You're driving down this long dirt road that feels like it's to nowhere, wide spreads of country land stretched out all around you, swallowing you up in shades of dry browns and green until you're nothing but an insignificant speck on a map.
It's too peaceful.
You feel small.
You can't keep living like this forever, they say.
You know they're right. There comes a point when you have to swallow up the hurt and the pain and try to live the life that was paid for. Because if there's one thing that you've learned from this, it's that you were worth it to him, so you've got to make it count for something.
You're ready to try to move on now, you think. You'll learn to live with it, and eventually this blistering pain will fade into a dull, omnipresent ache that coats every word you say, every action you take. He will never die, not as long as his presence lives, through you.
Flat fields morph in your periphery, transforming into apple trees and stalks of wheat that flash past you on each side. Hot gusts of air bloom across your cheeks as you race on past, when you-
Stop.
Stumble out of the car.
Something swells abruptly in your chest, and your stomach churns and you think you might be sick.
He is standing in the summer sun, rays of light beating against his golden skin.
The earth is rich. The onion stalks are crisp and green against his coat.
…the ghost of his voice curling in your ear, a thousand years ago…
You breathe in.
You take a step.