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My heart pounds in my breast. It is not only the altitude and the thin air that makes me gasp like a terrified prisoner facing the gallows. This is like my nightmares, where I try to run but feel as if I'm wading through treacle as a horror unfolds ahead that I cannot stop.
I’m being a fool, I tell myself. It's only a mountain path for tourists to enjoy the views and test their stamina. A lovely scenic walkway in idyllic countryside in early May, greenery and tiny white flowers. But the memory of rushing water drowning out my screams fills my head.
I was going to come back here earlier. I would walk this path to the site, leave tobacco at the spot in his memory. Year after year, my cowardice and grief overwhelmed me when I tried to make plans, and I stayed home. Now, at last, I am back.
A touch like a butterfly on the back of my hand.
Instantly my inner turmoil subsides.
I am not alone. Another stands beside me. A murmur. "Is it not strange, my dearest Watson, that this smiling scene fills us both with such remembered dread?"
Again, my heart pounds. For him, I will stay close; we will face those terrible falls again, together. For him, I will be brave.