Page 18 of Past Lives
A musket ball hit the wall, whistling past his head. Henry flinched, his heart pounding, panic pushing away the memory of Mary’s kiss. He fumbled to reload, his throat burning, hisface pressed to the cold stone. Somewhere, the Maryland boy screamed, sounding like a wounded animal, his fear echoing in Henry’s bones.
It was always the youngest, Henry thought. The ones who wrote poems in their diaries and prayed out loud at night. Those who had never been with a woman or learned what things really cost. The ones like him, just not as lucky.
He stood up and fired. The ball disappeared into the fog. He saw a redcoat stumble, grabbing his chest. Then the line moved forward, and the Loyalists cheered, their voices sharp and wild, as if they had just realized they liked the chaos.
“Callahan!” The Captain shouted, his voice booming. “Take this to the Colonel!” He shoved a folded, water-soaked note into Henry’s hand. Henry put it in his pocket and ran down the trench, slipping on mud and blood, the world spinning around him.
Each step echoed in his mind: I promised to return. The war had made everything in his life seem smaller, but his promise stayed strong. He could still picture the gold in Mary’s eyes, the candle she gave him, and the handkerchief she embroidered for luck and tucked into his pack with a note: Remember what you’re fighting for.
He delivered the message and waited for the Captain to look away. Through the smoke and gunfire, he pressed the handkerchief to his lips, breathing in the scent of Mary—soap, hay, and a hint of molasses—missing her deeply. The longing was so strong it pushed away even his old wounds, leaving only the memory of Mary.
The battle faded into gray. Afterward, he limped back to camp, his hands shaking and pain settling deep in his bones. The unread letter in his pocket and the damp handkerchief on his chest were his fragile links to life. That night, while others slept, Henry whispered Mary’s name into the darkness, repeating itlike a prayer, trying to stay himself, held up only by the hope that she was waiting.
A month of nights like this passed, and the war still held him. He fought at Brandywine and Germantown, always on the edge of battle, dodging the dead and dying, carrying messages and fevers, always thinking of Mary. At Valley Forge, he saw men freeze and starve, their eyes empty, their dreams lost to sickness. In the mornings, when he could, he wrote her letters. He wrote hundreds, some just a line—Alive, thinking of you—but most were messy and full of feeling, like he was. He burned them all in the tent stove, knowing sending them could put her in danger.
He fell once, hard, and the world went black. He woke in a makeshift hospital, with a nurse leaning over him—a black-skirted whisper of a woman with hands as deft as a seamstress. She had Mary’s eyes, or so the laudanum told him, and when he tried to rise, she pressed him flat, stifling his panic with a hand to his mouth.
“Rest,” she said, and he obeyed. For two days, he drifted in and out of sleep while the war went on outside, muted by the tent and his pain. When he finally stood up again, the world felt quieter and dull. Even his dreams were quieter, with Mary seeming farther away each night.
Three days later, the men brought him home wrapped in a worn flag, its thirteen stars stained with dried blood. Mary buried him under the young apple tree he had planted on her sixteenth birthday, its thin trunk no wider than her wrist and its branches still bare.
Through autumn, she kept the whale-oil lamp burning in the window, its glass chimney marked with fingerprints. She refilled it at dawn and dusk until her knuckles were raw from the cold and her fingers grew thin as winter came. By December, when the first snow fell against the window, she could no longer get up from her bed. The doctor called it consumption, but hermother noticed how Mary’s eyes, now sunken and dark, followed something unseen across the ceiling. She whispered Henry’s name with each breath until, on the solstice, when the night was longest and the stars shone cold outside, she quietly passed away.
Chapter 11
Maya
I wakeup to the scent of apples and the faint smell of smoke. My heart pounds in my chest, desperate to escape. For a moment, I can’t remember where I am, or if I’m alive, dead, or somewhere in between. The ceiling isn’t familiar. The rain on the window isn’t New York’s. Then it hits me: Inverness. The dream—no, the memory—sticks to me like a damp scarf.
I get out of bed and press my hands to my face, unsurprised to find my cheeks streaked with dried tears. I never really cry. Not for myself, not for anyone, except in these dreams. In them, I lose someone almost like Heath, but not quite. He has green eyes, rough hands, and a smile that cuts through the gloom. The pain settles deep inside me.
The hotel is quiet at this hour. Only the steady sound of rain and the creak of old wood fill the space. For once, I hate the silence. I shouldn’t have come here alone. My mother said it was reckless. Blair said it was just like me. But neither of them understood. Sometimes you have to break your own heart to see what remains.
I shower, get dressed, untangle my hair, and tell myself I’ll text Heath. But I know I won’t. I’m not the type to ask a man to follow me into the unknown, no matter how long I’ve waited forhim. The idea doesn’t seem real, but it feels true. I put on my boots, ignore the shiver in my arms, and pack my bags quickly.
Downstairs, the small dining room is empty except for a sleepless couple whispering anxiously and the faint smell of a wet dog. I sit by the window and order black coffee, a croissant, and soup. I eat slowly, savoring every bite, hoping it will keep me grounded. My mind replays last night’s visions: hooves pounding, the smell of gunpowder, a man’s silhouette holding on until he couldn’t. Sometimes I scream in the dream; sometimes I just wait. Either way, I wake up with empty hands.
I check my phone. It’s just a reflex, a nervous habit I can’t break.
Blair: WHERE R U?
And from my mother:
I’m told you’re traveling to Orkney alone, is it true? I type a reply—Alive, will call later—but I don’t send it.
There’s no message from Heath.
It's fine. He's a stranger with good timing, not a promise kept. We’re fine. He’s a stranger with good timing, not someone who made a promise. We’re just two people who shared the same bit of morning mist, like planets that lined up for a moment. I can still taste apples on my tongue. I rehearse what I’ll say to the rental car clerk, keeping my words short and my tone casual. I want to seem like a woman who doesn’t need anyone to find her way north. it seems unnatural. “Oh, you’re the one with the red Audi,” she says, as if this is the most interesting thing in her week. “It’s waiting right outside, darling.”
I thank her and put on my coat, not feeling at all like ‘darling.’ There’s no real reason to stay, except for the foolish hope thatsomeone might stop me before I vanish into the Highland mist. I pay my bill, leave a tip, and head for the car. Then I hear a voice behind me, low and clear, with a hint of warmth that draws me in.
“I hear it’s a treacherous drive to Orkney in this weather,” Heath says, as if this is a conversation we’ve been having our entire lives. “You wouldn’t happen to need a navigator, would you?”
I turn and see him, rumpled and wet from the rain, standing close enough that I can see the silver in his hair. His leather jacket is dark at the shoulders, where the rain has soaked in. A drop of water hangs from his eyelash before it falls. His eyes are deep green, with flecks of amber near the pupils. He looks at me as if I’m the answer to a question he’s been asking for years.
"Get in," I say, though inside I’m caught between relief and longing. What I really mean is, don’t ever leave. My voice wavers, showing the mix of hope and fear I feel.
He follows, and together we step into the rain.
