Page 85 of A Ballad of Phantoms and Hope
Their voices suddenly become very clear to me, and I assume I’m hearing what she has all along.
“You are a sinner. You’re going to hell. The ultimate sin. You’ve committed the worst crime. Your soul is damned. Selfish. Evil.”
The anger and the hatred in the voices cause tears to roll down my cheeks. Voices of men and women, people who I’m sure she knew well.
My heart clenches and I grind my jaw, unable to keep my words inside my head. I shout, “She was sick! How dare you speak such horrible things to a soul such as her? Ophelia Rosin is the most beautiful creature to walk this earth. The kindest soul. Enough. ENOUGH!”
Like a breath extinguished, the whispers stop as if aghast. As if they’ve never heard anyone else speak against them.
Ophelia stares at me, silent tears falling from her eyes and then a small smile. The light between us grows until the darkness is cast away, until the room is completely encased with illumination and the stars hear us. Until the only thing the frightened audience stares at is the stage, at us, one might think.
Silence.
Then a small whisper from my rose, “Lanston.”
I whisper back, “Yes?”
“I’ve waited my entire life and then some, to hear those words. Even if I knew them myself. To hear you say them…” She looks at me, entirely at peace. “Thank you.”
I realize we’ve fallen to our knees in the chaos. Our hands clutching the other, safe. At a loss for words, I just look at her for as long as I can, not knowing when we might fade.
It feels close now, like a tug from deep within my chest. A call from within.
“I think it’s almost time,” she murmurs, pressing her hand to her chest, surely feeling it too.
I nod slowly, leaning in for a kiss. “Almost. But not yet.”
37
Lanston
Boston is dreary,much like Seattle or a cold October day in Montana.
I look to the sky, thinking of Paris and Ireland, the train we took across the States, the memories made. Ophelia is wrapped safely in my arms, sleeping, dreaming. We no longer need to run from the whispering dark. It feels nice to take our time, even if the end is near.
The park is full of people.
We decided to wait here beneath a tree. Another world apart from theirs. There is no other story I’d want for myself.
I love her. More than I ever thought possible of a heart, I love her.
Ophelia’s lashes are long and caress her delicate features as she stirs awake. She looks up at me and smiles, lifting her hand to my cheek; I lean into it.
“Have they come?”
“Not yet,” I say.
She sits up slowly, our bodies close, comforting and warm.
We chat quietly for hours to come, without a care in the world, without time to drag at us. Then Ophelia straightens, startling me.
“What is it?” I ask, giving her a quizzical look.
Her lips are parted just enough to catch my eyes.
“I feel it. In the air, in my own heart.”
“Feel what?” I laugh at her, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face.
