Her head lifted, bright irises sparking against the light. Only light, white like snow. The sun is golden.
This is not the sun.
She breathed in and did not stop.
This is not air. It is vapor, freezing cold, soothing her skin. Why does it feel so good? She remembered fire.
Fire. Blistering hot, singing her skin and hair. But now the vapor blows softly through her hair, and when she lifts her hand to feel it, it is soft and unharmed. It feels like the color of honey. She lifts and strand in front of her face and looks deeply, absorbing the sweet scent with her eyes.
This is not my body.
"It is now." She looked up. A figure stood before her, its face drowned out by the glow behind it. "It is now," the figure repeated. It knelt down, and she blinked until she saw the man's face. But who was this? The gray eyes, flickering with a familiar strength, but softer. The dark hair whipping silently in the smooth, cold vapor.
"Primrose. My dear Prim."
She fell into his arms. He stroked the hair that was now hers.
"Why do I know you?" was the question she whispered in her thoughts.
"You have come home," he whispered. With that simple reply, she trusted him more fully than she had ever trusted anyone. She sank deeper into his embrace, almost collapsing with relief from the tension in her body which had never before released her. The light warmed the vapor, which condensed in the air and hovered like rain. It soaked her hair and ran down her face, indistinguishable from tears, if indeed she was crying.
No time passed. Time hovered here, floating like the silent rain about them, wrapping itself around the girl and her father. It blew like wind—so that was the vapor.
"This is time," she thought softly. Yes, her father responded. Yes. It was always meant to be at rest.
But look.
Vision was a strange thing here. In that place where she had lived before, light brought images to her eyes. But now the wind brought vision softly to her skin, though her eyes were closed. She breathed warm vapor and watched.
She saw—felt—yellow fur.
This is not real.
It circled around her, crying. I am here, she said. But the cat could not hear her. He wrapped around her memory, whimpering helplessly. Unreachable. She tried to stroke his fur, her soul reaching for her body, but it remained in the white-lit fog. The cat was in a dark room, somewhere far away. A strange, dark, twilit fear sang in her ears as she struggled between realms.
"Stay there for a moment." It was her father's voice. "Tell him." Struggling with the effort, with the unsteady motions, she reached across the divide and placed a hand on the cat's chest. She felt the fur, the skin beneath, sliding over trembling ribs. His heartbeat scared her. It was too much like a clock. Time was aging here, pushing toward death. But she remembered her father's words.
"Take care of her, Buttercup." The air felt strange sliding through her throat. The cat looked at her, startled.
"Watch over her. She needs you now. She'll die." The cat pressed against her, whimpering, sensing the instability of her presence.
"She'll die without you. Just like I would've. You two are coming soon, do you hear? You're coming with me. But stay with her. Sing to her." The air began to feel cold against her skin. Her presence was slipping back to the Other realm. Quickly, she grabbed the cat's face between her hands, locking her gaze with its eyes.
"Buttercup. Buttercup." The time-tears were condensing onto her face again. The cat was crying, reaching a paw up to touch her face.
"Buttercup, tell her to sing. Remember our song? Tell her to sing."
This is not the end.
"Deep in the meadow
Under the willow…"
The cat was gone. She clenched her hands and rubbed her fingers against her palms, remembering the rough fur. It felt golden, like the sun. Her voice fell again into a dreamy song.
A bed of grass, she thought. A soft green pillow. The light enveloped her face, white like snow, smelling her skin. A strong arm rested on her thin shoulders. Her father's singing was a smile. It felt rich and green as it settled like warm water into the hollows of her soul.
"Lay down your head, and close your weary eyes,
And when again they open, the sun will rise."
Her head lifted, bright irises glittering against the light in her father's eyes. Her own tears formed in her eyes.
"There your dreams were sweet
And today has brought them true." Her eyes closed and her head fell into his arm, hearing his voice echo past the borders of the cold fog, and she dared hope the sound reached a certain house by the woods, farther than dreams. His thoughts dropped to a whisper.
Here is the place where I love you.
Silence settled over the misty place, and the white light breathed softly.
Long after the last echoes of his voice had died away, the shy voice of a mockingjay rang a few distant notes into the fog.
