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“Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Devoting your life to strangers whose fate is already sealed?”
My determination—along with my faith—is already crumbling by the day, and if he adds to it, it's going to get complicated.
“I promised.”
Why is he asking me all these questions? I'm just an intermediary meant to help him; he doesn't care what I feel. However, watching him observe me with such interest, concentrating on my feelings or my answers, looking as if he genuinely wants to get to know me better, I could almost be convinced. But that's forgetting that I've lost the habit of pouring myself out, left to my own devices for too long, diligently practicing a solitary task. Since my encounter with this ghost, it's become less clear. That I’ve failed in my mission is already unprecedented and revealing, but now I feel the irrepressible need to keep him alive, without being able to understand why. What kind of influence can a dead person have on a living human?
We don't know each other, and he's no more than an ordinary stiff, yet I'm mesmerized by his aura and the presence he exudes. I'm drawn like a butterfly to the light that will fry its wings. But there's no way I'm going to stray from the path laid out by the Brotherhood—they're the only ones who can help me.
“I watched you yesterday,” he begins, his voice enchanting. “The child in the photo is special, isn't he?”
Every mother in the world would enthusiastically agree. What exactly does he mean by that? That he's the center of my universe, that's a certainty. As for why I was separated from him, I haven't the slightest idea. And what I'm prepared to sacrifice to get him back? Everything.
I nod, trying as best I can to hold back the tears that crowd the corners of my eyes as they do every time I think of my missing son.
“Forgive me, I didn't mean to upset you,” he says sympathetically. “I would have liked to tell you about myself, but I don't know if I even have any descendants. If only I could shorten our collaboration so that you could find him quickly, rest assured I would do so without hesitation.”
He doesn't get it. I don't have the strength to explain to him that, like the rest of my existence, nothing is as straightforward as a simple desire. That even when I'm done with him, I'll go on to the next dead person and the next, with no real hope of finding my child, unless the Brotherhood finally unearths some clues and is kind enough to share them with me.
“How did you come by this passion for mechanics?” he asks in an effort to divert my attention from the pain that's consuming me. “It's unusual for a young woman...”
“Why should it be?” I ask, noting that, like any man alive, he seems to believe his peers are more capable than any woman.
“I can't explain it,” he admits, surprised by my visceral reaction.
“It shouldn't shock anyone. Mechanics is the thirst for understanding. Pure logic. You don't need family jewels for that.”
“Obviously.” He smiles.
This simple gesture is enough to relax me. He's irresistible. But who is he? How come he knows so much and so little at the same time?
“Say, without talking about your identity or your life, don't you have a vague idea of your origins?”
“Unfortunately not.”
“Because your language is really—”
“My language? What's so special about it?”
“It’s downright stuffy!” He sounds like an encyclopedia. Who speaks like that these days?
“At least you're not criticizing me for my lack of vocabulary,” he observes, smirking.
“I’m not blaming you.”
Despite what I claim, everything about him appeals to me: his aura, his bearing, and his words. Could he be of royal blood? Has he traveled through time? All of the above?
You're going astray!
“Believ?”
“Hmm?”
“Thank you.”
