Page 95 of Where Light Cannot Follow

But I'm not certain any of it matters anymore.

Dante is gone.

I wander back into his apartment, sink back into one of the leather chairs—Dante's chair, in Dante's home, overlooking Dante's city—and watch the lights of Manhattan glitter in their eternal twilight.

This is what remains.

Memory without presence. Love without object. A ghost haunting a ghost of a place that belonged to someone who is no longer here.

I close my eyes and let the silence hold me.

34

DANTE

I wake with a start, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Smooth, seamless plaster stretches above me, punctuated by recessed lighting I'd had custom-installed three years ago. The automated blinds have opened on their schedule, and the earliest brush of golden sunlight glides along the far wall.

I sit up sharply, disoriented.

I'm wearing a suit. Rumpled. Worn.

And worse than that.

There's a hole torn through one knee, the fabric frayed and filthy. The jacket's lining hangs in tatters, buttons missing from the shirt, and an entire sleeve half-ripped from the shoulder seam. My oxfords are scuffed beyond recognition, caked with mud and something darker. My wool overcoat lies crumpled on the floor beside the bed, one side of it bearing the unmistakable tread marks of tires.

The clothes I died in.

My phone rests on the nightstand. I snatch it from the charger and stare at the screen.

December 25th.

Christmas morning. The day after I died.

I stare numbly at the date for a long moment, then slide the phone into my pocket out of habit. I reach for my watch on the nightstand—then stop.

I leave it where it lies.

My footsteps carry me across the bedroom to where sunlight slowly creeps up the surrounding buildings. Frost laces the window's edges, but the day beyond is bright and clear. No snow. Few cars on the streets below. The city holding its breath for the holiday.

I'm alive. Again.

I made a deal with Satan, and he managed to return me to my life exactly as it was. But⁠—

"Virgil," I call out.

I walk into the bathroom. Undisturbed. Marble countertops gleaming, towels precisely folded, everything exactly as the cleaning service left it. I check the guest suite down the hall. Empty.

"Virgil," I call again, louder now.

I descend the floating staircase to the main floor and prowl through the apartment, searching. The living room with its leather chairs angled toward the view. The office lined with books I've never read. The dining room with its marble table that never hosted a single party. The kitchen with its gleaming appliances that I’ve barely touched.

"Virgil!" The name echoes off the walls and returns to me unanswered.

Panic ricochets through my chest. I press two fingers to my throat and find my pulse hammering against them—alive, alive, alive—as though my body is trying to convince me of something my mind can't accept.

I walk to the balcony doors, hoping beyond reason despite the floor-to-ceiling glass, even though I can already see the space is empty.