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“By what reference could I have noticed, since I have no memory of my past life?”
She frowns.
“Is this common to all ghosts?” she says aloud, more to herself than to me.
“How's the motorcycle?”
She nods.
“I'll have to find a room, but that shouldn't be difficult. Then I'll rest.”
After a moment's silence, she adds,
“Tomorrow, we'll return to the outskirts of the manor.”
So, she hasn’t given up. She's really going to help me. The very thought sends a shiver down my spine. I barely realize she's leaving the room in search of a garage.
Our meeting is providential.
How does she live? How does she support herself? It can't be the meager bursary she receives at each service that provides her with food and lodging, so she has other means at her disposal. A salary from the Brotherhood? Savings? I'll have to ask her, although as far as I'm concerned, it's of little importance.
When she reappears with the lifesaving piece clutched to her chest, she gives me the impression of a child delighted with a stuffed toy she's won at the fun fair. It's as if the relief of knowing her bike is repairable is enough to blur for a moment the pain she feels the rest of the time.
A few strands escape from her unstructured braid as she works to reassemble the jigsaw puzzle that is her contraption and, as a sign of intense concentration, bites her tongue, which protrudes from her fleshy lips. She's a beautiful woman. Of course, I can't make comparisons with others; those I've met so far are just faces without distinct features, and as for those from my past... I'm not in a position to answer.
Strange tattoos snake across her arms, like warnings at the entrance to a protected sanctuary.
With the utmost meticulousness, her slender fingers gradually reconstruct the engine's complex tangle, which eventually returns to its original appearance, minus the grime.
“What are you going to do when we find out who I am?”
She takes her eyes off the bike and stares at me, puzzled.
“Nothing in particular. I'll get back to work.”
This unlikely rescue mission is just a parenthesis in her life. But what about me? What happens when I find out? Will I wander alone into the mists of time? Will she free me from my torments? Will she allow me to join her infinite journey?
She lets out a satisfied sigh and slumps onto the bed before devouring the packet of potato chips she's gleaned from the vending machine at the end of the corridor, her empty eyes riveted on the small TV set hanging on the wall. This program doesn't interest her; it occupies her, distracting her attention from what's torturing her existence.
When at last she unplugs herself, she pulls out a small piece of paper from the inside pocket of her jacket, lying carelessly beside her. A worn photo. In it, she’s smiling radiantly as she holds up a chubby, laughing child. A memory... How I envy being able to cherish this moment, even if it seems painful.
She murmurs a few words and immediately falls asleep, carried away by a sleep full of nightmares.
I return home, exhausted and desperate. On the stoop, I cry out my helplessness until I'm out of breath, then hide in my living room. Elsa is there, dozing in front of the TV still on. Watching my tender child asleep brings me a little comfort, before I too sink into a sleep heavy with horrible nightmares.
The Sin Eaters Brotherhood haunts my dreams. In the world of dreams, I attend integration ceremonies, as well as celebrations for the deceased, without anyone seeming to notice my presence. The gestures are clear, the formulas precise, the effects obvious.
Suddenly, an officiant appears out of nowhere, grabs me by the shoulders and shouts, centimeters from my face,
“Join us, Brother Eltz! Your sacrifice will not be in vain!”
He then places his palm on the inside of my wrist. White, foul-smelling smoke billows from it. I feel as if I've been branded. I scream and gesticulate in all directions, to the point of being roused from my sleep.
Here's the solution: if I can't find a Sin Eater to save my children from eternal damnation, I'll become one, whatever the cost.
I have to find out how to do it.
In the wee hours of the morning, I make myself a cup of coffee and reach for a notebook and pen—my phone has been dead for a while now, depriving me of the pages of notes I'd become accustomed to recording on it—to summarize my dream. I take care to detail every gesture, every location, every element. I don't know how important these details are, so I try to reproduce exactly what I saw in my dream in the hope that this is the real procedure.
