“Everyone wishes to ascend.
But it is through the descent that you see the truth up close.”
—Maya Luna
Isqueeze my fingers around Adam’s, so tight they ache. He doesn’t stop me.
Maybe he knows I need this small, tangible thing right now. Maybe he needs it too.
Dirt and dried leaves crunch beneath our feet, protesting each step. Even the land urges us to leave. Miles of trees surround us, long and thin and casting shadows in all directions as though trying to frighten us away. The clouds are grey and murky above our heads, the sun nowhere in sight; at least it’s one piece of nature that’s accommodating us. Soft drops of water fall to the ground and decorate our skin. It should be beautiful.
If we were anywhere else, it would be.
It’s been four months since the news on Misha was released. I haven’t been tracking the stories, yet versions of our past follow us everywhere.
For a while, we received unsolicited articles at the inn where we were staying. We knew Raife was forwarding them to us because the signedSofiain his handwriting at the bottom gave him away. When he realized Adam and Felix were able to figure out his and Stella’s location no matter how many times they moved, I think he got cold feet because he sent a postcard. From the North Pole. With a picture of cold feet. There was a note, too, but it was a single line, and it wasn’t meant for me. Not directly, anyway.Fate always finds those who run from it. For now, goodbye my old brother and friend.
We haven’t heard from him since. But even without Raife, Misha is everywhere. Civilians still talk about it, spreading rumors with hushed whispers and disapproving eyes. Like it’s something they read in a celebrity gossip magazine.
I heard the woman drowned her daughter so they could die together, like some final poetic act.
I’ll tell you something, people these days are too trusting. It’s exactly why I never go anywhere without my 9mm.
It’s a conspiracy. There are entire societies, secret dungeons in every city, waiting to take our kids even now. We’ll never be safe again.
Can you believe they’re calling him the Ghost of Misha? Naming and praising the person responsible for all those disappearances like he’s some sort of hero?
A murderer is what he is. Just as guilty as the rest of them. For all we know, hewasone of them.
Then there are the posters, flowers, peacock feathers, and other offerings adorning tree trunks and abandoned buildings all throughout the states. Some of them pray their gift is enough to keep their loved ones safe. Others give thanks to the Ghost of Misha for protecting them and their children. Then there are those that anonymously praise Misha for their ‘brilliant’ and ‘transcending’ art. I get sick to my stomach every time I spot the latter. I’m just grateful Adam doesn’t have to see them.
There are days he goes out, like today, when the sun is hiding and I’m at his side. But every day is a journey for the both of us, a slow and intimate dance. I’m reveling in each intoxicating step we take together.
I angle my head to stare at the man walking beside me. His footfalls are long, his jaw set, and his intense gaze focused straight ahead. His shirt sleeves are folded up, revealing the tendons bulging in his forearms. His hair is damp, wild, and falling into his eyes.
The Ghost of Misha.
He shows me that side of him every minute of every day, whether intentionally or not. It lives in the shadows beneath his eyes. In the electricity that zings through me when his fingers brush mine. The way he curls his large hands around my smaller ones when I hold his knife. Each act breathes life into the darkest and brightest pieces of me.
My feet halt, and I suck in a breath when we reach a worn picket fence.
It’s a garden.
Come to my garden.
A pang strikes my chest.
I know this spot as intimately as I know her song. But it’s not easy sorting out the scattered images in my mind.
I flick my gaze all around, resting a hand on the fence’s splintered wood to keep my wobbly legs from giving out. I can feel it, the way the sunrays warmed my skin when I sat right there, within reach of where I stand now. I’d be alone for hours at a time, sometimes longer, while Katerina disappeared beneath the garden. Once, when she returned for me, she sat in a bed of roses, and she held me. Her blue eyes sparkled, reflecting the kind of love I would later ache for from Mama. Then, Katerina sang. I sank into her, and she stroked the side of my face, leaving smooth, red stains on my cheek, in my hair. I saw it out of the corner of my eye, the lifeless body maybe five feet behind her, but I was too busy soaking up any attention I could get to try to care, or try to understand.
How sick it is that a garden hiding years of torment feels more like home than Mama’s house ever did. It looks different than I remember, though. An old friend, childhood ghost story, and total stranger all rolled into one.
There are no more colorful flowers dancing in the wind. No butterflies to sparkle in the sunlight as they watch me come and go. Now, weeds overtake the stone pathway I used to follow when she led me to the cottage for bath time. Thick vines climb up the cottage walls at the garden’s center. Full bushes bleed into one another. And forgotten waste, pieces of wood and broken pipes, are piled up.
The place is as dead and as alive as my mother is.
“You can change your mind.” Adam shoves his hands into his pockets, staring down at me through squinted eyes. Raindrops slide down his olive skin, from his jaw to his neck, and disappear beneath his undone collar. “All you have to do,” he says lowly, “is walk away.”
