Arc V

Chapter XLIV

Homecoming

"I know you didn't bring me out here to drown, so why am I ten feet under and upside down?"

Lifehouse – Storm

Crossing over state lines was a game that took too long for the players to feel like they were getting any closer to victory. Raindrops on the windshield kept on dancing relentlessly as a dense canopy of furiously grey clouds stretched itself beyond the limits of the misty horizon. The quiet sounds of the rain kissing the concrete quickly became a symphony for their ears as the woman looked over her shoulder to catch a glimpse of the sleepy cowboy traveling right next to her. The man was being lulled into slumber by the serene sounds that only nature could provide; the sounds coming from the radio becoming more and more distant as his neck surrendered peacefully to the quiet lullaby of the storm outside.

The doctor turned off the radio: the silver curtain pouring down from the heavens above was all the music they could need now. With a soft chuckle, her lips offered the man a half-smile, but his gaze wasn't looking at her anymore; his chin was barely touching his own chest, interlocked fingers resting on his stomach.

As the woman drove by, she couldn't help but cherish the sight of a nearly asleep Erron Black. The ancient mercenary; the vicious brute seated now on the passenger side was finally indulging himself, dozing off slowly to the sounds of the rain. It was rather endearing for her to find comfort in his child-like behavior, if only momentarily, as the man busied himself fighting the war against slumber unceasingly, opening and closing his numb eyes as an attempt to stay awake. In a way, it was like he was desperate not to miss a single moment of their journey. Not because of the ever-changing sights at the side of the road; not even because of a geography he hadn't seen in quite a long time – it was deeper than that, its ancient roots irrevocably anchored inside the most terrible fact: those hours they were sharing were the last hours they were ever going to share.

Falling asleep was not an option.

Clouded irises graced her briefly. Inside his calm expression, it was almost as if the man was subtly letting her know that he was doing everything in his power not to succumb, not to surrender to the ever-seducing arms of slumber. One last fleeting image of her tender grin shining its light down upon his tired body; a sight he was sure was never going to forget.

"It's alright…" He heard her voice, now a mere whisper in the empty space between them, as it ghosted lightly over him, carrying him through the closest of distances.

"It's alright," he mumbled back at her.

Pale fingers reached for his hand, as if unable to let go. They were both standing at the door – the tears dwelling inside her eyes were enough for the man to know where they were, whose house was that, who was there waiting for her on the other side of the door. But he didn't feel her warm fingers caressing his skin the second it opened.

She was walking behind him now, as if afraid, as if paralyzed by a terror so profound it could shatter her into a million pieces. That house was the most peculiar of all places, with large spaces divided by thin, paper-like walls and a whitened aura of solitude and confinement.

He could see the shadows moving slowly behind the walls; could see those figures coming together and waiting for someone to come visit them.

For someone to come join them.

He grabbed her firmly by the hand as countless unanswered questions filled her eyes with renewed sorrow. She had made herself perfectly clear before but now, while silenced by the circumstances, her unspoken words seemed louder than ever: she didn't want to be there, she didn't want to face those people.

As the shadowed figures grew darker with each passing second, the cowboy understood that it was time to let go. And so, he did. His fingers released her, as she crashed helplessly against her own convoluted freedom. The doctor reached out for him again, but he simply moved away from her. It wouldn't be easy – he had known that from the very beginning, yet he had also known that there would always be a final moment waiting for them to say goodbye. Just like he had guessed, she was nothing but the recreation of the only woman he had ever loved, and the blending of those treasured souls had created a being made for him but that would never be wholly his.

He observed her as she moved closer to the wall, her hands inspecting the thin surface. He could tell even her touch was reminiscing the one she had been before – before all doors, before all walls, before all shadows.

Before him.

When she walked through the door, he saw only light. Blinding; the purest white reflection ever had consumed her shape entirely. He retraced his own steps and moved closer to the wall again: now she was one of the shadows moving incessantly on the other side too. Her incomparable shapes, forever engraved inside his eyes, were calling him on. But when he tried to walk through the door, he felt the same white luminescence pulling him away from her; enveloping him in what seemed to be some sort of gravity well made by his own weathered impulses and his growing frustration.

He called out her name; each one of the letters composing her existence exiting his mouth in a desperate plea. Yet no sound came out of his mouth.

Victim of his own nightmares, the ancient mercenary saw himself becoming the silenced protagonist of his own story. Unable to speak, unable to raise his voice and stop her from leaving, the man simply glued his calloused hands to the wall and closed his eyes, feeling the paper-like texture of the last barrier separating his body from the doctor's becoming thinner and thinner as seconds passed by. The white iridescence enveloped him completely once more, swallowing him whole and damaging him beyond repair with such cruelly warm fangs and a fiery tongue licking away what was left of his fragmented sanity.

When he opened his eyes, he was inside. Warm as a womb, nurturing and seeking light – seeking life.

He could not see their faces, most of them were still shadows dancing before him, moving all around him. Their arms – a perpetual embrace – were joined together in a bonfire of unrequited love. She was there now, melting in the flames of a reunion that was clearly overwhelming her; her arms like towers, reaching out for those strangers and becoming one with them.

He tried to summon her with his fingertips, like a magician trying to cast his last spell. His fingers stopped before her, as if unable to go the distance. Then she found him, nearly crawling on the floor.

The doctor stared at him.

"It's alright," she said; the tenderness of her gesture growing darker by the second. She helped him up and tilted her head, as if unable to understand what was it that he was still looking for, what was it that he was still expecting.

Why was he still there?

His silenced words were not enough to make her see that he had been wrong all along. He wasn't ready to let her go. But when he looked back at her, he saw the woman in her that he had never seen before. The one cherished by her loved ones, the one she had once been. He felt his legs going numb as his knees touched the ground – even when he was the only one sleeping, only she had positively awakened from her slumber. No matter how strong her denial; way past her fears and her insecurities, going back home was the only thing left to save her from the one she had become. The mercenary had been, at most, a beacon of light in a black and narrow tunnel that had been dark for too long. But she had a light of her own. She didn't need him anymore.

As the family of shadows surrounded her; their hands trying hard to reach out for her, the desperate cowboy contemplated her face as she smiled in their direction. With his throat constricted by the words he could not voice, he watched as those luminous hands latched onto her and baptized her with their light. No more another part of the shadows, the shining woman waved goodbye in the quietness of her movements, feather-like and simple, like subtle streams of light floating all around him.

That was the end, he knew.

Still on his knees, he could not divert his mind from the words he should have said back when his voice still meant something to her – something more than just the laconic echo of a broken man slowly losing himself in the wind.

"Turn the car around, let's go back."

She would have understood then, if only he had said those words while they still meant something. She would have endured his swaying impulses as they kept moving back and forth.

She would have endured him.

She would have.

"Let's go back, Alex. Let's go home."

The rain was gone.

As Black shifted his body on the passenger seat of the car, the yellowish lights of the sunset were already kissing the horizon. But the car wasn't moving. It was… late. At least, it was later than expected. He could see the subtle shadows of the impending night quietly wrapping themselves up around the trees and the houses, the same trees, and the same houses, albeit modified by time, that he hadn't seen in a long time. Just as she hovered over him for his coffee-colored eyes to swim back into focus, he remembered the hazy reverberations from his most recent dream.

Let's go back, Alex. Let's go home.

The man in the dream, when cornered by her imminent absence, didn't particularly care about the place he called home, the rational individual inside of him could not find comfort in knowing that Outworld was nobody's home. He couldn't afford to think about what it would mean for her to abandon all hope and embrace the only life he could offer her: a life apart from the ones she could call her own, a life in the sewer that was Outworld, a life of danger and regret; a love that was meant to be as intense as it was meant to be fleeting.

Because it would be fleeting, seen through the kaleidoscope that was his own life.

He couldn't afford to think about her brief existence; the horrifying point of his life when he would have to watch her wither and die. The man in the dream had left all those notions behind. The man in the dream just wanted to go home with her.

The good doctor unfastened his seatbelt and slid her hands over his jacket as if trying to make sure he would still look okay after such a long journey. He smiled at her, even when he knew why she was being so attentive. They had reached their first destination, it was time for the prodigal son of war and time to reclaim what was rightfully his: the ashes of his own story, buried in the confines of his memories and the dust of an era that only existed in the avatars of western folklore.

Home.

"We're here," she said as they got off the car.

In her quick search for the ghost of one Amanda Black, Alexandra had read about the beauty of rural Texas, the captivating sights of its many small towns – yet the landscape before her seemed even more rural than what she had in mind. Past and present were but sides of the same coin and the man was, in a way, the only bridge left to merge both eras.

Picking up the information she had printed back in Delaware from her back pocket, the doctor and the cowboy finally arrived at the small Revisiting Texas office. They were late – more than simply late, they were scandalously late. They had made reservations for the 10:30 AM tour but the trip had taken longer than anticipated and so they had been delayed by the rain and the lack of a GPS system.

"Excuse me," Alexandra let out quietly, causing the middle-aged man sitting at the other side of the front desk to abandon his Sudoku puzzle. "We are Mr. and Mrs. Black, we had reservations for…"

The man nodded immediately as he recalled her voice over the phone the day before. She had been quite insistent back then, asking about prices and the different stories that their tour had to offer.

"You said you were in Delaware, ma'am. I understand it's a long way from there to here."

"Yes, but… could we still get the tour?" She looked over her shoulder to grace a distant Black with a warm gaze. "My husband was born in Wickett and it's been quite some time since his last visit."

Uninterested yet still determined to avoid the tour, Black took a step forward and let his hands land on her shoulders: "I know this place like the back of my hand," he began, playing along rather nonchalantly, "I'm not a tourist, honey."

"Yes, but this is my first time in Wickett, so…" A mischievous smile took over the woman's face.

"Perhaps you can take the tour on your own then, I'll wait for you to return," the cowboy retorted quickly, and Alexandra nodded in silence as she turned around and shifted inside his arms.

"It wouldn't be the same without you, love."

"There's no need to fight," the middle-aged man chortled gently at the couple. "You're welcome to join us for the last tour of the day. We leave at 8 o'clock."

The doctor checked the clock on the opposite wall: 7:40, they still had twenty minutes to spare but a late tour would also mean they would have to spend the night in Wickett.

"About accommodation for the night…" she asked, causing Black to exhale loudly at his growing frustration. "I drove all day anyway," the doctor said as she looked at the cowboy. "I could use a good night sleep."

Black bit the inside of his gums at the thought of having to stay the night in that dreadful city – how could he not see it coming from a mile away; it was only natural for the woman to want to take a break after such a tiring journey. Bringing the palm of his hand to his own face, the mercenary finally agreed and paid for the services: both the tour and the room the very same agent was more than willing to provide.

Lil' Wickett Petite Hotel – Room 12.

As soon as arrangements were made, the couple stepped outside the office and walked towards the street. The woman looked down instinctively, as if ashamed of asking so much of him yet Black, placing his arms around her small frame, simply invited the woman to lean her head on his chest and close her eyes, if only for a moment. Deep inside, the man from the dream was still screaming at her, albeit soundlessly, "Let's go back, Alex. Let's go back home." She had brought him home, yet the very word was not enough to describe what he felt towards that place. That small, rural town had seen him fall for the greatest love of his life, lose his mind the second he realized there was nothing he could do to save his own mother, cry like a helpless child each time he would think about Jessica's final moments… That town had given it all to him only to take it all away. Wickett had provided him with a variety of lovable actors and had made them all take center stage inside his heart. Even if such picturesque constellation of individuals had been just too far-fetched from the notion of a regular family, he had loved them all the same. Yet one by one they all had been ultimately taken away from him and he should have known: Amanda was not meant to be the exception.

As the ancient gunman approached the walkway, his eyes darted around as an attempt to take in the view. Not much had changed since his last visit back in the seventies, or so it seemed. There were little modifications, though, nearly imperceptible, subtle alterations brought by modernity. Like brighter traffic lights for example, or the WI-FI signs displayed on every shop or coffee house around the zone. The little gangs of youngsters, walking around town as if the whole place belonged to them… their march relentless yet clearly not aiming for any given destination. People walking on by with their heads down, their eyes tied to whatever it was that they were watching on the tiny screens in their hands.

Amused yet a little disheartened by the rapid revelations of time and its intricate matrixes of behavior, the gunslinger chuckled lightly at himself before returning his gaze to the doctor.

"I… sort of thought it would look different," she said. "I imagined there would be…"

"Saloons? And horses?" Black laughed.

Flustered by his assumptions the woman sighed although deep down she couldn't help but feel ashamed by her own simplistic reasoning. The doctor was still thinking about a triumphant comeback when the middle-aged man joined them on the street, this time, wearing a navy blue cowboy hat and a little white tag glued at the left side of his impeccably white shirt, with his name handwritten on it: Hello, I'm your guide. My name is Matthew.

"Hope you're ready!" The man exclaimed as he rubbed his hands together. "We're about to begin."

Before Black could even shape his discontent into visible gestures, the three of them were already crossing the street and walking towards the town's central square where they were supposed to meet with the rest of the tourists. If the doctor was to be honest, she was a little surprised by the lack of a van or vehicle, especially considering the fact that they had paid for seats. Noticing her growing uneasiness, Matthew explained to her that the tour was meant to be intimate and cozy so groups would usually walk from one spot to the other – not only they could get a better view of the city that way, but also a tour where people were bound to walk ensured small congregations; plus, the distance separating one highlighted location from the next one wasn't that big after all. Wickett was a small, rural Texas town; it was only natural for people wanting to explore its secrets to walk their way through the heart of the city.

The town's central square was meant to be both, the starting point and the final destination of their journey. "Oh, there's Judith," Matthew said as he pointed his finger at a young woman, probably in his mid-twenties, wearing jeans and a pink tank top. "She's my daughter and also, my assistant," the man let out proudly.

Chewing her pinkish bubblegum and sporting an overall I'm-so-bored demeanor, the young lady greeted her father with a slight tilt of her head and proceeded to hand him a green clipboard with the list of names that were about to join them for the late evening tour. There was little in her that could be used as a mere resemblance to her father – the man's warm looks seemed colder in her; her old man's interest and good predisposition were simply nonexistent in her.

"She looks just like her mother," Matthew sighed as he watched his daughter leave, headphones already in, the echoes of loud rock and roll music disrupting the tranquility of the evening.

The unbothered gunslinger shrugged his shoulders as he motioned towards the center of the square where a handful of people had gathered around the benches. As he approached them, he soon figured they were the rest of the group, composed only by two young couples. The first couple was Asian, and rather sooner than later they were all going to realize that neither the boy nor the girl were fluent in English. The second couple, even younger than the first, was clearly on what seemed to be a romantic escapade and, while completely unable to get their hands off each other, at least they were excited about the tour unlike the Asian couple, whose components were barely able to understand what was going on around them.

In a certain way, it amused the tired cowboy, as he let his mind wander how on Earth they had gotten there in the first place.

"Good evening," Matthew began as soon as he approached the group. Hands at the sides of his body and voice louder and clearer than before, the guide was finally taking over. "My name is Matthew; I was born in this town many, many years ago and now it's my pleasure to guide y'all through this lovely evening." Southern charm and everything, the man had suddenly become an emblem for all things Texas.

Bored to death, Black had to struggle his way through facts he had learned a long time ago: when the city was founded and what was life like in the beginning; though he quickly found himself admitting that Matthew's version of life in the time of cowboys and saloons was way more sympathetic and colorful than the actual experience, plus a myriad of rather self-indulging jokes about horses and prostitutes.

"This tour offers three significant stories that help illustrate that life," the guide went on, "the happy widow, the duel and the eternal bride of Wickett are old tales that have their roots tangled deep inside the town's most intimate core – I hope you enjoy them; even if they are just old urban legends carried by the wind and the dust of this place, we all know they all evocate the truth of the old days, each in their own way."

In order to listen to the first tale of the evening, it was imperative for the group to get going and so they did, quietly marching northwest. When Black yawned and the doctor smacked the back of his head she could see the regret in his eyes: even when she was simply trying to help him find the closure he had been seeking so desperately for the greatest portion of his life, he still didn't want to be there. Enveloping one of her arms in his, the woman smiled fondly at him as the improvised couple marched in the night. As the first stars appeared in the sky, becoming radiant pearls scattered carelessly in the silky, blue blanket above the trees and buildings, the woman let her head land on his shoulder and closed her eyes minutely. He could have told her about the importance of good intentions; about the warm feeling that always accompanies the most sincere gestures of the heart – yet he remained quiet, gently stroking the woman's forearm in silent understanding.

"When was your last time here, Black?" Alex asked.

He could sense the goodbye approaching them as his name became surreptitiously removed from her mouth, reverting him back into the impersonality that was Black - and still the tone of her voice was soft and serene, as if the woman was keeping herself busy, searching for reasons for her to cling to the man that only she knew he could be.

"Back in the seventies."

The woman smiled quietly the second she heard his answer: the seventies had also been his answer back when the gunslinger had told her about his driving skills.

"Such a busy decade for you, huh?"

Black shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly as he tightened the grip around the woman; this time, allowing his arm to snake around her waist.

The group stopped their march in front of the local post office. The building had already closed for the day yet that didn't stop Matthew from standing right in front of the double gate, ready to tell the first story. Black and the doctor remained a few feet away from the rest of the tourists, listening to the tale of the happy widow. According to Matthew's story, back in 1932, there had been a woman named Irina Pugliesi, an Italian immigrant who had once crossed the ocean seeking a better life. Her arranged marriage to a local farmer was not enough for the woman to fulfill her ambitions with neither the financial stability nor the privileged social status she was looking for but when Gregory Mills – her husband – passed, she was informed that he had kept his primary bank account a complete secret.

Free from her ties to a man she had never truly loved and unexpectedly wealthier than ever, the woman visited the local post office one Monday morning, looking for any clues that could reveal the real identity of the person who had been kind enough as to let her know about Gregory's secret account. She showed them the anonymous letter she had received several days ago but to no avail: none of the employees seemed to remember who had sent that letter in the first place. Frustrated, and positively knowing that the sender wanted to be found (it was a small town, after all; they could have simply left the letter by her door), the woman insisted until one of the employees, a skinny boy with big, brown eyes, told her that the person who had sent the letter had been a man named John and that he worked at the local bank.

"Determined to thank the man in question, Irina went to be bank the next morning. She was only looking for a cordial handshake but instead, she ended up meeting her one true love," finished Matthew, nearly blushing by the extremely pink tale he had just narrated.

Quickly leaving Irina and John behind, the group resumed its march; this time, headed for a place Black knew too well to pretend otherwise.

"Did you know about her?" Alex asked. "This woman from the story, Irina?"

"No."

The night breeze was growing significantly colder now; the wind caressing the branches was enveloping the group in the dark blue hues of the dying day. As they got closer to their destination, the cowboy could feel his heaving chest becoming increasingly warmer than it should be – his heart was beating madly, as if trying to perform the drumming song of his convoluted past. The buildings had changed, there was little left to remind him of the original landscape where the initial version of himself had existed a long, long time ago, still, he could recognize the path like the back of his hand as if nothing had changed.

"What's wrong?" Alex asked, worried about his suddenly stern expression, yet the mercenary kept on walking, seemingly paying no mind to her growing concern.

Being back in Wickett was harder than he remembered – every building, every inch of the land was eager to remind him of the one he had been; the one he should have been.

When the group came to a halt, the mercenary could feel his own soul dropping down to the ground. Back in the seventies, he had discovered that the saloon where he had spent his childhood and a great part of his teenage years had been turned into a bakery, but now the sight in front of his eyes was reason enough for his spirit to be filled with the deepest of sorrows.

A parking lot.

The Wise Bird was now a parking lot.

Keeping his distance from the rest of the group, the mercenary crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his back against the nearest wall just like a stubborn child that refuses to go on. The doctor walked up to him, blue eyes asking all sorts of questions.

"What is it?" she whispered softly in his ear trying her best to avoid being heard by the rest of the group. "It's alright, Erron, you can tell me."

The gunman looked down then up again. His features lightened the second his eyes met hers.

"I'm just tired, that's all."

Patting his shoulder gently, the doctor tilted her head and furrowed her brow.

"It's this place," he finally opened up, knowing the woman could not be stopped by simple, innocent white lies. "This is the place where I grew up in, my saloon." The woman turned around and took a good look at the lifeless concrete taking over the scene. Suddenly she was fully capable of understanding why his mood had surreptitiously changed: they had erased the monument of his early years. Forehead to forehead, the doctor sighed as she realized she had been the cause for all his grief. Bringing him back to Wickett had been her idea, after all. Perhaps she should have dug a little deeper before exposing him to the cruel reality of a place that was his no more.

"If you could all join me now, I'll gladly tell you the story about the duel."

Like an artist trying to captivate his audience, Matthew was already promising another story and, judging by the looks of it, the saloon was about to take center stage.

"This place you see now before you… I know, I know, it doesn't look like much but it gets better, trust me; this emblem of suburbia is one of the most notorious spots when it comes to unveiling Wickett's truest history." Introduction complete, Matthew moved around the group. Eyes big and a wide smile taking over his face, the man was clearly having a good time.

And here we go…

"Many years ago, years before us, people would come to this exact place to have a good time. Wickett's dearest saloon was placed here: The clever bird."

The wise bird – it was the wise bird, you moron.

"The saloon was pretty much like the place y'all have in mind already; with beautiful girls, a handful of cowboys and lots and lots of booze, but there was one girl, one girl in particular…" the guide lowered his voice, his tone becoming suddenly, unexpectedly sultry. "This lady, not only she was beautiful, but she also had the sweetest voice ever. Jocelyn the singer, would go onstage every night to captivate each and every single one of the patrons."

Josephine.

Her name was Josephine.

And she was my mother.

Black's hands became fists, hanging angrily at the sides of his body. His eyes darted around until they found Alex staring back at him – worried, concerned about him. For a moment, the mercenary thought that the woman was able to read the contents raging furiously through his mind. She walked over to him, placing her body before his for the man to land his hands on her shoulders as if trying to shelter him from his own anger. His chin barely touched her left shoulder – it was little; close to nothing, yet it was enough to help him breathe.

"The historical legend talks about a duel that took place right outside the saloon. Two men were fighting over the beautiful singer's heart and heated comments suddenly turned into a riot that only stopped when said men decided to take the fight outside – sadly, this story doesn't have a happy ending, I'm afraid," Matthew paused briefly to offer the group a concerned look, as if moved by the outcome of the dispute or maybe as if still giving his heartfelt condolences to the singer. "Both men, a kid who was barely fifteen years old back then, and the town's banker fired their weapons at each other; each of them receiving a certain death as the only result for such reckless behavior…"

Black remembered the night – the actual events that had taken place. Unable to hide his frustration any longer, the cowboy mercenary cursed under his breath; his eyes were filled with reproach and regret.

"Somethin' the matter, Mr. Black?" The guide inquired the second he noted Erron's uneasiness. "Mr. Black here is one of us – born and raised in Wickett…"

Black took a step backward as the doctor watched him in silence. He tried shaking his head as an attempt to dismiss the question, but all eyes were on him now and even when he hadn't been exactly talkative during the tour, it was obvious something about that place; something about that particular story was bothering him.

"That's not what happened," He said, regretting his words almost instantaneously.

The group was briefly distracted by the Asian woman as she suddenly began repeating the word "singer" and smiling unceasingly as if she was finally able to break the language barrier. But the diversion was quickly extinguished by the confused looks and bewildered glances shared by the rest of the group – even the doctor seemed intrigued by the words Black had said. Composing himself, the eternal cowboy locked eyes with the doctor as if holding on for dear life. Then he spoke with renewed patience.

"I heard a different story," he said. "Yes, the duel did happen; at least that's what I can infer given the fact that both versions of the story begin with a duel, but those men didn't die that night." There had been no duel that night, he had simply tried to put Nathaniel in his place. That despicable bastard had slapped Amanda for no reason and the lewd comments about his mother had only helped ignite the fire burning deep inside. He knew he was supposed to keep it simple, vague even – yet his pride prevailed. "From what I heard, the kid was the singer's son and the banker was being rude to his mother. The kid reacted poorly, but they didn't die that night."

The doctor grinned quietly as she looked down. She didn't need any more details to understand the story she had just heard – Amanda's father was the banker, and Black himself was the singer's son.

A bit downhearted now that his tale had been disregarded by a complete stranger, Matthew wrapped up the story with an improvised conclusion and proceeded to indicate the group that it was time to get going again – the last stop in their journey was only a few blocks away, it was a place they all knew: the starting point of their tour that was also supposed to be their last.

Marching again, the doctor grabbed the cowboy by the shoulder and whispered: "I want the whole story. Just save it for the road… Still a long way to California." There were thousands of questions she wanted to ask him – about his mother, about life itself back then, about his youth and his nights at the saloon… As the gunslinger chuckled in response the woman felt a tinge of sadness taking over her at the realization that their time together was reaching its end. Many questions were bound to remain unanswered; many stories would have truncated endings.

"Just one more thing," the cowboy let out as he reached out for Matthew. "From what I've heard, the saloon's name was The wise bird, and the singer's name was not Jocelyn, it was Josephine."

Raising a suspicious eyebrow, the guide asked: "You sure 'bout that?"

"I'm positive."

Retracing their steps back to the quiet town's central square, the group quickly gathered around the benches as Matthew beckoned them to get even closer. For both Black and the doctor, it became impossible to overcome the feeling that the only story left for the guide to narrate could either wrap them up in the warmest of whites or drag them down, right into the darkest pits of hells.

"The last tale I got to share with you tonight is probably one of my favorite stories ever. Generation after generation, everyone in Wickett knows about the eternal bride."

Even when the previous stories had been plagued by historical inaccuracies and vague references, her ghost was finally catching up to them now; grabbing them both by their hands as if trying to force them to pay attention. Black looked at Matthew, eyes fired up with his oldest uncertainty. He hadn't eaten that day, he hadn't slept; the closest approximation to actual sleep had been reduced to that bewildering dream he had had in the car… yet the clocks had stopped singing their undying tune, his spirit aflame. It was impossible; he could understand the logic behind such reasoning yet he could sense her near, as if hovering in the empty space separating his body from the doctor's, perhaps backing up his theory about the existence of a nearly mystical being created in the confines of his soul, meant to be his and his alone but in a plane he could never reach. Locked inside his memories. Alive in all her deaths, present everywhere and nowhere, pulsating through every thread of time and, simultaneously, pulsating through no thread at all.

"Her name was Amanda Black, but we all call her Mandy."

Never Mandy.

"Little was known about her for the longest time. Truth be told, most of the things we learned about her, we learned them after she died, on January 21st, 1938."

95.

She lived for 95 years.

Most of them, without him.

The revelation about her longevity, even if it could never be compared to his own longevity, felt like a wrecking ball mercilessly charging into him. The woman he remembered was sixteen – time and distance had positively paused her entire existence in an amber-colored trance for his memory to hold on to. But this old lady, this 95-year-old woman from the story was someone he could not bring himself to picture inside his mind. How her face must have changed over the years, how each feature adapted through time… he could not see it. He could not see her. He had always kept the flame burning, wishing her a long and happy life – yet he had never dared to imagine her changing versions. It hurt every time he would even think about such shapes of hers, and it hurt because he hadn't been there with her to see those changes with his own eyes.

"One day, in 1905, this woman just appeared, and she sat on one of these benches. And there she stayed, unable to leave the town's square. She was waiting for someone to come find her."

As she took a deep breath, Alexandra understood the imminent danger they were about to face: Black was about to hear the truth or a version of the truth that would eventually become the only version of the truth that could help him solve the puzzle of his missing past, and the outcome was most likely meant to destroy him.

"We don't have to stay," she whispered as she took his hand in hers. "I was wrong about this… let's go."

Turn the car around, Alex. Let's go home.

But his eyes, already traveling far away for her, were casting the shadows of the only story that had never truly left him.

"Nobody knew who she was or why she was here. She became instantaneous folklore for this city the second she sat on that bench," Matthew said as he sat down on one of the benches as if trying to imitate the woman from the tale. "Years went by but she stayed. Always looking, always searching. She had become part of the landscape; she became a monument, a statue."

His coffee-colored eyes found hers but the silent bridge connecting them was simply too much for the woman as it now overwhelmed her, as much as the evident truth did: Amanda had spent her life waiting for Black to return; she had wasted her years chasing the memory of a man she was not destined to find and Black, trapped inside her memory, had done the exact same thing. As she looked down, she began to feel like crying. It was like opening his box of secrets for the first time all over again, yet each echo of his past was sadder than the last one; each new story was harder than the previous one.

"People would often say that she was sweet and kind, like a dystopic Penelope, anchored to a city that had nothing left to offer… Her story soared, inevitably, generation after generation. To anyone who would sit beside her on the bench, she would tell them that her name was Amanda Black and that she was looking for a soldier."

A soldier…

"She was madly in love with this man, but the war had separated them. She had searched everywhere for him, but she never found him so, defeated, she came back to the town that had seen their love and waited for him to come back. But he never did."

A soldier…

"Like a thief in the night, the Civil War had taken everything away from her. But still, she waited for a miracle that would never come her way. Years went by, her hair turned grey, but her hopes were still there, still waiting for her soldier to return home. Until she died, on that very same bench; alone. The time for hopes and dreams had passed her by."

Mustering her courage, the doctor wiped her tears and joined the guide on the bench. Destiny had been too cruel to the couple.

"You said you learned most things about her after she died. How come?" She asked.

"When she died and people addressed her as Amanda Black, the town's authorities tried to find her family or at least some distant relatives but they didn't find anyone. Amanda Black did not exist, at least, not in Wickett."

"What happened then?" Black's baritone voice disrupted the enchanting trance they were all in.

"Houston."

Feeling her heart beating wildly in her chest, like a stallion galloping madly in the night, the doctor stood up and joined Black, her eyes never leaving Matthew's.

"She was a beloved member of our community, so the authorities tried their best to find someone, anyone; even beyond the limits of our city. But Amanda Black didn't exist; there was no-one out there looking for her. Until one day, many months after her death, her ghost became real. They had found the only piece of evidence stating that she had ever existed in Houston, in the archives of the First Evangelical Lutheran Synod of Texas."

Terrified, the doctor realized Black had been right all along: they should have never returned to Wickett, she should have never tried to wake up the dead.

"The name Amanda Black appears in several entries of Elisabeth Neumann's personal journal. Neumann was a missionary back then, but her diary tells the story of a pregnant girl, Amanda Black, a girl she rescued from the cold streets of Houston during the winter of 1860."

Amanda ran away twice, boy…

"According to Neumann's journal, Amanda gave birth to a girl named Harriet Black during that year, but she abandoned her baby a couple of months later, and that's where the story ends, sadly. That's the very last entry in Neumann's diary."

Harriet. Harriet Black.

"What happened to the child?" Black roared, charging at the guide and grabbing him by his shirt, completely blinded by the revelation. The doctor tried her best to pull him away from the man, but Black pushed her body backward, forcing her to keep her distance from them, forcing her to watch his sanity caving in.

He was a father. Had been a father.

The greatest love of his life had made him a father but she had never been able to find him – she had never been able to tell him.

"Nobody knows," Matthew begged. "Harriet, just like her mother, was a ghost. They never found her."

"Why would she abandon her own daughter?" Black yelled. "Why would she do that?"

"I don't know," the guide said as he shook his head helplessly.

The First Evangelical Lutheran Synod of Texas…

As the mercenary released Matthew from his grip, he took a step back and grabbed the doctor by one of her wrists. Standing now face to face, with his irises burning in the bonfire that was his past, he reached inside his jacket for the box – he handed her the money they still had and hid the box again underneath his clothing. His gun was still there; a loaded weapon for a broken man. He turned around and started to leave when he felt the doctor rushing behind him; her hands trying to hold on to him.

He stood in place, causing her smaller frame to bump into his. He didn't say anything to her, didn't have to. The fury inside his eyes was more than eloquent. He got on the car and drove off in the night as the doctor watched him, completely hopeless.