’s a romance novel.
Now that I think back to it, his room had many stacks of romance books, unorganized and piled carelessly.Men. How isit that they can make a messy room aesthetically appealing? Not like messy rooms with laundry on the floor, but the ones that have the curtains pulled shut and their artwork bleeds from the pages into their life. There were torn pages of drawings he didn’t love scattered across his table and coffee stains at the edges of his oldest novels.
I think I love those books the most. The ones you can tell were well read and adored, thumbed through like each word was a script, the ones with small notes and underlines—treasures, I like to think.
“What’s the story about?”
He doesn’t look up at me as he says, “It’s a reincarnation tale about finding past lovers.” His voice is full of reminiscence and longing.
I think of my own past love and the sting it brings to my heart. There’s not a chance he could be a reincarnated lover of mine.
“I wish to find my past lover,” I murmur as I stare out the window, imagining what he might look like if he were real. For some reason, all I can picture is Lanston. His light brown hair and hazel eyes, these he would have in any form. In any life.
Lanston sets his book down in his lap and looks at me. I try not to show that I notice. “I don’t believe in reincarnation,” he says, as if it is the undeniable truth.
“Why not? It’s fun to pretend.”
He lowers his head. “We wouldn’t be trapped here if it were real.”
Trapped.It’s odd that we view this middle ground so differently. In a way, I feel like I’ve been given a second chance—time to accept things before disappearing for good. I think that’s what I fear the most, being nothing. All the thoughts and emotions that I’ve experienced and things I’ve said… it cannot be for nothing.
“Lanston, why are you so eager to chase what awaits us after this?” I return my eyes to his and watch as his fingers curl around the book stiffly.
He grimaces in anguish. “If I told you, you’d look at me differently.” He studies me, trying to decide whether or not to say what he truly feels.
“Tell me anyway,” I say impassively.
He chuckles. “You really are like Liam. He was pushy too.” I blink and don’t bother feeding into his humor. Lanston stares at me with kind eyes, and he says, “I just want to stopfeeling. It’s an itch I’ve always suffered, a cold and dark place that I seem to constantly be searching for. A place where my thoughts have long been discarded and everything that’s ever hurt me has been shed away like a cocoon. I want to be bare, my skin against the shadows, my bones left to lie still, and to be utterly numb to the sadness that embraces me.”
His words impale me like cold steel—drowning me with their pain and weariness.
He’s like me.
A familiar soul.
The train cabin remains silent for a few moments. I cannot think of a single thing to say in response to him. I’m the least qualified person to speak on such a matter—the matter of wanting to die.
