Page 9 of Where Light Cannot Follow

Two more blocks. Another turn. There he is again, leaning against a lamppost, that same unhurried smile.

"Lovely weather for a walk," he comments.

My jaw tightens, but I press forward. Statistical anomaly. Nothing more.

Third corner. Fourth. Each time I round another intersection, expecting different scenery, different faces, different anything, I find him. Waiting. Smiling. Acting as though his presence is perfectly reasonable.

"Why are you always here?" I finally growl, my carefully maintained composure fracturing.

“Isn’t a man allowed to walk around the city?”

"Why are you the only man doing so? Every corner, you're always standing there."

His lips part, then press back together before he speaks. "You remember me."

The words carry an odd weight, as if remembering him is some kind of achievement. I shove my hands into my pockets and walk on. This is lunacy.

"Wait." He hurries to stride beside me, matching my pace despite his unhurried demeanor. The contradiction irritates me. Everything about him suggests leisure, yet he moves with perfect efficiency when needed. "I don't mean to be confusing."

My steps halt abruptly, and he stops just as suddenly. "You have been nothing but nonsensical and confusing since we met."

"Which was when?"

I narrow my eyes, staring him down. He raises his hands in a gesture of innocence—bare hands, I notice for the first time. Long, smooth fingers, neatly trimmed nails that catch the distant streetlight and seem to glow golden at the edges. Perhaps I’m noticing him simply because he's the only thing in this entire city with color or life.

"Why are your hands bare?" The question emerges before I can stop it. "You'll freeze in this weather."

He examines his hands, turning them over with the meticulous attention of a researcher. When he looks up again, those ancient eyes meet mine. "What weather?"

Frustration flares, and I throw my arms out. "It's Christmas Eve. It's frigid out here."

But even as the words leave my mouth, I realize they're incorrect. It isn't frigid. Nor is it warm. The air carries no temperature at all. There’s a complete absence of thermal sensation that my mind has been filling in with expectation. If anything, it's nothing. A void where weather should exist.

His gaze sweeps the charcoal-drawn buildings, their substance more suggestion than reality. "Christmas Eve, yet there are no decorations."

“The one benefit of the evening. I hate Christmas."

This snaps his attention back to me with laser focus. "Truly? Why?"

"It's frivolous. Besides, just open your eyes, there are decorations everywh—" I turn to point at the usual holiday excess, only to realize he's correct. Somehow, I hadn’t noticed, but there isn't a single holiday ornament in sight. No lingering menorahs, no oversized Christmas trees, no tacky inflatable decorations cluttering storefronts. Only dark streets stretching endlessly ahead.

I take a single step forward. No sound registers. Again.

The urge to check my watch rises, but I push the thought down. I know what it will display. Instead, I release a breath that should escape as fog in the cold air. It doesn't. With trembling fingers, I reach for the pulse at my neck. Nothing. Again, nothing.

The swallow feels difficult, mechanical. His words echo through my consciousness. You're dead.

When I turn back, the man stands exactly as before. His expression now holds something I recognize as sorrow, genuine regret that’s visible in the sweep of wrinkles across his brow, the way his shoulders curve inward slightly.

"Who are you?" The question emerges with sudden urgency.

"Ah, yes, that's a fine starting point." He grins, dimples appearing once more. The ease with which he transitions between complex emotions would make him useless in trading—too transparent, too genuine for profitable negotiation. "I'm Virgil."

I thrust my hands into my pockets to resist checking for my nonexistent pulse again. "Like the poet?"

At this, he chuckles. "Not like the poet. The poet himself."

Another puff of breath emerges without creating the expected cloud and fails to interact with the environment as physics demands. "You're telling me that I've died and I'm now talking with an ancient Greek poet?"