Page 76 of Where Light Cannot Follow

"How do I do it?" I ask.

Virgil's clothing has shifted again. He still wears the cashmere sweater, but it’s now paired with tailored charcoal trousers and a cream scarf draped loosely at his neck. His sneakers have darkened to a soft gray, still relaxed but more refined. It suits him perfectly, the way he adorns himself in things he can't feel. Making beauty anyway.

"You simply envision it," he says. "It's a bit like painting, I suppose. Imagine what you want and will it outward. Let it leave your mind and enter this space."

That sounds impossibly abstract. The kind of instruction a meditation retreat would charge thousands for.

But fine. I can do this.

Virgil chuckles. "You seem incredibly enthused."

"I am, in fact."

"Mhmm."

I'm grateful for the easy banter, even knowing it's mortar patching over the crack I created. And perhaps over the words we almost spoke.

I close my eyes. Focus on the image in my mind. The clean lines. The cool surfaces. The way light fell through glass at certain hours.

I gasp when it actually works.

The darkness around us dissolves, and in its place, fourteen-foot ceilings materialize above us. Wide-plank oak stretches beneath our feet, pale and pristine, not a single scratch or scuff. Floor-to-ceiling glass panels span the width of two walls, broken only by the floating marble steps that curve upward to the second floor.

We stand in the living room. Two Poltrona Frau leather chairs—tobacco brown, butter-soft—are angled toward the view. And what a view. Manhattan spreads before us like a circuit board come alive, streets like veins of gold, hundreds of buildings glittering in the darkness below.

Beyond, in the dining room, sits a solid marble table with seating for ten. It never hosted more than two. The kitchen is just visible through an archway, defined by pale oak cabinetry, integrated appliances hidden behind seamless panels, and a six-burner range I’ve used perhaps three times.

Virgil’s breath catches. He takes two steps forward, then stops, overwhelmed.

"This is your home?"

"It was," I say. "Yes."

He moves through the space slowly, reverently, his eyes consuming every detail. I walk alongside him, opening cabinets when his gaze lingers too long on a handle, pulling out drawers to reveal contents I half-remember. Some spaces are imperfect. I can't recall what filled them. The cabinet beside the gas fireplace is simply dark inside, undefined. Virgil doesn't seem to mind. He's like a scholar granted access to a lost library, cataloging everything with breathless precision.

"What's this?" He's noticed a seam in the wall, a subtle gap in the otherwise smooth surface.

"The elevator. Do you know what that is?"

He shakes his head.

I grin and slide my hand over the discreet glass panel beside it. The doors part silently, revealing the brushed steel interior, and we step inside.

Virgil staggers slightly at the reflective surfaces, at our images multiplied infinitely in the mirrored walls. I watch him take in our reflections as the doors glide closed. Without thinking, I extend my hand toward him. He curls his fingers just above mine, and for a moment—in the reflection, at least—it looks as though he's holding my hand.

Something tightens in my chest.

"Does this room serve some purpose?” he asks, still staring at our almost-touching hands in the mirror.

I clear my throat. "Press that button—the one marked L—and you'd descend to the lobby. That's the receiving area. There's usually someone playing piano, light refreshments, and…” I fight a grimace. “…residents eager to discuss the weather or politics or whatever triviality passes for conversation among people with too much money and too little purpose."

Virgil laughs at that. A real laugh, surprised out of him.

"Come," I say. "This isn't what I'm most eager to show you."

We leave the elevator and cross back through the living room. I open the balcony doors, tall glass panels that slide soundlessly into hidden pockets, and we step outside.

Manhattan settles into night around us.