He is still staring at me, revealing his curiosity. Did he think he was the only one?
“No, earlier,” I admit as the wind wraps around me before it wails through the vines.
“But not now. Close your eyes.”
I swallow deeply and do as he asked.
“Listen to the wind, Gemma.”
I hear it whistle as it shuffles the leaves on the ground.
“What do you hear?”
I can tell he’s moving. I keep my eyes shut and listen as the wind gusts again. This time, it seems to be an almost mournful sound as it blows through the branches, filtering into my mind.
“What do you hear?”
His hypnotic voice slides over me. As the question is repeated, directly in my ear this time, I flinch at his proximity. “I hear the wind.”
“And how does it sound?”
How does it sound?I don’t know.I listen closely as it whips up once more, resembling a scream through the air. The sound is as chilling as it is heart wrenching, and it leaves me with goose bumps on my flesh. I’m unsure if those are from him at my ear or from what I’m feeling. “Sad. It sounds sad.”
Moving around me, he starts walking again. I follow after him as he murmurs, “She’s here.”
“Tell me what’s here,” Chantel said softly.
“Why are you whispering?” he asked. He let go of her hand and moved toward the mossy bank.
“I don’t know. It feels like I should.”
Chuckling, he turned toward her. “Well, it is peaceful. I’ll give you that.”
“Yes,” she whispered, stepping toward him. “All I can hear is the water. Maybe the water and the birds? Is that what’s moving around above me?”
He looked up into the tree branches above her head and spotted the little yellowhammers chirping as they jumped from branch to branch.
“Yes, it’s those little yellow birds I told you about.”
She reached out toward him, and he met her hand halfway, entwining their fingers. “Are they happy? They seem happy.”
Pulling her into his embrace, he wrapped her arms around him. She tilted her face up toward him. As the fading sunlight touched her cheeks, he thought she looked like an angel.
“Yes, they’re happy.”
A smile tipped her ripe red lips as she admitted, “Good—so am I.”
Phillipe can hear the leaves crunching beneath Gemma’s feet as she gets closer. He has just made it through the clearing and is now down by the rapid water. He can’t quite bring himself to look at the river, but just hearing it flow over the snaggedbranches and large boulders brings him peace that he doesn’t yet understand.
“Is this where?—”
“Yes,” he answers before she can finish her question.
They both know what she was going to say. Voicing it merely acts like a knife in an already painful and gaping wound. Any noise from leaves underfoot disappear, and he knows that she has come to a standstill. He waits patiently, knowing that anything that needs to be said has to begin with her. He’s too raw to initiate anything.
“Did it happen at night?” she asks, her voice quiet but steady behind the difficult question.
“Not at first,” he replies. “It was a beautiful day. It was the best we’d had for months.” He turns to look back at Gemma. He can barely make her out, but what he can see is that she has her arms wrapped around her waist as though she is holding herself together.
