Page 7 of Where Light Cannot Follow

A man appears where there'd been only fog. There’s nothing remarkable about him, certainly not by Manhattan standards. Middle-aged, wearing a cashmere sweater and scarf, with one notable feature. A head of tousled golden curls. He smiles, producing dimples in both cheeks.

His look is casual, but too precise to be accidental, the kind of studied perfection that costs more than it should. He has the face of a model just past his prime, softened by indulgence and money, with an air of someone who’s never had to produce anything of actual value. The type who haunts charity galas, hawking virtue as if it were a luxury good.

"Registered?" I finally speak, surprised at how my voice emerges crisp and clear. My throat aches like I haven't used it in years. I reach up, pressing fingers to my neck, expecting to find some injury. The skin is smooth and undamaged.

The man nods toward the empty street. "Slipped on the ice?"

"There isn't any ice here." The words escape before my memory catches up. My foot hitting sleet. The sudden tilt of the world. Headlights cutting through darkness.

I take a step back.

The man's brow furrows, adding years that his initial appearance concealed. He could be thirty or fifty, but his eyes carry a weight that suggests decades of accumulated knowledge.

"Traumatic endings make the transition more difficult," he says softly. Everything about him reads soft—clothing, voice, demeanor. Cashmere given human form. And I’ve never had patience for softness.

"If you'll excuse me, I'm running late."

I push past him, despite having the entire sidewalk at my disposal. My feet move forward soundlessly, in a way that makes my spine tighten.

"For what?" the man whispers.

I stop, turn back to find him standing beneath a streetlight's glow. Snow drifts around him, collecting in his hair and on his cheeks. He doesn't brush it away.

"Pardon me?"

"What are you late for?"

"That's none of your⁠—"

"You don't have to tell me. But I'm curious if you know yourself."

My mouth opens with a sharp retort, then closes. The words I want, words filled with deflection or sarcasm, slip through my grasp. I press my tongue to my teeth, buying time. The silence grows heavier. I don't know the answer.

Where am I going? Is this morning or evening? Was I heading to work? Home? I'm not dressed for a run. Whatever task I'd set myself, I can't recall it. I slide my hands into my pockets, seeking my phone. Nothing. Just perfectly tailored silk and empty air. Air so still it feels like the entire city is holding its breath.

The man has remained in his place, haloed in light, the only animate thing in this frozen tableau. But there's something in his expression, a decisiveness I recognize from boardrooms and negotiations. He knows something, and he's waiting for me to catch up.

"Where are we?" The words come out louder than intended, echoing against the silence.

He chuckles, a self-conscious sound, and shrugs. There's something deliberately unhurried about him when I most need efficiency.

"That's a more complicated question than you might assume."

Heat flares in my stomach. I stride back toward him, closing the distance until I can examine his eyes. Hazel. Multifaceted, like they're hiding layers of information.

"I don't recognize this street," I say, using a tone that ends discussions. "What part of the city is this?"

The man looks up at the falling snow that glows in the streetlight. "By chance, have you heard of Buddhism?"

"What?" I scoff. Religious lunatic. That explains everything. I must have hit my head when I fell. I need to figure out where I am and get home. Since he's literally the only person on this street and my phone is conspicuously absent, I’ll have to tolerate his ramblings to see if he can help me navigate to a locale more familiar. "Of course I have."

He huffs a soft laugh and looks out at the city's alien skyline. “But of course. You're from the city. Educated." Another chuckle, a shake of his head. “A friend once told me the Buddha said wrong questions don’t lead to liberation.”

I don't know why I'm entertaining this except I genuinely can't remember where I am, and anxiety burns steadily warmer in my gut. I have gaps where memories should be. I was walking home from work—no, I was leaving my building. I slipped. Headlights approached and⁠—

"What do Buddhist texts have to do with anything?"

He smiles again. He doles them out like pennies, casual and endless, the pastime of a man with no real work to anchor him. An influencer, maybe, manufacturing charm for a living. What a waste of a life.