Page 15 of Past Lives
“Maybe you will,” I say. When we part at the cab rank, he kisses my cheek slowly, and I feel the mark for hours after.
The rest of the day is a blur of errands and halfhearted sightseeing. I phone ahead to reserve a bed in Inverness, and then I buy a notebook with a cover that looks like rusted tin. I try to write about the lighthouse, but my hand shakes on the page.
Instead, I go to the nearest tourist bar. After two pints, my mind feels blank. I listen to a local folk band play songs about selkies and lost sailors. I want to dance, but every time I stand, I feel the sea in my knees.
Back in my room, I take another bath, as if I could wash away my own grief. I think about searching for “haunted lighthouses psychological side effects,” but I already know the answer: some people are more sensitive, and some just need more company.
That night, the dream comes back, even clearer this time.
I am Moira, or maybe just a cold star circling her loneliness. My hair is heavy with salt, my hands purple from years against wet stone. The wind brings voices from below—sometimes children’s laughter, sometimes an engine, but mostly the endless sound of the tide. My job is simple: keep watch, keep the lamp burning, keep the ledger clean. Still, the ledger always gets streaked with salt, and some days I forget to eat because I’m so focused on not missing the moment he returns.
The dream has blurred the edges of who I am. I know it’s not real, but the longing feels true, and the body I’m in is both mine and not mine. When the supply boat doesn’t come, I still light the beacon. When storms hit, I lock myself in the lamp room and hope for the waiting to end. When the fog horns sound, I picture him out there, watching for my signal.
I wake up sweating, even though the radiator is barely on. The next hour passes in a blur of mixed-up time and a strange, nameless hunger.
By the time I get on the train to Inverness, the city feels far away, like I’ve left a part of myself behind in the hotel. The train’s movement is calming, letting me just watch the world go by: brown fields, black water, low sky. I try to read and write, but the words feel dry and empty.
Heath texts me three times.
You sure you don’t want company?
No worries. I can take a hint.
Safe travels. May the ghosts treat you gently.
Chapter 9
Heath
I wakein Aviemore with blood on my teeth, tasting metal, sharp and real. The dream lingers so strongly I almost expect my jaw to hurt. But it’s only the train bouncing over the tracks, making my teeth grind. Outside, the Cairngorms slide into pale, icy light.
The train hisses to a stop, shaking off sleep. I hoist my bag. Grab my suitcase. Step onto the platform. Below, the town sits beneath white peaks, small and sheltered. Angus waits—pea coat buttoned, flat cap low, our grandfather's face in his, weathered by highland winters I’ve only visited. His smile shows teeth but not warmth. Then his arms crush the air from my lungs. The metal taste returns.
“You look like shit,” he says, voice thick but steady.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I say. I gesture at the mountains. “Figured I’d get a jump on the altitude acclimation.”
He laughs, tired and low. “You don’t get used to these mountains. You give in.” He claps my shoulder and leads me through the slush, our boots squishing. Families herd their kids nearby, and the air smells of gasoline, peat smoke, and cinnamon buns from the Greggs by the station.
A few minutes later, we’re in Angus’s old Land Rover, driving away from Aviemore. The cabin smells like burnt coffee and wetdog, though he’s never had a dog as far as I know. He always said he preferred machines to living things. Machines made sense and didn’t need affection. I wedge my duffel behind my knees and let him drive us out of town. His gloved hands rest loosely on the wheel.
He talks without stopping—about the weather, local gossip, barley prices, and a barmaid who won big and left town. Angus keeps the important things to himself, like good whiskey.
As we climb above Loch Garten, he asks, “You hungry?” His way of inviting talk.
“No.”
He nods. Doesn't push, never has. Above us, bare mountains stand under wind-beaten heather. Angus's house, once a deer stalker's bothy, sits at the edge of Rothiemurchus Forest, half-covered by pines heavy with wet snow.
Angus parks, kills the engine, heater whirring. His face is paler in the dashboard light. “How about a drink?”
“Hell, yes,” I say. My mouth is still brassy from the dream.
Inside Angus’s house, I light his big fireplace. He gets two glasses. Pours something golden. We don't toast. We sip. For a minute, the silence sits with us—weighty but not unfriendly.
“So. You’ve come halfway around the world to see a chunk of land.”
I try for a smile. “Not just to see it. Maybe to unload it.”
