Quand la vie arrive à son crépuscule, il est parfois temps de faire de l'ordre dans son existence, de transmettre ses connaissances, de faire l'inventaire de ce qui aura été vécu. Et vu.
Oxford, June 24th, 2057
Summer had comfortably settled over the city of Oxford. The sun, high in the sky, bathed the rooftops, streets, and vegetation in its scorching rays. Groups of students mingled with tourists who had come to listen to the stories that the old stones of the city had to tell. Amid the crowd escaping the already intense heat, a man crossed High Street and entered the gate of the Botanic Garden. He didn't need to show his annual pass to the guards; they knew him well. They politely greeted him with a nod and whispered words as he walked by.
The man continued on without stopping, following the same path as always. First, the central alley, then he went around the fountain, which had been shut off by the authorities due to water restrictions. He avoided the few ducks venturing onto the gravel and continued straight ahead. The grass was already starting to yellow in places, and the air was hot and humid. Children ran past him, called by their parents, but the man didn't stop, moving forward with a confident step, in the shade of the centuries-old oaks and large elms. He knew where he was going; he knew the way by heart. Just before reaching the lily pond, a cat approached him. An unusually large cat with a sumptuous fur of gray, blue, and ink-black hues. The man stopped, exchanged a few words with the cat, and then resumed his journey, the cat trotting alongside him.
Time had taken its toll on his body. It had bent and compressed him, but never broken him. He was still strong for a man of his age, though he needed more time to move forward. His silver hair waved lightly in the warm breeze. His long legs carried him at a slow and measured pace, his hands always clasped behind his back, and a small smile on his lips as he made his way, llike today, like every June 24th, to a bench in the Botanic Garden. Always the same bench. Always on the 24th of June. Always at noon.
The guards saw him irregularly sit on this bench. But they knew that regardless of the weather, he would be there, sitting for an hour, on June 24th, at noon.
he man stopped in front of a tree with low-hanging branches. A small bench was hidden underneath, seemingly waiting for him. This bench was nothing extraordinary. A wooden bench with faded colors and worn armrests. The city council had wanted to replace all the benches with new, sturdier ones made of iron, but the guards had fought to ensure that this particular bench remained untouched. There was something touching about seeing this aging man come every year in such a ritualized manner. Legend had it that he had been coming for decades, even close to sixty years. Some said he came in memory of a past love, while others thought he might be losing his mind a bit. In any case, the guards who had succeeded each other had made sure the bench remained intact and in its original place. So that the legend of the old man, his cat, and his bench would endure. The man took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat that beaded on his weathered forehead. He settled on the left, as always, ran his fingers along the armrest, a smile of pure joy on his lips, and his cat came to sit on his lap.
Every June 24th, at noon.
The town's bells chimed twelve times, and the man's smile softened. He closed his eyes. They remained that way for long minutes, he with closed eyes, the cat nestled against him, purring heartily. Then the man opened his eyes and turned his head to the right. His gaze slightly cloudy. He had been repeating the same actions for sixty years, and yet, the same emotions endlessly surged within him. Always the same path and always the same pang in his heart.
"Kirjava... We did well, didn't we?" the man asked, caressing his cat.
The feline raised her velvety head and replied, "Yes, we did well. I'm proud of you, Will."
She straightened up to nuzzle her nose against his neck, and Will held back the tears that threatened to flow like a stream, as they did every June 24th, for so many years. He hugged her close. He sighed deeply, and then his gaze wandered into the blooming shrubs of the Botanic Garden. He thought back to those years gone by. Sixty years. He was always surprised to realize that he had managed to live a normal life despite everything he had experienced.
Because coming back had been dreadful. Mary Malone had faithfully kept her promise, and she had stayed with him without faltering. She had accompanied him so that his mother could receive the necessary care. She had welcomed him into her home so he could grow up and resume a normal life. Over the years, she had become his closest friend, the only one to whom he could confide his feelings, the only one who could truly understand. But adolescence had been dreadful. Adolescence had been a whirlwind of misunderstanding and anger. So he had applied himself to becoming invisible again, his talent never leaving him, and buried himself in schoolwork and later in medical studies. He spent most of his time alone with his books and Kirjava. He had also made a few friends, equally studious, with whom he enjoyed sharing a beer after a long day of studying. He had surprised everyone, the quiet, tall boy, specializing in visceral surgery, becoming one of the most skillful and enlightened students Oxford University had ever seen. Several renowned hospitals had wanted to have him in their teams, but he had chosen to stay here.
Brilliant yet modest, discreet and humble. He was skilled at what he did; some said he had a gift, but he knew that the Subtle Knife was not innocent in this story.
When he had finally come up for air at the end of his studies, his eyes had met Camilla's, a brilliant graduate in gynecology. They had immediately liked each other and flirted like clumsy fools. Will liked Camilla. She had become a dear friend, a woman of principles and battles, and her presence was comforting. They had quickly married, quickly had a daughter, and quickly divorced. A separation without drama, without broken dishes, without tears, and without shouts. Because Camilla knew that he carried a burden at his feet. A burden of sorrow that she thought was a childhood trauma related to the loss of his fingers, but since he never talked about it, she had never been able to understand. So she had decided to stop, to make sure they remained friends before the feelings soured, for the sake of their daughter and their own well-being. And that's what they had done. They had gone together to spend two years in Sudan with Doctors Without Borders UK. People told them they were reckless to go there with a young child. But what had brought Will and Camilla together was their desire for justice and their determination to fight for it. That was what still united them and fueled their interactions, despite their age and divorce. During this stay, Will always returned in June, inevitably. If his ex-wife refused, he returned alone. She knew that June 24th was a special date for him without knowing the reason. Then, while in Sudan, Camilla had met a Scottish doctor. They had wanted to get married and return to England. Will had followed because it was the best thing for Elizabeth.
Elizabeth. He hadn't chosen the name. Camilla had suggested it as a tribute to her beloved grandmother, and he had accepted without too much question. She was his sunshine, the joy of his life, his greatest pride. A nickname naturally came to this child: Lizzie. He had long resisted calling his daughter that. But it had settled on his lips without him realizing it. Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie. At first, his heart ached every time someone called his daughter by that name. And then, the ache stopped because Elizabeth was unique. She was reserved like her father but had the tenacity and humor of her mother. She knew what she wanted, when she wanted it, and always got her way. She invented endless worlds and stories. She was gifted at it, so gifted that she had made it her profession. And nothing made Will prouder than passing past a bookstore and seeing his daughter's latest book displayed in the window. She wrote books for children and teenagers, proclaiming that you had to tell them stories, always tell them stories. Mary, who had been Elizabeth's godmother, had instilled these values in her.
On that day, June 24th, Will had felt the need to see his daughter. He had woken up with a strange premonition and had arranged to meet her in the morning. He had gone to his favorite café, near the Botanic Garden. He was early and had taken his usual table, in a corner near the window where he could watch the passersby. He ordered an Earl Grey tea for himself, and an oat milk latte for her. Kirjava settled beside him on the bench, and they waited. Elizabeth arrived on time, apologizing for her lateness, and kissed him on both cheeks.
"How are the kids?" he asked.
Elizabeth and her husband Liam had two sons, twins, whom they had named William and Finn in tribute to their grandfathers.
"Same as yesterday when you left," she replied with a teasing smile. She thanked him for the drink.
Will adored his daughter and his grandsons. As soon as he had retired, he had made it a point to regularly pick them up from school, take them to the cinema, have waffles, or go admire the plants at the Botanic Garden. Wednesday had become his favorite day because he dedicated it to looking after the boys, which greatly helped Elizabeth and her husband, who were both busy with their respective careers.
"Thank you for accepting your old father's invitation," Will said as Elizabeth took a sip of her latte. "I know you're very busy right now with the release of your new novel."
She licked her upper lip, where some foam had settled, and placed her cup down.
"It's normal," she reassured him. "But I have to admit that receiving a message at five in the morning asking me to meet you here did worry me a bit."
"I'm an early riser, you know," he replied.
Elizabeth had made a small pout before scratching the top of Kirjava's head, which responded with a loud purr.
"I wanted to thank you for sending me a copy of your latest novel," Will said. "I read it yesterday, and I sincerely think it's the best you've ever written."
He had always been there for her, encouraging her, urging her to pursue her literary studies, and embark on the quest for a publisher, and Elizabeth knew it. He always had a critical eye on her writing, reading her manuscripts overnight, returning them covered in precise and valuable annotations, and congratulating her when she improved her work.
"You didn't invite me here to talk about my book, did you?" she asked with a little smile. "We could have discussed it on Sunday at lunch."
"To be honest, yes, I did," Will replied.
He scratched his cheek, seemingly pondering what he was going to say next. Elizabeth took another sip of her drink, observing him with curiosity. She loved her father; their bond was unbreakable, and she couldn't imagine her life without him. She had always found him mysterious and wise. However, she also knew that he was aging, and his health was declining. Will crossed his fingers, his long, elegant hands marked by fine, intertwining veins running across their surface, and placed them on the table. He looked up at his daughter and said:
"It's a good idea, this heroine who thought she was an orphan only to discover that her father had turned her world upside down by uncovering doors through the multiverse. Her encounters, her adventures... especially those wheel-like creatures. Hard to imagine; it will really stimulate your readers' imaginations! But I was wondering... Why didn't you call them Mulefa?"
Elizabeth had slightly flinched, and Will knew he had hit the mark.
"What are you talking about?" she stammered.
"I know that Mary told you stories. I know she asked you never to tell me because I wouldn't have been pleased. And she was right; I didn't want you to know all of this. But it was stronger than her. She was always like that."
Mary, his old friend, had told stories, their stories, to Elizabeth, and she had thought to take this secret to her grave. He understood that she had told her about the Mulefa, but also about Lyra and her world when Elizabeth had written the script for a fantasy comic. The two heroes were characters who could take the form of animals, and they preferred to transform into a wise cat... and a mischievous pine marten.
"I know because... everything she told you is true," Will declared.
Elizabeth chuckled, "Dad, come on... Mary had a vivid imagination."
"You know very well that's not true. I really like Mary, but she remained a very rational scientist despite everything, and imagination was not one of her qualities. What she told you is true. She talk to you about a girl, didn't she? Named Lyra?"
Elizabeth nodded, looking at her father in astonishment.
"That girl actually exists, Lizzie," Will continued confidently. "Mary really met her, in this world - our world - and in the world of the Mulefa. I know all this because at that time, Lyra was with a boy. And that boy was me."
As he spoke, his voice had grown hoarse. He felt deeply unsettled. It was the first time he had confessed all of this to someone other than Mary. Elizabeth had set down her cup to take her father's hand.
"Dad," she said softly, "Come on... That's impossible... Mary made all of that up, I assure you. She told me about parallel worlds you can cross, angels, witches, those strange creatures, but also about talking animals that are always with humans..."
"We call them dæmons," Will added.
His daughter had leaned back against her chair's backrest and furrowed her brow. She had inherited this attitude from her mother, where she was skeptical but willing to be convinced. So Will knew it was time.
"Listen," he said solemnly, "I know it's hard to believe, and I know you'll need time to process all of this. But Mary was right. There are countless worlds, and what separates us from them is as thin as a sheet of paper. Also, in my home, in the cupboard above my desk, you will find a black wooden chest. Inside, you will find several notebooks in which I've written everything I experienced with... with Lyra."
Speaking her name out loud had been more painful than he had expected. A lump had formed in his throat, hindering his breathing. Even after all these years, his old heart had started racing. He had to place his hand on it for a moment, waiting for it to calm down.
"You'll also find a piece of amber that belonged to Mary. And a broken knife. It's that knife that took my fingers."
Elizabeth's gaze had drifted from her father's hand to his face. The veil of incredulity still clung to her eyes.
"But Dad... talking animals?"
Will then lowered his gaze to Kirjava, who knew what she had to do. She had stood up, jumped somewhat awkwardly onto Elizabeth's lap, placed her front paws on her chest, and leaned her muzzle toward her ear. Will's daughter had then heard the cat's voice whispering a few words to her and had turned pale. She stared wide-eyed at her father. She believed him now. Will continued:
"Kirjava is my dæmon. She is my soul, quite literally. If she is hurt, I feel it. If I am happy, sad, angry, she feels it. The day I die, she will die too. Dæmons come from Lyra's world. But, to be honest, everyone here has one without realizing it. Mary's is a yellow-beaked chough. Your mother's is a fox, and I think it suits her quite well. Yours is a blue macaw."
"A blue macaw?"
He nodded with a smile, and Kirjava added, "You can learn to see it. Will wrote about it in his notebook, but we can explain more later if you want."
Elizabeth had remained silent for a few minutes, stunned by these revelations as much as by Kirjava's voice. She was trying to process what she had just heard. She looked at the dæmon-cat and then at her father before shaking her head and saying:
"Mary did tell me about this girl. And that boy. She was so passionate when she talked about them! She told me how brave they were and everything they went through. That they were so in love that they saved the world, and the dead... and that they were doomed never to see each other again. Is it... Dad..."
She fell silent. Will lowered his gaze and furrowed his brows to hide the veil of sorrow that had fallen over his eyes. He began to mechanically fidget with the small cloth napkin next to his cup. Elizabeth had never seen him like this, even though she had been by his side when her grandmother Elaine passed away or when Mary did. But in front of her, talking about this particular girl, he dropped the mask and became vulnerable and broken. It had deeply moved her. Will cleared his throat to admit:
"I love your mother. You know I love her. She's important to me. My feelings for her have always been genuine. But if you ask me what Lyra means to me... She was the only one who could touch Kirjava, the only one along with you…"
He became silent, his attention turned to the street. Without fully understanding the meaning of his last words, Elizabeth nevertheless sensed a deep sadness mixed with genuine love in her father's eyes. She would remember that look and the emotions it had stirred in her for a long time. She took her father's hand in hers. Will redirected his gaze toward her.
"The day I die - don't make that face, Lizzie, nobody is immortal, especially not me - and you open the chest and read its contents, I ask you to believe every word. Because everything is true. Kirjava is the proof. Kirjava is the proof. And if you want to use parts or all of it for a book, then do it. I'll be more than happy to see that it inspired you."
He stopped. Emotion had once again surged through his body, weakening him a little more. It took him a few seconds to regain his composure.
"Promise me," he said, "Promise me that when you read my notebooks, you'll believe every word."
Elizabeth had rested her cheek on her fist and took a moment to think.
"I promise," she replied softly.
She glanced at the wall clock and quickly finished the rest of her coffee.
"I have to run," she said, "I'm picking up the boys from school for lunch. Do you want to come?"
"I can't, I'm sorry, love."
"Oh, right, I forgot what day it is."
She gathered her things before freezing, a flash of realization in her eyes. She stared, astonished, at her father.
"Wait...," she pondered, "June 24th, your hour at the Botanic Garden... Is it for her? Is it for Lyra?"
Will nodded with a sad smile. Elizabeth added with seriousness, "But Dad... how long has it been?"
"Sixty years," Will replied in a whisper.
"And you still think of her? You still love her just as much? After all this time?"
Then Will allowed himself to lock eyes with his daughter and answer, "Always."
Elizabeth's throat tightened. She swallowed before leaning in to kiss her father's tired cheek.
"Kiss the boys for me," Will concluded with a smile.
"I will. See you on Sunday? Mom told you she booked at The Trout Inn, right?"
"Yes, yes. I'll be there."
And he watched her walk away, his heart a little lighter. He paid and then headed towards the Botanic Garden. It was 11:40 AM; he would make it in time.
He had never tried to forget Lyra. In his adolescence, he had cherished her memories, nurturing them because they had helped him stay strong. They helped him honor the promise that had been made: to remain happy, to live a full and long life to enlighten humans, to shape better worlds. He had dedicated his life to this cause. He had traveled, given lectures, engaged with organizations, tried to raise awareness. He had even been knighted by King Charles III. All of this, he had done for his daughter, for the world he lived in. And for Lyra. For the memory of Lyra.
He had tried to tuck her away, along with the adventures they had shared, into a small memory box tucked neatly into his mind, to be retrieved when he needed it. But he had never succeeded. Because she always came back, in the corner of his eye, ready to emerge. He let himself be carried away by the images and dreams that knocked in the corners of his mind. At least, he had long been convinced that they were only dreams and memories.
Around the age of 20, his memories began to give way to more concrete images, visions. He first noticed it one day when he let himself be flirted with by a girl from his physiology class, without much conviction. When he arrived at medical school, he discovered that others could look at him differently, beyond the contempt and hatred he had experienced before. He was tall and athletic, a rather handsome young man, intelligent, and a member of the university rugby team (what better way to channel his anger than by tackling guys to the ground?). Suddenly, he became interesting. This girl was talking to him, and he was half-listening when Lyra passed by him, running and muttering, her arms laden with papers and books, Pantalaimon following behind. He had turned around, bewildered, to see her disappear around a corner in the hallway.
He saw her like this, glimpsed her in an alley, in a park, around a corner, in a classroom. Sometimes, he saw her in her own apartment or at a friend's place having tea. Often, these visions would occur when he let his mind wander. During bus or train rides, he would see her walking, laughing with friends, traveling, studying, flirting, participating in what seemed to be a muddy football game. These moments were a light, a spark that brightened his day and made him a little happier and more confident. He was genuinely joyful to see her like this: moving forward, being cheerful, true to herself and the promise made on that bench. One day, while studying late at the library, he even saw her reflection in the window. She was sitting at a table, engrossed in books, scratching her head, Pantalaimon curled up on a pile of papers, and the alethiometer next to her. "So, she was relearning to read it," he thought happily. He didn't dare to turn around, fearing she might vanish.
At first, he thought these were just daydreams, fantasies, before realizing that it was indeed reality. Because Lyra was growing, aging alongside him, and he saw things he could never have imagined. With a glance, on average once a week, sometimes more, he saw her. It was brief, a gust of wind, but it was enough. He considered it a stroke of luck, a token of gratitude from the Dust for the sacrifice they had agreed to make. He had tried to provoke these visions, but it proved to be more taxing than enjoyable.
He also had those dreams, strange and so vivid, of her and him, making love. And he would wake up drenched in sweat, the sheets in disarray, and confused, so confused. He didn't like those dreams; he felt like he was going too far. He didn't know what to do with them. He would spend the day in a daze, a bit disoriented and unable to concentrate. However, one night, while splashing cold water on his face to snap out of it after one of those dreams, he noticed a scratch on his right shoulder. Kirjava didn't scratch him. There was no reason for him to have a scratch there. That's when he realized that it might be more than just simple projections of reality, which left him even more confused.
For several years, he had wondered if it also happened to Lyra, if she too could catch glimpses of him. Sometimes, he felt as if there were gaze fixed on the back of his neck, caught a familiar scent, or heard a laugh behind him, but when he turned around, there was no one there. There were also times when she reacted to his "presence," like the time he had caught her relaxing in her bath. He had embarrassingly stammered apologies, and to his surprise, she had jumped, splashing Pantalaimon, who was lounging nearby, and shielding her chest with her arms.
And then one day, he knew that she could do it too. Moreover, they could manage to see each other.
It had happened three times.
The first time, Will must have been around 35 years old. He had been divorced from Camilla for six years, and he was doing well enough to live in a beautiful apartment in the center of Oxford. Elizabeth was playing in her room, and he was resting on the couch when he suddenly found himself transported to an auditorium that smelled of wax and woolen clothing. Several people were present, listening attentively to a woman standing behind a lectern giving a lecture on a topic he had forgotten. Lyra. She was there, her hair tied up in a neat bun, her lips adorned with crimson lipstick, standing tall with a proud chin. She was displaying complicated diagrams, providing explanations, and answering questions from a predominantly male and elderly audience, her voice clear and composed. She commanded their attention with her presence. Pantalaimon, by her side, had assumed the same dignified and confident posture. Will felt his heart racing and remained motionless, wondering how long he could watch her like this. His soul swelled with an immense pride at seeing her in this light. Suddenly, she turned pale, stammered, and then blushed. Her gaze found him in the crowd. Will stopped breathing. She interrupted her speech, leaning on the lectern. Someone brought her a glass of water. Seeing her falter had shaken Will's senses, and he snapped back to reality, his heart pounding wildly, back on his couch.
The second time had occurred in his own world. He was finishing up a file in his office. He was exhausted, the surgical procedure he had just performed had been long and draining, and he still needed to finalize a speech for the United Nations. He was 49 years old at the time. He was stretching when he heard an exclamation of surprise. Startled, he looked up and saw Lyra standing before him. She stared at him, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes brimming with tears. She had never been so close before. She took a step toward him, calling his name. He remembered her voice. He also remembered her appearance, simultaneously powerful and fragile in her confusion at seeing him. She looked exhausted, likely from a long journey. Her hair was messily tied in a loose bun that hung softly at the nape of her neck, and she wore a dusty ensemble of thick furs. Despite it all, Will couldn't help but find her incredibly, unbelievably beautiful. She was aging exactly as he had imagined. She said his name, stuttered words, speaking quickly and mixing up sentences. He didn't catch everything she was trying to tell him. He listened to nothing but his own body urging him to get up and embrace her. So he did. He had uttered her name under his breath, urging her not to move. He stood up, too abruptly, spilling the contents of his cup onto his papers in the looked down, cursing, and Lyra let out a small laugh. When he raised his eyes again, she had vanished. She had been so close, within arm's reach, that he could have taken her, held her close, and felt her. She had been so close, and he had ruined it all, all because of a poorly placed cup. He spent the rest of the day locked in his office, trembling and crying, hearing that laughter echoing in the room.
The third encounter was the one he cherished the most. Retirement had finally begun. He wanted to celebrate by bringing Elizabeth and her family together in a small cottage he had bought by the sea. His favorite pastime was to get up very early and take long walks with Kirjava along the beach. On that morning, as his gaze wandered over the gray-blue expanse of the English Channel before him, he heard footsteps crunching in the sand, approaching. He grumbled, as only old gentlemen do, expecting to come face to face with Richard Hughes, an intrusive neighbor. Will didn't appreciate company at this hour of day, especially not Richard, who would talk his ear off for endless minutes about neighborhood quarrels. He turned around to deliver a sarcastic remark but froze. It wasn't that bloody Richard Hughes who stood there, but a woman with long, braided gray hair. She had stopped beside him and was looking at him. Just a glimpse of her proud pale blue eyes framed by faint wrinkles was enough for him to recognize who stood before him. Pantalaimon had stuck his head out of Lyra's cardigan, where he was snuggled, and stared at him and Kirjava before descending to join the cat. The two dæmons sniffed each other timidly before sitting side by side, facing the sea. Lyra was close. So close that he could feel the warmth emanating from her body. So close that he could smell her skin, a floral and honeyed scent mixed with the sea breeze. That fragrance would linger in his memory until the very end.
He found her beautiful. They exchanged a few words, and then she took his hand, smiling. His heart started beating faster and harder as he felt the tenderness of her palm. They stayed like that for long minutes, her hand tenderly warm in his, looking at one anothe, unable to say anything even though thousands of words were racing through his mind.
Were you happy? Are you happy? What have you been doing all this time? Do you have a family? Have you traveled? It looks like you've become someone important; is that true? I'm proud of you; do you know that? Do you still live in Oxford? Have you ever thought of me? Do you know that I think of you every day?
And then a salty, wet gust of wind whipped their faces. He instinctively closed his eyes. When he reopened them, she had disappeared. His heart raced with despair, and the world spun around him. He woke up surrounded by firefighters bustling about, and his worried daughter by his side.
This encounter had shaken his heart and made him even more fragile. Since that day, he had to be careful. Careful with emotions, movements, words, not to weaken himself any further. To keep holding on, one more day at a time. To continue catching glimpses of her. To maintain himself in order to always preserve those indelible memories.
He would have given anything for one more minute with her, her smile in his eyes, her hand in his. But not now. Their time would come, but not now. Because that minute never returned. He had to content himself with the fragments of life he grasped from time to time, allowing the enduring melancholy to corrode his heart a little more.
And now he was there, on that bench, like every June 24th, with Kirjava curled up on his lap, his fingers caressing her eternally silky fur. The half-hour chimed. He knew Lyra was there. He could feel her presence. He never spoke, letting his thoughts reach out to her, telling her what was happening to him, what he was experiencing. This day, this hour, was his favorite time of the year. On that bench, with Kirjava and the sun breaking through the branches of the tree under which he sat. Insects buzzed by the hundreds in his ears while the birds fell silent, overcome by the prevailing heat. Although some things had improved, the world had not evolved as he had hoped. Bombs continued to rain down in various parts of the world. Climate change spared no country, from north to south. However, he had done his part; he had taken action, he had rallied people. A drop in the ocean, perhaps, but a drop nonetheless. He knew it. He felt tired, but fulfilled.
Kirjava's voice reached his ears, pulling him out of his reverie: "Will..."
He felt her distress. He opened his eyes and turned his face to find a woman he had never met before, sitting beside him. She looked at him, a serene smile on her face, and he felt like he had always known her.
"Are you my death?" he asked.
And the woman nodded. He exhaled slowly, "So, it's time?"
"I believe so, yes," she replied in a gentle voice.
Will lowered his gaze to Kirjava. A slow pain gripped his chest, like an iron vice tightening around his heart. He began to feel very hot, and his breath quickened. He grimaced before regaining his composure. He caressed his dæmon's fur, his lifelong companion, his ally in troubles and joys, a part of himself.
"We had a good life, didn't we?" he asked her, his voice breaking.
"Yes," Kirjava replied, narrowing her eyes, "I am proud of everything we've accomplished. I am proud of you."
Tears welled up in Will's tired, large black eyes. He thought of Elizabeth and the kids. He will not see them on Sunday. Would they gather on Sunday?
"I will miss you, Kirjava. Thank you for everything."
"We will be reunited, Will. You know what happens next. I will always be by your side."
The pain in his chest grew, but he wasn't afraid. Kirjava straightened up and nestled her muzzle into his neck.
"I can't wait to see you on the other side," she murmured, "I love you."
He wiped his tears, kissed his dæmon's silky head one last time, and then turned to his death.
"I am ready," he declared.
His death gave him a peaceful look and placed her hand on his shoulder. The pain took over his entire body, but he let it spread. He looked at Kirjava one last time, nestled against him, purring powerfully. The vibrations of her body coursed through his. He exhaled and slowly closed his eyelids as he watched her gently evaporate into a million sparkling particles.
When he opened his eyes again, Will suddenly felt empty. Empty inside, empty outside. His death was no longer beside him. Kirjava was no longer beside him. He was alone, and he felt cold. In front of him, there was nothing but silence, barely disturbed by the sound of small waves crashing against pebbles and a wooden pier disappearing into the mist. He walked forward and waited. Under his feet, the rotten wood creaked and moaned. All these sounds, all these images were too familiar to him. In the fog that covered the gloomy expanse of water, an old boat appeared. The old man at the helm docked at the pier. He put down his oars, turned around, and looked up at Will. He was still wearing that worn-out robe, too big for his ageless, frail body. He furrowed his brow when he saw his passenger. Will boarded the boat without hesitation, under the inquisitive gaze of the man.
"I've seen you before..." the man said in a slow, raspy voice, filled with astonishment.
Will nodded and took a seat. The man dipped his oars to set his boat adrift on the tranquil water.
"This is the first time it's happened to me," he added, "It's a curious sensation."
"Am I the first person you've seen for the second time?" Will asked, "Have you not seen anyone else? Perhaps a woman?"
"Oh no!" the man exclaimed, "I would have remembered that! It doesn't happen every day! You see, the passengers I take tend to buy a one-way ticket..."
"Alright," Will simply replied, "I'll wait. That's fine. I have all the time in the world."