Come! with thy looks, thy words, relieve my woe;

Those still at least are left thee to bestow.

Still on that enamored let me lie,

Still drink delicious poison from thy eye,

Pant on thy lap, and to thy heart be pressed;

Give all thou canst—and let me dream the rest.

                When I woke up sometime later he was long gone and my headache, slowly subsiding. In the time between these two events, she came to me. I dreamt of her often so this was nothing new; like always, it was refreshing to see her face, though equally painful. I was sitting with her in the park where we used to spend our weekends, my hand on hers, her long dark hair spilling over the petite shoulders I had not touched in over a year’s time. How many times have I sat here, this way, in secret congress beyond the waking world? It was here I felt most alive, renewed.

                 She would ask me about my day, the events of my “life” since she’d left it, always disheartened by my lack of news or happiness. She was always faithful to assure me that she was all right, that she had no more pain. Nothing hurt now; no sorrow, nor remorse. This was the story I wanted to share in, but being mortal could not.  

                  “I’m sorry,” I say to her now in this latest dream. She is hauntingly lovely; her presence is heavy. Infinite. “I’m sorry I didn’t meet you.”

                  This time she asks her questions with a shrewd eye, as if expecting a different answer than my norm. I assure her nothing has changed, though it feels deceitful as it slips through my mouth. She seems disappointed I’ve nothing new to share—and all the while I continue to push Taemin further and further down into my dungeon-bound thoughts as we sit here. I am hiding him from this place. I do not want to share this with him; I do not want him to infiltrate this sacred ground. He’d already seized too much already…

                  She remains unfazed by my lament; only smiles through my words. She was always that way—even as she was dying, her smile was unfading. How could someone be so beautifully optimistic? She was the loveliest creature I’d ever seen…

                 Until I met Lee Taemin…

                 This is the vagrant thought that crept in as I spent my imaginary afternoon with her. I did not say it aloud and struggle to smother it from taking root. I do not want to believe these things, yet regardless feel, for the first time, that I have a secret from her. Something to hide, something to be ashamed of.

                  “Tonight. Tonight I will do it.”

                  Again, she says nothing. She rarely does. The words that she speaks to me in dreams are nonverbal; I hear them in my soul. But this time is different. This time I feel a mix of cues. Her eyes are heavy. Sad. Conflicted, even though she is smiling.

                  I did something wrong…

                  I realize then that my subconscious is trying to send images of Taemin mixed in. His presence was trying to infect my brain: I swear I see him—there, walking a dog through the grass; there, taking pictures under the bower of the tall oak; even there, sipping water from the fountain. What is he doing here, and why does he insist on penetrating all of my sacred places?

                  Because you invited him… 

                 My spine sharpened. Had I said this to myself, or had she? Either way, the statement shocks me. I feel somewhat conflicted now, defensive. More and more embarrassed. Did she somehow know? Know that my body, which longed so desperately for hers, had momentarily craved another’s—a man’s?

                 They say that men are less likely to survive their wives’ deaths than the reverse. I don’t know why this is, but it seems to be true. At least had she lived and I died in her place, she'd have had a piece of us to fill the gap. But I have nothing. Because that piece of us died with her too. 

                  I can feel the band of my wedding silver grating against hers. For the first time since her death I feel disconnected. The revelation is brief, but startling…

                  “I love you,” I say. I usually do. I feel her kindness emanating off her; this flower who, though shorn, never stopped her bloom. I watch move, my name hanging on her lips. Those plump, ruddy lips I’d seen reborn in another’s…

                  His. He had the same damn lips. I do not want to see the resemblance; I do not want to see Taemin in her—this reversal is too scary. To find her in him is different; to find him in her, egregiously wrong. Part of me wants to ask her if she knows him. If she is him. But still, I feel the need to hide him from her…

                  Hide him from her?

                  What the is going on…

                  My psyche is apparently unable to keep it up—I awake abruptly, still highly disorientated. The last thing I remember is the image of her twirling a shock of her long black hair between her thumb and forefinger—the way she always did when she was deep in thought. She still did this, even in death. Or was it simply one trying to remember? To cement this reality into permanent, unchanging time?

                  Slowly I stir off the couch, shower, dress. All the routine things of each passing, indiscernable day, the memory of her still fresh in my mind. Too fresh. I was in a bad mood as usual, but for the first time ever? I really didn’t want to go to work—he’d be there. He’d be there...

                  Damn, he was just under my skin. In my thoughts. Messing up the way I functioned, the way that my world made sense. It was infuriating; so much so that as I readied myself for the day, I did it with a clenched jaw. A consternated brow. I could not shake him from my mind, and for some reason, was nervous about seeing him again. He knew entirely too much about me, had too much power. But I would not let him stop me again. 

                  When I unlocked my office door, some hours later, I was surprised to find it kempt and in order. I had forgotten that he somehow talked me into taking down the noose and hiding the suicide confession—

                  Damn that kid. I was only getting more and more upset. I suddenly felt I hated him, even if without real reason. Hated him. I was anxious about seeing him—no doubt I would. No doubt he’d come and find me again. Just like the night before. He’d come and interrupt me again, I was sure of it. Sure of it…

                  So why hadn’t he? I watched the clock on my wall with a strange fascination as the day shifted into night, the light into darkness. Click, click, click—but still he did not come to me. My anger gives way to irritation. Click, click, click—the world around me becomes recluse again as the majority of staff go home for the night, leaving me with myself. Click, click, click—I continue to look out through the blinds of my office window, but do not see him loitering outside. Had he come to work today? Was he all right? Did he make it home safely?

                  Why the should I care?

                  Thoughts racing, I reach for the bottom drawer of my desk. It’s time. Time to do this now. My heart is racing. I pull out the devices of my death—the rope and the letter. But for some weird reason, I see that stupid green envelope as well and decide to take it out also: the birthday card from Mr. Lee Taemin that I hadn’t even bothered to read.

                  Now, for simple curiosity’s sake, I open it. It was simple. Not much said, and had I not read it thrice, I would have easily overlooked the ambiguity of his words: Happy birthday, Mr. Choi. I pray happiness finds you before you do.  

                  I sat there a moment, my eyes tracing the curves of the black ink in curiousity. What the hell did it mean? At simple glance it seemed trite and harmless—but the more I thought on it, the more I wondered if she influenced him. Told him to write this. I had never second-guessed my intentions through her perspective, but if Taemin was somehow connected with my wife, then maybe she was trying to tell me something I had not expected to hear…

                  that. She needs me. She’s waiting. That kid doesn’t know anything. He is nothing…

                Why was I still sitting there, unmoving and unyielding? Click, click, click—the second hand slowly moved, the minute hand even slower. Click, click, click—just where is he anyway? Didn’t he realize that I was about to die? Didn’t he remember? Didn’t he… care?

                What the hell is wrong with me...

                I’d never felt so crazy as I did in that moment when I haggled with myself whether I should fly to my bride or wait for the boy who resembled her. It was nearly midnight now. There is nothing but quiet stillness all around me. I keep staring at the black ink on this goddamn card until, finally, in disgust, I throw it aside and reach for the bottle of gin in the opposite drawer, not bothering to pour it in a glass first.

                A dose of perspective, I darkly joke, then take a second swig from the moistened rim. Antsy and anxious, I take a third. I cannot tell now whether I am hesitant for the right reasons—or if there is a “right” reason at all. All I know now, in my fading serenity, is that the choice between this world and the next had become complicated by a source that has refused to resurface.

               He knew I was going to do this tonight—I told him I was. Maybe I upset him… maybe that’s why he didn’t come back, I think. I had been rather harsh in tone with him. Or maybe he doesn’t give a whether I die or not. He never once asked me not to do it, after all. He never once panicked or looked afraid. He never once asked me to stop…

                  Here, I shrug, trying to believe this is the most logical explanation. But it doesn’t sit right with me, and my mind—aided by another shot—continues to run laps. No. Something must've happened to him. Jesus. He’s probably hurt somewhere. He clearly wasn’t sober enough to make it home by himself…

                  I was slightly worried now, even though I knew the entire time that I should not be. That it was not my problem. That I was here to die, not to be distracted by someone else’s fate. That he was not a kid; not really. That he wasn't my concern in the slightest...

                  Click, click, click—almost 12:20 a.m. now. Last night, Taemin interrupted me far earlier than this. There was no way he was here; I was the only one on the floor. Click, click, click—I am thumbing the ridge of the rope to the ticking sound, remembering the feel of it around my neck the night before and recalling how close I was to my leap.

                  Until he came.

                  Why hadn’t I moved yet? 12:39 and I was still sitting there, waiting for either the courage to continue or the courage to continue waiting. Either way, I felt undone. 

                  There was a sickness in my gut. Too much damn liquor, I complain as I stumbled to scale the desk only to feel the pangs of alcohol-induced vertigo. The higher I was the more ill I became, the rope trembling in my hand, and where I anticipated the drink to fuel my resolve, in the end it only served to deter my momentum that much more.

                  But I promised her. I promised I would do it tonight. She’s waiting… she’s waiting—

                  I am teetering now. My head is spinning. How much had I drank unawares? Drink upon drink; it’s not enough to drown out my soul. Click, click, click—the sound of my heart is no longer in time with the clock. It’s speeding now, an angry march. A determined yet sloppy cadence.

                  A deep breath. My stomach is toiling. Where are the ghosts now? Where are the haunting reminders…

                  Click, click, click—

                 Why the doubt, why do I doubt…

                  Click, click, click— 

                 I feel unable to understand now. Unable to reason, to decide…

                  Click, click, click— 

                 Where was my angel? Where was her presence, her spirit? Where was the one who looked so much like her?

                  Click, click, click—

                 Hazy, I think I see her then; I think I see her face, her smile, the gentle sparkle of her bronze irises—it’s all I need. She came to me. She came… finally. Someone to save me, someone to save... 

                  Click, click, click. 

                 The last thing I am conscious of as the darkness takes over; my eyes close to the world and the cursed clock stops its chime. 

* * * 

                  When I woke up sometime later she was gone and my headache, unremitting. In the time between these two events, he came to me. He came. Why had I seen him? Why did I see him—his face, though confusing to find, was also refreshing. The gentle smile of his, that warmness in his eyes. But that was all over now, of course. Now that I died. I would never see him again. I would never know what happened to him, perhaps he was dead also. Just as well: he was nothing to me, nothing but a brief memory…

                  I overhear the distinct clatter of pans and the running of water. I realized then that I am back in my home. My sanctuary…

                 That means—

                  How could this be? I was in my bed again—and down the hall I could make out her slender silhouette. In the kitchen. She was cooking something. I could smell food—food? How long had it been since…

                 Am I dead, or not?

                  It was a sickening discovery. I had no idea what plain I had landed in, remained, or belonged. I called out her name then, but my voice did not obey me. Instead, the sounds came off like a dull whisper, failing to reach her. But it came to me then—the thought that perhaps we were rejoined in this place again: perhaps this was our new heaven, our new start. Perhaps we were reborn here for each other. Reborn for a second chance, a second life.

                  A warm feeling came over me at the thought of it. To think was too painful; for the first time, I allowed my feelings to swaddle me—allowed myself to experience the hope of emotion. And it was in this comfort that I closed my eyes, now inscrutably heavy, giving in to the peace of the unknown for as long as it would have me.  

_________________

A/N:

About six years ago I lost my father. It was sudden and unexpected. After he died there was a period, especially in the first six months, that he would come to me in my dreams and ask me about my life, how I was, what I was up to, etc. He was always interested to hear about the events of my day and the relationship I was in (to my now-husband). He would also assure me that he was without pain, that we shouldn't worry about him or feel too much remorse. That he was happy. I still have these dreams on occasion, and imagine I will continue to have them for as long as I live myself. I truly believe they are communication from beyond. I can't explain it other than to say it is a spiritual connection. It might sound weird to someone who hasn't experienced this level of loss but this was my insipiration behind this chapter; I can only imagine the tie between spouses overpowers that much more. Minho and his wife having this spiritual tie on a regular basis seems very likely to me, especially since it has only been a year since she left. But the line between his two "ghosts" is blurring now, as is the line between the reality he wants and the reality he sees. We'll have to wait and see what, or who, is waiting for him when he wakes again...

Best, UnnieM ♥