The first rays of sun caress his face while he walks up the slope like he does every morning. He feels the humidity from the ground under his soles with every step, on every footprint he leaves behind. It is just a few feet away, a curve, a crook; just slightly over two minutes what it takes him to reach her every day, to arrive to the place where he buried her. That place that is, among all the places in the universe, the one where her absence is more deafening.

But he comes back every day. In the morning, and then again before sunset. He needs that time with her, with himself. He needs that time to make sure he keeps remembering even the most insignificant details of everything Laura was. To keep her alive in his memory. He needs to give in to the illusion that she can still hear him when he talks to her.

A gentle breeze energizes him; it almost feels as if the universe were urging him. He does not want to walk faster than usual, he does not need to hurry. There is something in the air, though: a subtle presence that might harbor different intentions, as if there was a plan devised for him today.

The path takes a turn around a group of gaunt trees. The cairn can be seen from there. Bill knows, and he looks up, trying to make out its soft outline of stone under the still tenuous light of the day that is just breaking.

He stops cold. There is someone up there. someone is sitting on the mound, on her grave. His first impulse is to run and lift the intruder in the air, whoever it is, for daring to use Laura's resting place, the last home he built for her, as a vulgar seat.

Not the last, he corrects himself: the last will be the cabin, which already is in progress.

He does not do it, however. He stays put, still, squints to sharpen his sight, because there is something too familiar in that quiet, feminine form that faces the horizon, her back turned to him. His gut and his heart guess it, know it even before the sunlight hits her hair making it glow like dark fire. It is then that realization sinks in, breaking through the fog in his mind. He does not understand, but he knows nonetheless: he just must believe what he sees. Either it is true, or he is going insane. His heart drums franticly inside his chest. If this is madness, he does not care. Rather, he prays it lasts. Forever, if possible.

His mouth goes dry, his throat thick. He is grateful he does not know what to do or what to say because he could not speak or move anyway.

She remains still, her back upright, watching the sunrise, oblivious to the sound of his footsteps uphill, walking from the raptor behind her. Her long, slender hands rest on her lap; the soft breeze plays with her hair like he always wanted and never could. When he was finally allowed to sink his fingers in her hair, it was no longer her hair. He was too late for that. For a few more things, too; but he does not want to think about that now. Not when she is right there, in front of him, just a few feet away. And he does not want to speak, does not dare to ask, to take one more step and maybe tread on a stick or a fallen leave that will creak under his weight: she might vanish at the first sound he makes. She might vanish if he blinks.

She might turn around and it might not be her.

It is his feet that move; those two rebels who do not take orders, that cannot stay still when she is just right there; when they can reach her in just a few more steps. Now he is closer, and he can see her much better, and it is her, it is her: the curve of her jaw, the line of her nose, her soft cheeks; Bill was so afraid to not recognize her traits, to come closer only to find out it is someone else; his mind playing tricks on him, disturbing him, presenting him with a cruel mirage.

If his feet do not take orders, why should his tongue?

'Laura.'

It is a sigh, a whisper, a question, a yearning, a prayer. The wind carries his name to her ears, floating in the quiet and the silence of dawn.

He sees her tense up, then she turns around. The universe holds its breath.

As soon as their eyes meet, fear dissipates in Bill's heart: as long as they keep looking at each other, no force in the universe will be able to take her away from him. That morning, in the raptor, he got distracted, let his guard down: if he had kept looking at her instead of trying to distract her with his nonsense about gardening and the landscape, death would have never been able to catch her.

Laura looks at him, looks at him and smiles. She sits up, then stands up, never taking her eyes off him. Yes, that is the sparkle in her eyes, that light he was sure of having lost forever, that he had trusted to the dwindling exactitude of his memory. He sees her hesitate, just like him moments before, but it does not matter anymore. He is awake now, he can move again, albeit in one direction only: the one that takes him to her through the shortest distance, the straightest line. He leaves the twisting path and walks across the grass with sure, ample strides; and he walks faster the closer he comes, and when she finally reacts she only needs to take a couple of steps because he is right there already, outstretching his arms, smiling at her among the tears.

Laura enters the circle of his arms and falls against his chest. A warm tide spreads across his entire body from that center. This was it. This was what he missed, what he needed to be able to breathe again. He holds her flush against him, and she is his again, she belongs to and with him more than she ever belonged to death. Laura's arms wrap around his neck, she buries her face against his shoulder. She is standing on the tip of her toes, leaning all her weight on him desperately, impossibly close. And he pulls her even closer, and challenges the universe to take her away now, just try if you have the guts, just try and you'll see. Her slender, fragile form; holding her, protecting her in his arms seems so much easier than just keeping her around. He breathes in her scent to make sure it is her.

'I thought you'd never come.'

Her voice is a choked sob.

He draws back a little, just enough to see her face without opening his arms, without letting her go: she might just fly away if he releases her; a sudden gust of wind might snatch her away from him.

He plunges in those green pools. Shocked, not quite understanding, he explains:

'I came, Laura. I kept coming every day. Several times every day. But you weren't here. You weren't here.'

He closes his arms around her again, holds her to him with all the strength that stems from the memory of his sorrow, from the bitterness of her absence. Laura cuddles further into him.

'I was here.' She whispers in his ear. 'I was here, but you couldn't see me. I couldn't see you, either.'

Bill holds her tighter one more second, then pulls back a little, brushing his cheek against hers. He kisses her temple, her forehead, her salty eyelids. He looks at her again.

'I don't understand'. He admits.

Laura bites her lower lip, she blinks a couple of times. Bill knows what that means: she is thinking, reflecting. He keeps watching, fascinated, because that expression is so her that it just does not seem possible. He makes a mental note of it, just in case she leaves again, just in case she is taken away from him once more.

Laura's hands rest on his waist, and her serene features suddenly light up, and that is how he knows she has just figured it out. Like always before, he just has to wait for her to share it with him. She always does.

'Have you read the diary?'

Bill nods.

'Some parts. I only found it last night.'

'And the letter?'

'Yes.'

'Hmmm.'

She moves her head on the affirmative, with a satisfied, almost triumphant gesture.

'That's it.'

'What do you mean?'

Bill lifts his hand to her cheek. He is ready for her answer, but the truth is he does not really care, immersed as he is in the profound happiness of having her here, safe in his arms, her skin under his fingertips. Of the explanation she is about to give him, he only cares about the part that will tell him what he did exactly to bring her back. Just in case he has to do it again.

'I was here, Bill. And you came, but you… weren't here. Not really. You just had to… to look at things a little differently. You had to connect with me again. You had to… feel me alive.'

Bill kisses her forehead but he is not convinced, and he can read in her eyes that she has realized that much.

'Even so, Laura. This is a dream. There is no afterlife.'

He knows. He has the certainty of the man who keeps dreaming but knows he is asleep and knows that everything will vanish as soon as he crosses the fog between sleep and wakefulness. She tilts her head to the side and looks back at him tenderly, like one would a kid.

'Maybe this is a dream, but that shouldn't make you jump to conclusions about the afterlife.'

Bill gives her a small smile and holds her tight again. She lets him, and wraps her arms around him, and the force with which she clings to him startles him. It mirrors his own need, his own despair. He keeps holding her close, in part because there is nothing he wants more, in part to stop her from seeing his face as he asks:

'But I need this, Laura. I need to see you, hear you. I need to feel you, breathe you in, touch you, caress you. Dreaming of you is not enough. It is not enough.'

His throat is thick with unshed tears.

'Me too...'

Her admission, calm but broken, makes his chest tight. One hand on her waist, the other in her hair (at last, at last his fingers caressing those wonderful locks), he pulls her back a little.

'You, Laura?'

You too feel this longing, this pain, this loneliness? This is not right. I don't like this. You should be at peace. Just one of us suffering is more than enough. It should be just me, not you. Not anymore.

'Of course, what did you think?' she replies with a small voice.

And she smiles at him. Her cheeks are moist.

Instead of answering, Bill kisses her on the lips. He comes closer slowly but intently. A second before making contact, both close their eyes. Bill parts Laura's lips carefully, and feels the tinge of salt on the corners of her mouth and brushes it away gently with the tip of his tongue, wiping away the traces of that pain that Laura should no longer be feeling. And she welcomes him in her mouth, welcomes him and participates, and dances with him, and slides her long fingers on the nape of his neck, and suddenly it is no longer soft fingertips but nails scratching his skin when he leaves her mouth and his lips move to her earlobe leaving a wet trace behind, and from there they descend along her neck to her collarbone, and she gasps and now, more than ever, Bill is sure it is her. He buries his face in that welcoming space and clings to her waist. He feels Laura's fingers shuffling his hair and murmurs:

'I'm sorry.'

She pulls his face up. When he looks at her, she is smiling through her tears, she smiles all the time as if she could not stop, as if there was no other alternative.

As if there was no time to lose.

Laura cups Bill's face, her palms holding him affectionately, and he wonders if she can guess she really is holding him up entirely. Bill mirrors her smile, turns his face to the side and kisses her palm. The palm of the hand that wears the ring. He feels the cold metal against his cheek and smiles and kisses it, he kisses that band that once was his, and for the first time, he imagines her surprise upon finding it on her finger.

'You didn't need this. My heart was yours already.'

She says it tenderly, plainly, like just stating a fact.

'And mine yours. But I wanted you to take it. Like you took everything else.'

Her expression shifts abruptly and Bill knows exactly what her next words will be.

'I have an idea.'

Some time ago, in their former life, those three words said by her sometimes scared him. Trusting her did not stop his heart from skipping a beat sometimes when he was about to hear one of her suggestions, always original, always daring.

Laura extracts her body from his embrace and he barely holds back a painful grimace. She tugs at his hand and Bill lets her guide him. Wherever it is, he does not care. He is not going to ask as long as she does not break contact.

She walks them closer to her grave. Then, she takes off the golden band and looks at him. Laura's eyes soften; she is reading his hurt and confusion. She stands on her toes, slides a hand behind his neck and kisses him on the lips.

'It's not yours, and it's not mine either, Bill. It's ours. It is our symbol. It belongs in here, it must stay here. This is the meeting point. The limit between our worlds, the place where you talk to me, where I wait for you. When you come by my side to stay, we will get back here together to retrieve it.'

Laura leans over, lifts a stone, puts the ring in the small space and sets the stone back in place again.

Bill understands. And, as always, if that is what she wants, he is okay with it.

He wraps his arms around her waist from behind, lays his palms on her belly, kisses her hair, feels her lean back against him with a deep, happy sigh. He tries not to think about how much longer this will last.

'I love you.'

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He does not remember it until he is already by the grave.

He has all but run all the way up, stumbling, hoping for his painful breathlessness to numb the much more terrible sorrow of his soul upon waking up and seeing she was no longer there. That, just like he guessed, it all had been only a dream.

But right now, panting and sweaty under a sun already high on the sky (the sweetness of the dream has made him sleep in for the first time since she left), as his breathing and his heartbeat find a gentler pace, he squats down by Laura's grave, lays both hands on it and, suddenly, he remembers.

He stares down at the stones, trying to remember which one it was. He hesitates for a few seconds before reaching out towards one small, round form, its color a little lighter than the others. He holds his breath, curses himself for his delusion, grabs the stone and lifts it in one sharp move.

He is not going to look inside. There is nothing inside.

Then again, if there is nothing in that small space, he should not be afraid to look.

He looks.

Something sparkles in the tiny space. Like to dissipate his doubts, the sun reveals its golden color as soon as he leans over to catch a better glimpse. Shaken, he leans over a little more. He outstretches his hand. Even before his fingertips touch it, he knows what it is. He pulls it out.

Bill watches it on the palm of his hand. He holds his breath along with his tears. After a while, he carefully places it back again on the small space and covers it with the stone.

The meeting point.

He lifts his eyes to the sky.

He cries.