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"Hey, Shad, let's go for a walk!"
You turn and look into his eyes - deep emerald with a light tease that never leaves them. He is leaning against the back of the sofa on which you are sitting, an inviting smile plays on his lips, and you smile in the same way in return.
"For a walk ?” unable to resist, you raise an eyebrow sarcastically. “Not a run or a race, just a walk? You sure you're feeling well?"
He snorts. “I’m healthier than some, thanks to your efforts. It's just wonderful weather outside, and I want to stretch the moment.”
Outside the window is an autumn day, late September. There is not a cloud in the sky, and it’s still warm under the sun's rays, although in the wind there’s a feeling of the approaching winter. The weather is indeed great, and you don't mind a measured walk at all.
You have nowhere to rush.
“Let’s go then,” you agree, put the book aside and, stretching, rise from the sofa.
His smile widens, and he is at lightning speed at the door and opens it out.
“Don't forget the scarf,” you remind as you come closer and take the clothes from the wardrobe.
“Gods, Shad,” he rolls his eyes, “I'm not fragile.”
You look at him sternly, and under your gaze he gives up, takes the warm fabric from your hands and casually wraps it around his neck.
“Satisfied?” he folds his arms angrily across his chest, but his eyes are laughing.
“More than,” you nod, straighten his stray scarf and put on your own. “I don’t want you to sneeze your brains out for a week again.”
He clearly wants to say something more, but decides not to argue and slips out into the street, trusting you to close the door.
You have long outgrown silly disputes.
Outside, it smells of dry grass, late wildflowers and, for some reason, approaching rain. You carefully scan the horizon, but you don’t see a trace of clouds.
“Shad, come on already!”
You are distracted from this strangeness by his urging cry, and the thought of an impending...
...cold, piercing...
...rain is carried away by the wind.
He is waiting at the bottom of the stairs leading from the terrace, and you go down to him - deliberately slowly, counting the posts of the railing with your fingers.
“Aren’t we walking?” you grin with the corner of your lips.
“You were standing!” he retorts and holds out his hand to you.
The fabric of the gloves slides against each other. It feels good to hold his palm in yours. He pulls you with him, and you obediently follow, allowing him to choose a path.
There is a forest near your house. With the onset of autumn, it dyed in all shades of crimson and ocher. It...
...burns, rising brightly with tongues of flame...
…as if on fire. Shade usually reigns under the canopy of trees, but the weather and wind have already thinned out the foliage, so that the sun's rays are jumping in bright spots along the branches, trunks, on the ground and dead grass (miraculously sprouted in the forest shadow), following the soft paws of the wind.
You walk side by side, hand in hand. Slow enough to fully enjoy nature, deeply breathing in the aromas of the autumn forest: rotten foliage, mushrooms, wet bark and, very little, pine needles. The silence is disturbed by the distant singing of birds and the crunch of small twigs under your feet: here is a wild path, along which no one walks, except for the two of you and sometimes guests who decide to pay a visit to your wilderness.
More often you yourself visit them.
You both are silent. This is the cozy silence of those who have already said everything to each other. You don't need words to know, to feel, to understand what the other is thinking. You have been together for so long, but you remember every day spent with him, and you still don’t believe...
...don’t believe, don’t believe, you refuse to believe...
...your happiness. And that he chose you from thousands of others, from hundreds of acquaintances and a narrow circle of friends.
Which is getting smaller every year.
“How long has passed?” he asks suddenly, looking thoughtfully at the crowns of trees, “Forty years?”
Forty-three years, seven months and two days. In his blue quills are the first glimpses of gray. Transparent, thin, like the threads of a cobweb that accidentally caught on the run. Still rare, but already noticeable. You turn away, unable to look at them. You don't want to think about it. Not now. Especially, you don’t want to think that forty-three years, seven months and two days have already passed, and tomorrow it will become one day more, one day closer...
...one day farther...
...and you're not ready to look that far. Even if time is nothing for you, and it has no power over you, this doesn’t mean that you are not afraid of the future.
He suddenly stops, and you belatedly freeze one step ahead of him.
“And what is it like?” he stares intently, with a strange look you've never seen on his face before, “That future?”
And then you realize that this is a dream.
The memory is real, you remember this day well: a warm autumn day, one of many spent together, but still - you are dreaming about it. The subconscious is playing a cruel joke with you again, and you sigh doomedly and close your eyes.
You will wake up now. Wake up there in a strange, cold, too perfect world. Surrounded by strangers, all alone.
“Shad?”
But the dream continues. For now - continues, and since providence has given you such a chance...
You bend over and put your arms around him.
His lips are warm. He is warm. You haven't felt his warmth, his taste, his smell for so long. Mint with pine, it’s always mint with pine, no matter where he has been, and you revel in the moment, remembering - experiencing - it again.
But not for long. You know that he is waiting for your answer. And you will have to answer, because this conversation is only in your head, and you will actually answer to yourself.
He is not here.
You reluctantly break the kiss and press closer, hiding your face on his shoulder.
“It’s empty without you,” you breathe into his neck, “And lonely.”
He gently hugs you back. “So fill this void.”
You shake your head in denial. “I don’t want to lose anyone again. Everyone I knew, everyone I loved, everyone left. It hurts. It hurts and it’s cold, and I have no idea what to do next. You know,” you smile sadly, “Everything is fine in the world now. I have nothing to protect, and I have no right to do so, after all that I've done. They don't need me anymore.”
“There are always those who need you,” he objects with the usual confidence in his words. “Always, Shadow. And you already know who cares about you.”
You pull back and look into his eyes. “He won't replace you,” you say with a tremor in your voice.
“No, he won’t,” he nods, confirming, and your heart squeezes in pain, “But he shouldn't either. He will be someone new, whom you have never met and never loved. He will be himself .”
He smiles warmly, and you can feel the pinching in the corners of your eyes. He is always, always right, and you want to believe that you can follow his words, but...
“I'm not ready,” you bow your head guiltily, unable to bear his approving look. “And I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready at all.”
He presses you closer and kisses you on the lips. “Just think about it.”
And you kiss him back, and you promise yourself that someday, maybe, you will really think about it.
But why rush when eternity lies ahead?
...And you have a little more time until the morning.
