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The sun shines through the window, dances on the crease of the mattress, and lands on sleeping man. With the slightest sliver of light, he jolts up.
Norton Campbell wakes up and starts his routine of the day.
His hair is messed up. His breathing shallow and abrupt, never to recover from the black smoke that cloud his lung until this day. The scars painting his body a mismatched canvas itch and sting.
He is alive.
Norton looks around his room. Clothes strewn on the sofa; papers and sketches covered the floor in disorder. The smell tells him that the dishes stacked on the sink are yet to be washed. The only clean corner is the table on the far side of the bedroom, with its stack of books and neatly placed stationery.
Just like any other day. No sign of change. No weird phenomenon.
Another day to suffer through.
Norton gets out of his house in time for the newspaper boy’s delivery. The boy – the postman, he insists – gives him a salute and jots away with his dog in tow.
It’s the same articles as always. Reconstruction paused yet again, minor robbery stemming from lack of jobs, the hospital promises to handle their patient’s mentality.
The only exception is the date.
“The festival will begin in five more days.”
Five more. It’s that time of the year.
Clutching the newspaper in hand, he walks through the old and broken walkway to his client’s place. A lot of people recognize him; it is a small town, and that huge scar on his left is easily recognizable.
The lawyer bid him a quick “good morning” before hurrying away, the toy merchant shouts out to him in her jolly voice, the entomologist gave a sharp nod as she brings her honey to the local shop.
They do not realize the dark look that lurk in Norton’s eyes. He hides it too well.
Or they simply don’t wish to see. Not after those days full of warnings from the speaker, the nights of restlessness waiting for the update of their loved ones.
They wish to forget.
The seventh month by the moon’s calendar is the month of the ghost. It is the month when the gate of Hell is opened and the dead roam among the livings. A month where there are as many ceremonies as there are ridiculous taboos. No picking pennies off the street, no playing in the river, no wandering at the dead of the night. Small restrictions like that.
The festival, too, is to appease the souls so they won’t harm the living. Eventually, it turns into a celebration, an event just for the sake of liveliness. Exactly what the town need.
The people crowd around the Great Temple where they busy themselves with decorations and offerings. The atmosphere unlike that of New Year.
Norton takes no part in the fun. After dealing with the client’s abrupt change to the layout sketch, as troublesome as it is, he walks off the beaten path to a completely different direction.
He stays there until dusk comes. The hubbub of the preparation has died down as the townspeople hurry home to avoid hungry demons, and soon only the sound of the wind accompanies him.
Then comes the sound of crushed grass.
Norton abruptly turns back. Half his mind was hopeful. Maybe a ghost has finally decided to haunt him, to lift him off his misery.
But the man approaching him is painfully human. From his faded military clothes to the awkward movement of the arm. Officer Jose Baden gives him a friendly wave.
“Cleaning the headstone again? You’re too kind. I was supposed to take that job.”
Norton simply stares at him.
“I thought you were a ghost, officer Baden.”
“And I too. Sorry to disappoint you.”, The first sentence was a joke, but the second was a genuine apology. Jose stood side by side Norton in silence. He put a hand on his chest in prayer.
The sun is halfway to sleep. The harsh rays of light almost blind Norton’s eyes.
“You should retire home soon, Campbell. It’s not safe at this time of the month.”
Norton just shrugs.
“I wouldn’t mind meeting dead souls.”
Jose looks at him sternly in concern, which prompts a chuckle out of Norton. He waves it off as a joke and turns his back on the officer.
“Campbell”
Norton looks back. Jose rubs his hand in circle, an action Norton realizes. Jose always subconsciously touches his bullet wound whenever he is deep in thought.
“Just… tell me if you’re having a hard time, all right? My duty is to protect this town, including you.”
A desire to keep everyone he knows safe. Norton almost laugh at the comparison in his mind.
Are all military people the same?
“Will do.”, he replies, knowing full well that it is a lie.
Jose seems to notice, but he offers no more but a well-natured smile.
“Promise me that you would live on, no matter what happened.”
“Come on, Norton. Swear it to me.”
Norton Campbell wakes up in the dead of the night.
It was the same dream again. One that was once a blessing turns into a nightmare. It keeps coming, crushing him under its weight, threatening to pull him in and never let him leave.
He wipes the sweat off his face and look around the room again. No voices, no movement.
The air of August is warm, the heater works perfectly, yet Norton fells cold.
He tries to get up in a daze. The voice inside his head still lingers. It echoes through the room that is devoid of life.
Remember, live on.
All right. All right. He needs to clear his head. Norton refuses to think any further. He doesn’t trust himself to do anything remotely rational in the time owl rules the town.
He reached out to the pitcher on the drawers, but the voices make him unsteady. With a tremble grip, he dropped the pitcher.
Down the table with neat stationeries and books, the only place that is well-kept in the house.
Norton panics.
“No, no, no!”
He hurriedly searches for something, anything to soak up the tower. The piles of paper on the floor finally find its use as he spread them on the table to stop the flow of water. Important documents be damned, he can’t let the books be ruined. This table, only this table and its things, must stay intact. It must. It-
The paper turns soggy and crumble away. Norton clumsily check on the objects on the table. History of the World on top of Dance of Apprehension, the military document beside the catalogue for food around the world. The bundle of letters all sent to Norton. They are okay. They are intact.
They live.
Norton bites back a choke. He drops to his knees and curls into a ball like a child.
Water drip down from the table, and teardrops soon join.
Norton was a guy full of determination. The kind that pulls him to grab any and every opportunity he could to change his life. Anything to get out of those dusty mines and foul air that clouds his lungs forever.
Some people are afraid of that determination. But their concerns be damned. It’s Norton’s effort and ideal, and what meaning do the words of the passersby hold?
Norton buries his fear, his anxious, his doubt. Anything that may impact his path to luxuries, to fame. Although deep in his mind, he knows that a single house and food everyday is more than enough.
And after so long, he reached the city. Reached the speck of lights shining dimly that he always long for, as he stood from the highest point of the Golden Cave. At that point, Norton Campbell was already a different man. One who could fake his smile in the first minute and let it die the next.
But what is life when constantly holding a mask made of skin? His mind may try to rationalize, his heart may shut out, but his soul knows that one day all these bottled-up emotions would overflow.
No one could be unlucky forever, right? Damn true. Whether a cruel joke or a blessing in disguise, fate found him one person that saved his soul.
They were one unusual duo. Both were bitter and gloomy men whose job required them to interact with people at the utmost capacity. Needless to say, their few first meetings didn’t turn out quite well. Polarity of the same kind always push each other away.
But humans can’t be compared to silence, and it was those similarities that led them to seek each other out. Maybe it was because they were so similar, Norton felt at ease at revealing his true self to the man. And so did he.
Even if they lie, what’s to lie about when your opponent could instantly tell?
They were the same, after all. Men with passion and no cares to give.
A decade of loneliness might have frozen Norton’s heart, but a month of appreciation and bond instantly melts it.
And now, it is that understanding, that connection between them, that torments Norton.
That man knew. With those sharp, stormy eyes and calloused hands that wrapped around Norton’s shoulders.
When the notice for the war came, he must have known.
It was inside this very room, one that Norton bought by his own pennies after months of hard work. They were standing before the neatly placed table filled with books and documents, the only place that belonged to that man.
He made Norton promised. No, he made Norton swore.
“Live on, no matter what.”
The war started and ended, and the man never come back.
Norton once, twice, thrice, thought about leaving this place and reunite with him.
But in the end, he never could. His instinct always kicks in whenever those intrusive thoughts pop up. And then Norton will sit there, without any energy left to deal with his life.
He got a stable job, friendly neighbors, his town unaffected by the nasty scar of war. He couldn’t die. He couldn’t betray the ideal that he set for himself all those years ago.
He couldn’t betray his promise to the man.
That vow Norton took becomes a shackle that weight on his heart and soul. It binds Norton with this world, a world without that man. It turns Norton back to a doll who can only smile to keep himself from shattering.
They say that the seventh month on the Lunar Calendar is the month of the ghosts.
Norton wakes up at dawn and look around his room. Still the same mess with only one spot of cleanliness. Another day with no sign of life in the room.
The town gathers at the Main Temple to give offerings, to sing and dance and merry away, to chase off the dead back to their place.
Norton doesn’t head for the festivity. Unlike them, he wants to have a ghost haunting him. He isn’t one to believe in the supernatural before.
But he can hope, no?
Hope that maybe, just maybe, the soul of his beloved would return and meet him, in any form but the fragmented memories that torture his dreams. But never once did he come.
Norton always wonder, was he satisfied by the promise Norton made, that he holds no regret at all?
Did he trust Norton that much, when Norton didn’t trust himself?
The moon rises, its gentle light shines on the giant gravestone that Norton is facing. The same place where he and Baden talked.
Norton traces the stone. Upon countless names engraved on the smooth surface, stands the name of his beloved.
Naib Subedar.
Another year without Naib has passed.
As the townspeople start their praying, he too also prays.
He prays, sincerely, for the day he can meet Naib again.