“How do you know…” I stuttered, barely able to form any logical words.
Xavier’s gaze softened, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “Because you’re mine, baby. I know you better than you know yourself. And I’ve heard the way you speak in your sleep. You weren’t dreaming. He was with you.”
“I thought he was just… made up. A childish illusion. I was always alone. I needed a friend, so I created one in my mind.” Myvoice stuttered in disbelief.
“That’s what your selfish mother told you. But deep down, Gwendolyn, youknowthat’s not the truth.” The way he said it, like he knew everything I felt deep down inside of me. Xavier’s fingertips grazed down my chin, as his lips pressed themselves there softly.
“Some children can sense spirits,” Damien said, pulling my focus back to him.
“Through smell, touch… even voices from other realms. When did it start?”
“I think I was five, maybe six,” I whispered. “I used to smell sage and musk whenever I was sad or angry, paired with something floral. It was… comforting and calming.” And then days later, I came across a flower, she was almost too plain to be plucked at the field, but yet she had the sweetest smell. And then I found out it was the same floral scent I’d perceived when he was there. The neighbor had explained to me that these flowers were called moonflowers and were associated with dreams in the night.
And I was angry a lot back then. My mother never played with me. I spent most of my time alone.
I didn’t notice I’d spoken the words out loud, before Xavier took my hands in his, brushing over my knuckles. “I’m so sorry you went through that,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. I could see the guilt shadowing his beautiful green eyes. Like he should’ve found me sooner, preventing me from feeling like this. But I knew the loneliness. The quiet grief. The things I didn’t yet have words for, they now finally started to get a meaning.
“Was it one voice, or different ones you’ve listened to?” Damien asked.
I nodded. “Yes. Always the same. I thought it was a man’s voice. It only came when my mind was in chaos, so mostly at night.”
“And when did it stop?” Damien asked.
“It didn’t,” I said softly. “The last time I heard it… I was drinking. I’d finished the whole bottle of wine. The voice told me to stop. Told me to breathe. I thought it was just me trying to ground myself. And then when I crashed through the hedge of roses and fell through a cave. The voice was there too and I felt feathers on my arms. But I’m not sure if this is true or it was all my imagination…”
Xavier and Damien exchanged a look, a silent conversation passing between them.
“It wasn’t your imagination,” Damien said quietly. “He’s real.”
The words sank into me slowly, like light filtering through water. It wasn’t my imagination. It was real. My angel was real.
“I would like to try something,” Damien said carefully. “To see if my assumptions are correct.”
“You think… it was your brother?” I asked, my voice catching in my throat.
“I do. And I think you can sense him more deeply than you know. If you’ll let me, I want to touch your forehead. It’s part of my gift… I mean the part of my dragon… he’s able to read connections, trace emotional threads and influence emotions. Would you let me?”
I hesitated… then nodded. “Yes. If it means we can find him. He… he helped me through so much. I think I owe him that.” And maybe some selfish part of me hoped he was indeed the guardian I had felt in my sleep. I had so many questions.
Damien crouched down, one hand cupping the back of my head, the other resting gently on my forehead.
“Remember to try to think of the situations you saw him, you felt him or smelled his scent. Nothing else. I’ll try to guide you, if necessary,” Damien explained. I nodded, feeling Xavier’s fingers stroking my back for comfort.
It was hard for me to think about someone I had never actuallyseen before. But I wanted to help Damien, so I closed my eyes and tried to block out everything else around me.
I could hear footsteps.
Where was I?
“Gwendolyn,” she shouted across the room. I giggled, not knowing what to expect next. I turned around, finding myself in a children’s bedroom. Looking around at the paintings and dolls, I realized it was mine.
Little Gwendolyn continued to giggle, hiding under her bed.
“Gwendolyn, you are five years old. Too old to play hide and seek,” my mother shouted down the hallway, the anger evident in her voice.
“Come out now,” my mother shouted again.
I just kept giggling until my mother dragged me from under the bed and out into the garden. My back started to hurt just like hers did. My hair was disheveled. My mother treated me that evening as if I were not her own flesh and blood.
