Mist

There is a golden mist that clings to the hills of the Faroe Islands. It presses against her face as she stands, barefoot on the autumn grass, near the rim of a cliff. It is like nothing she has ever witnessed, and she trembles in the face of such splendor. She pulls her lilac sweater closer to her skin, beckoning warmth, as tranquility touches her spirit like the seraphic hand of an angel.

Then she sees him.

He sits alone, on the far end of the cliff overlooking a waterfall. His hands are folded in his lap and his head is angled downwards. I love you. The mist that surrounds him is different from her own—it is dark, like unpolished silver. The grass, which glows like emeralds where she is standing, is darker still.

The place is not so foreign to her now. It was him, she realizes, that first introduced her to it. He hasn’t seen her yet, and he can’t seem to detect her presence through the shroud of silver darkness. She takes a step towards him and shuts her eyes. The dark is a hindrance to her; she hesitates to move.

There is always a choice.

But how, she asks the mist, could she wish for this, over being there beside him? There is no answer. Walking forward once more, she prays the gold will cling to her as it has to the hill of the Island.

She stands behind him now and though he does not turn around, his mind has opened into hers.

I love you.

His thoughts are steeped in a sadness she cannot comprehend.

I love you too.

Guilt, grief, desolation—the weight is pulverizing. She presses her hand against his shoulder and her love emanates like the waterfall, crashing beneath them.

You love me, but you cannot save me.

She nods, leaning forward to kiss his head.

But I won’t stop trying.

 

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