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"Come, Talha." The old man rested his hand on her arm, his skin papery and brittle. It wouldn't be long before he joined his forebears and left her there alone.
"You are young," he said, seeing the lost look in her eyes. "You've plenty of time to live, and no time to waste mourning. Not while I'm here, and not when I'm gone. You've better things to do, girl. You must return to where you came from. You must live."
One of his legs dragged limply behind the other; she helped him to support his weight, slight though it was. She eased him down into his seat, an unadorned wooden chair he'd made himself. He sighed, stretching, feeling the joy of the sun on his skin, the smell of rain just ended that quenched every leaf and vine. It was a day to be alive. He raised his hands to the heavens and sang in his native tongue, softly, a whisper of melodious words. She knelt beside him and listened. Just listened, as she had so many times before. She closed her eyes and was transported.
She saw the ghosts of the past, the wisps of the future, and she stood among them, reveling in their essence. She let them flow through her, cleansing her soul, filling her heart with hope and joy. Here, spirits were deathless things, and he would be forever just a song away. She smiled. She opened her eyes when the singing stopped. She clasped his hand urgently, squeezing
tight.
NEXT
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