The Silver Year: Chapter 23

Chapter 23

Grateful For The Dead



“Is this the best of all​​ possible worlds?” Walter asked​​ the statue of​​ Voltaire from the crypt floor.

“God, I hope not,”​​ the statue​​ replied​​ back. “But​​ you​​ should​​ always​​ be grateful​​ for​​ a​​ garden​​ that needs cultivating. Boredom doesn’t come from an absence of happiness,​​ but​​ from an absence of suffering,​​ because without suffering,​​ eventually​​ philosophical speculating—aka​​ those voices in​​ your​​ head—will​​ drive​​ you​​ to suicide.”

But​​ still,” Walter said, “what an​​ absurd​​ way of​​ looking​​ at life.​​ I need​​ suffering​​ to make​​ life​​ fulfilling?​​ And how​​ much​​ uncultivated garden can​​ one person​​ handle before it’s​​ better to​​ just​​ put down the plough and pick up the gun?”

“That’s a question only the person can answer because it is the only​​ question​​ everyone must answer,​​ whether or whether not​​ to​​ commit suicide​​ in the face of life’s absurdity.”

“Okay​​ Camus, no one asked your opinion.”

Well,” the statue said, “you’re the one who brought up absurdity. And you don’t think I’ve kept up with the progression of philosophy in the afterlife?​​ But regardless, the conclusion to​​ his​​ and​​ my​​ opinions are the same.​​ A mountainous journey contains many more miles than​​ a​​ flat one​​ because it offers the perspective of a new dimension. And perspective​​ is​​ where​​ the​​ beauty of suffering can be​​ seen​​ and how one can appreciate the​​ absurdity​​ of the​​ journey—or their garden.

Or in other words...”​​ Walter rubbed​​ his chin​​ “...enlightenment through​​ suffering​​ . . .​​ You know​​ Voltaire,​​ everyone pins you as​​ optimism’s adversary,​​ but​​ I​​ actually​​ believe you’re​​ one of its biggest advocates.​​ You just believe​​ optimism shouldn’t be blind and idle, but instead​​ be​​ the​​ fertilizer for​​ our​​ gardens.​​ Because only through the shit of life can we grow a new perspective on it.​​ And while I’m not​​ certain​​ of anything anymore, I am​​ certain​​ of this: insanity certainly​​ hasn’t been​​ boring.​​ So cheers to you​​ Monsieur Arouet,​​ or​​ shall​​ I say,​​ santé!​​ 

Sat upon the ground, leaning against a marbled wall,​​ Walter​​ raised his​​ CamelBak backpack​​ to the statue​​ like a hobo​​ raising​​ a flask,​​ then stuck the straw in his mouth and sucked the last of his​​ whiskey-water​​ mixture down.

“Don’t tell Rousseau or the Curies I said it,”​​ Walter​​ continued, “but in this ‘temple of every god’,​​ you’re mine.​​ If there was anyone I’d want to​​ sit​​ down and have​​ a drink​​ or joint with—actually you know what, let’s go 18th​​ Century style and​​ get loaded on caffeine​​ and find a salon to theorize in.

“Yes sir, please​​ do,” the museum security guard​​ said. He then turned​​ to​​ the statue. “But I’m sorry Voltaire, you must stay here. However, I believe it will make no difference if you want​​ to​​ still carry on this conversation​​ elsewhere.”

“What?” Walter said. “I don’t understand.”​​ 

Monsieur,​​ vous devez partir, s’il vous plait.”

Quoi—I mean, what?​​ Je ne comprends pas français—I mean,​​ I don’t understand French.”

The guard exhaled politely.​​ “You must go.”

Cinq minutes plus s’il vous plait?—I mean,​​ can I have five​​ more—”

“Can you please stop that​​ sir?​​ Please, just French​​ or​​ English. And no,​​ I already give you five minutes. The other guests, they complain. You are not​​ here​​ alone.”

“Oh.”​​ The audience​​ of​​ tickled​​ and​​ uneasy​​ faces​​ suddenly appeared​​ before​​ Walter’s eyes.​​ When he first entered Voltaire’s tomb, he​​ was​​ alone, but in the two hours since and​​ a​​ CamelBak’s​​ worth of whiskey-water​​ later, apparently it had filled without his notice.​​ 

“I’m​​ calling the​​ police,”​​ the​​ security guard said.​​ Walter jumped up quickly.

“No-no.​​ Not necessary,” he said.​​ It’s time for me to​​ go​​ anyway.​​ I have other people to see—or not see.” He​​ then​​ turned​​ to​​ Voltaire​​ one​​ last​​ time.​​ Merci​​ moi.​​ Merci.


Taking a taxi, Walter​​ told the driver to​​ take a lap of the city past the Eiffel Tower,​​ then​​ to do​​ a few rounds​​ on​​ the world’s most famous roundabout​​ around​​ the​​ Arc de Triomphe.​​ Looking out the windows​​ as they drove,​​ he​​ had never seen anything like​​ Paris​​ before. Flat pastures of​​ neoclassical architecture​​ barnacled​​ the earth like​​ an endless palatial​​ garden, and in the distant,​​ hazy horizon, a small cluster of​​ skyscraper​​ islands,​​ fenced in distinct districts​​ of modernity.

After a sleepless night in his Amsterdam hostel, he’d taken the first train​​ to Paris. And as much as he tried​​ to​​ sleep then drink himself to sleep on the train,​​ his mind wouldn’t​​ give him peace, and especially​​ not after​​ he was in the city.​​ So​​ after dropping his bags off at a​​ hotel baggage check, he​​ immediately​​ began consulting the dead​​ he knew in Paris​​ before the living​​ since​​ the dead​​ had been of more help​​ lately.​​ But after​​ speaking​​ with Descartes​​ in​​ the Saint-Germain-des-Prés abbey​​ that morning,​​ then​​ with the​​ Curies,​​ Rousseau,​​ and​​ his longest​​ visit,​​ Voltaire,​​ that afternoon in the​​ Panthéon,​​ he found the​​ consultations​​ lacking compared to​​ his one​​ the night before.​​ And as hard as he tried to​​ take​​ himself​​ out of the conversation​​ with​​ whiskey​​ and believe he was hearing their​​ voices,​​ he​​ really​​ knew​​ he was only​​ consulting​​ himself​​ through the​​ dead. But​​ really,​​ was there any difference?

After breezing past​​ the​​ Eiffel Tower, his taxi​​ crossed​​ over​​ the​​ Seine, then​​ entered​​ the​​ Arc de Triomphe​​ roundabout​​ that was​​ ten unmarked lanes wide with twelve intersecting streets.​​ Cutting​​ into this circus, it​​ seemed like everyone was in a game to get to the center​​ of the roundabout where its stone overlord stood​​ like the​​ Kaaba​​ to motor vehicles.​​ Tour buses took polite, lethargic turns around, while small cars and scooters stung and squirmed through​​ open​​ gaps. There was a constant cheeping of​​ horns, not so much in discord, but in communication like bats echolocating​​ each​​ other. Taxi cars​​ were the most common​​ worshiper,​​ crammed​​ with​​ people​​ craning their necks and cameras up to capture the colossal creature in the center​​ standing​​ taller than any surrounding building and resembling​​ a gigantic, gaudy anchoring pin​​ dedicated to “winning”.​​ But as​​ Walter​​ orbited​​ this​​ triumphal​​ arc,​​ all he​​ could​​ think about​​ was​​ the​​ defeats​​ it​​ played a role in, however,​​ a monument​​ erected​​ to the ego in the center of your city​​ is​​ just asking to be​​ made​​ a mockery of.

The​​ irony​​ of this​​ “triumphal” arc​​ and​​ its​​ circling circus​​ was making​​ for very comical surrealism in Walter’s​​ liquored​​ head. He began to gush with laughter​​ which​​ soon turned to hiccups. Then the lack of oxygen and spinning began making him feel​​ dizzy​​ and​​ suddenly his whiskey wanted out.​​ His taxi driver​​ hearing his dry heaving as​​ it​​ climbed up​​ his​​ esophagus,​​ raced to the center just in time for Walter to​​ expel it out​​ onto​​ the​​ arc.​​ The taxi​​ then​​ skidded away, but​​ Walter​​ easily found another sucker​​ at​​ a​​ nearby taxi lane​​ and continued on his way​​ to​​ Père Lachaise Cemetery.


Dans ces​​ derniers jours!”​​ a​​ stoutly​​ woman​​ vagrant​​ was shouting​​ at the​​ gates of the main entrance of the​​ cemetery​​ like​​ a​​ retail​​ department store greeter.​​ Although​​ Walter​​ was only able to decipher the aforementioned​​ phrase​​ which followed almost every sentence,​​ it was clear she​​ was trying to scare the uncaring​​ sightseers​​ walking past her​​ into repentance, and​​ he​​ couldn’t ignore her.

 ​​ “…dans ces derniers jours!” she​​ shouted in his face​​ after some muddled French.

 “Quoi?” he said, but got the same response. She then reached out and put something in his hand. It was a map of the cemetery.

 “Oh.​​ Merci,” he said​​ to her. “Où est Chopin?” he asked pointing to the map, but​​ got the same​​ dans ces derniers jours!​​ response.

Using​​ the​​ map instead,​​ he​​ easily​​ located​​ Chopin beneath his impressive​​ and gated​​ tombstone​​ which​​ not only​​ had​​ his​​ portrait​​ carved into it, but a life-size sculpture of the muse of music,​​ Euterpe, weeping​​ on top of​​ it.

Sitting at the steps of​​ the​​ grave,​​ looking at​​ Chopin’s​​ face,​​ little was said​​ from Walter,​​ but​​ much was felt,​​ just like​​ Chopin’s​​ music.​​ Then like Euterpe,​​ Walter​​ too​​ shed deep sobs over the short and somber life​​ which​​ was Frédéric Chopin’s.

Tormented by ill love and health all his life and estranged from his Polish homeland and heritage, the vulnerability, intimacy, and​​ emotion​​ which​​ fed his compositions​​ listens like​​ a​​ diary,​​ as if​​ written​​ for his hands and ears only, which in a way,​​ they were.​​ Unlike the many prominent​​ and​​ showboating Parisian pianists of his time, Chopin hated the spotlight and rarely performed publicly, preferring the privacy of salons​​ instead. The ultimate and original romantic, he died young and broke at the age of thirty-nine, but​​ composing since the age of seven, his artistic output was that of a man who knew he had little time on​​ Earth.

Once finished with his weeping, Walter opened his​​ backpack​​ and​​ took out a small bouquet of violets he’d purchased​​ from a flower shop that morning and placed them on​​ the​​ grave,​​ then continued on.


Not far​​ from​​ Chopin’s​​ was​​ the much more modest​​ tomb​​ of​​ Marcel​​ Proust,​​ just​​ a​​ forlorn​​ black​​ platform​​ etched​​ with​​ his​​ name.​​ Sitting on it,​​ Walter​​ ran his hand over the​​ letters cut into the polished​​ black​​ marble​​ and thought about Amber. Even though​​ he was there because she asked him, he’d grown a​​ great​​ appreciation for​​ the writer​​ because of her.

Inspired by his father who had been responsible for eradicating cholera in France,​​ Marcel​​ Proust​​ wanted​​ to​​ write a book that would do as much good for humanity as his father’s work.​​ The subsequent result was​​ a​​ massive​​ masterpiece called​​ In Search of Lost Time,​​ a​​ story about a​​ man’s journey​​ to​​ find the​​ meaning and purpose​​ of life​​ in​​ an​​ effort to learn how to best appreciate existence and​​ make the best use of​​ time. In it are explored three possible answers.

Fame?”​​ Walter said to the grave.​​ “If only I had read your book when I was younger maybe I wouldn’t have wasted so much time seeking​​ it because​​ it’s​​ exactly as you said:​​ a​​ fraud.​​ Anyone who thinks​​ fame​​ will​​ gain you access to some extraordinary stratum of​​ happiness​​ will​​ be sorely disappointed.​​ No​​ amount of money, celebrity, or titles can​​ ever​​ save you​​ from​​ misery,​​ loneliness, and stupidity.

“So what about love?​​ I mean,​​ that’s why I’m​​ here​​ in​​ Paris—I think.​​ But however honorable​​ love​​ may​​ advertise​​ itself,​​ fulfilling​​ your life through​​ the love of​​ another has only a vacuum of meaning​​ once that love abandons you, a lesson Amber​​ unfortunately​​ taught me all too well, but so did Shiva.​​ We will always be lonely​​ islands​​ within the sea of​​ ourselves,​​ and​​ until​​ you can get comfortable living there,​​ no one else will.

“So​​ what? Are​​ we just supposed to​​ be content in our​​ suffering​​ then, cultivating​​ our​​ gardens​​ on our​​ lonely​​ islands?​​ And the​​ answer is yes. As children,​​ our gardens and islands​​ were all we needed. And it’s​​ not​​ so much we grew out of them,​​ we just forgot​​ how​​ big​​ and extraordinary​​ they​​ actually​​ are. But​​ what reminds​​ us​​ is art. It can make​​ even the most mundane​​ novel again.​​ And whether we​​ consider ourselves​​ ‘novel’-ists​​ or not,​​ we’re​​ all​​ writing​​ at least​​ one​​ story: our life, and doesn’t that story deserve​​ to be novel?​​ Should it not be​​ the medium for​​ our​​ greatest​​ masterpiece?​​ Yet so many of us​​ copy​​ in​​ fear of failure​​ and​​ surrender​​ our childhood powers of creativity and curiosity​​ to the stability and predictability of habit, then wonder​​ why the time seems to pass​​ us by​​ so​​ quickly or why life always feels so empty.​​ The purpose and meaning of life is finding​​ purpose in meaninglessness​​ and​​ meaning in purposelessness, and for everyone that​​ answer​​ is​​ different, but it can only come from​​ questioning yourself. However,​​ that’s​​ a​​ hard​​ thing​​ to do​​ if​​ you​​ don’t love yourself​​ or​​ are afraid to be​​ with​​ yourself.​​ Yourself shouldn’t be a stranger.”

Walter​​ stood​​ up from the​​ tombstone​​ in astonishment. Although he knew the story,​​ he had never understood​​ it​​ so clearly until now. But the arrow of time​​ is​​ often​​ what finally​​ zippers​​ the cogs of knowledge and experience​​ together​​ into understanding.

He​​ took out a metal spoon from his backpack and found a small​​ patch of dirt next to the tomb​​ and began digging. Once he had a small hole, he took out Amber’s suicide note and placed it in​​ it.

“Thank you,” he said. “I hope you can forgive me. But even if you don’t think I deserve forgiveness, I will always love you for what you​​ always​​ gave​​ me:​​ love.​​ You didn’t deserve to die alone​​ feeling​​ unloved, and​​ I’m so sorry​​ for that​​ Amber. I love you.​​ I love you.”

He then took out his lighter and​​ lit​​ the note, and once it was ashes, he buried them​​ in the dirt​​ and​​ continued​​ to​​ his final grave.​​ 


The air seemed to suddenly chill as Walter​​ neared​​ Jim Morrison’s grave,​​ his purposeful​​ final destination. It was​​ hidden in a dense thicket of headstones,​​ but​​ he​​ knew he was​​ getting​​ closer​​ by​​ the growing number of young people​​ around, but​​ also​​ a faint​​ voice​​ prickling​​ his ears​​ telling him​​ so.​​ Stopping to listen, he then heard what the​​ voice​​ was​​ saying—or more so,​​ singing:​​ “Harvest​​ Moon”. His​​ hair stood​​ on end.​​ 

“No, it’s not,”​​ Walter​​ said, but it sure sounded like it.​​ He​​ had​​ never heard another voice like it.

Tremoring,​​ he​​ moved​​ slowly​​ toward the​​ singing,​​ the volume​​ of the voice​​ increasing.​​ Then​​ after​​ cresting​​ a hill,​​ he​​ at last saw​​ the grave he’d​​ been seeking,​​ and in front of it,​​ a​​ brilliant​​ red​​ beacon​​ beaming​​ in​​ the sunlight, the same red he had seen​​ on the pillow.​​ However, whoever was beneath this​​ red had her back to him and was​​ sitting with a guitar, playing to​​ the grave.​​ Around her was a small crowd listening under a gum-and-graffiti-infested tree that had been decorated by Jim’s admirers.

Continuing​​ forward, Walter​​ started singing along.​​ Hearing his​​ voice,​​ she​​ turned around and roused to her feet in surprise, dropping the guitar on the ground, but neither​​ of them​​ stopped​​ singing.​​ Her​​ gray​​ eyes were​​ tinted​​ by​​ rose-colored glasses​​ and a​​ royal blue summer dress​​ hung​​ over​​ her​​ black canvas Doc Martens.​​ They​​ stepped toward him.

Once within reach,​​ Walter​​ touched​​ her​​ face, expecting​​ it​​ to change​​ like the others,​​ but​​ it remained.​​ He​​ then​​ took off​​ the​​ glasses and​​ her​​ big gray​​ eyes​​ smiled​​ at his, brilliantly shining like they had during their moonlight dance.

I want to see you dance again”​​ they sang as they​​ took each​​ other’s arms​​ and began​​ dramatically​​ dancing around the tree​​ like they did on the boat deck. Then after​​ dipping​​ her,​​ Walter​​ kissed her, and only​​ then​​ did he become entirely​​ convinced​​ of her existence.

“How dare you start our song without me,”​​ he​​ said.

“Who​​ said​​ I didn’t know you were coming?”​​ she​​ replied​​ smiling.​​ “How else were you​​ supposed​​ to find me?”​​ 

“Shiva?”​​ he​​ asked. “Are you​​ really​​ her? Are you​​ really​​ here?”​​ 

“Yes,” Shiva said, her smile turning into a grin. “I’m​​ really​​ me, and I’m​​ really​​ here.​​ I’ve been​​ here for quite some​​ time​​ actually. It’s the only place I knew you’d be in Paris.​​ Is​​ it​​ really​​ you​​ Walter? Are you​​ really​​ here?”

Yes, I am—well, I think I am.​​ Je pense,​​ donc je​​ suis.

They both then fell to the ground​​ crying and​​ laughing​​ madly,​​ kissing​​ ever inch of each other’s salty​​ cheeks.​​ 

“I love you Shiva.​​ Maybe it’s premature, but you​​ wouldn’t believe what​​ I had to go through to say it.

“I love you​​ too​​ Walter.​​ And​​ believe me, I know. You​​ also​​ wouldn’t believe what I​​ had to go through to say it.​​ It’s​​ been a long strange trip​​ since​​ Red Rocks.”

He​​ sat up​​ stiffly.​​ “What did you say?”​​ he asked.

“Red Rocks,”​​ she​​ said​​ sitting up also, then​​ putting​​ a​​ sympathetic​​ hand on his shoulder.​​ “You still haven’t figured it out​​ yet. You still think you survived.”

Survived what? . . .​​ Oh my God. The lightning strike​​ . . .​​ I’m…​​ I’m​​ dead?!

“Surprise!” she said smiling. “But​​ it’s not all bad.​​ Really, you could have had it much worse.”

He scoffed and began violently shaking his head no.​​ 

“You don’t believe it?”​​ she​​ said.

“I don’t know what to believe. I mean, this could be a dream. This​​ is​​ a dream. Yes, this is a—"

She took his hand again and put it to her chest. “Does it feel like a dream?” she said. “Like I told you before, this is not a dream, at least not one you’re going to wake up from.”

“I don’t know,” he said still panicky. “Death was just so much simpler being nothing. So what? Does this mean there’s a God?​​ Is​​ He​​ Kurt​​ Vonnegut? And​​ where am I? What is this?​​ Is this really Paris?​​ And​​ what about all the people I’ve met​​ since​​ Red Rocks?​​ Were they dead or alive?​​ What about Squids?​​ What about Amber?​​ Does this mean... does this mean​​ she didn’t​​ really kill​​ herself?”

Shiva laughed. “I’m not sure who’s running the show,” she said, “or if anyone is running the show. Also, if there is a God,​​ He​​ would most likely be an​​ It. No gender pronouns in the afterlife since every soul has lived as both sexes throughout existence. Plus, the x chromosome goes on to out evolve the y chromosome in future generations of humans anyway. And everything else, well, that all​​ depends on your perspective​​ of​​ time.​​ Here,​​ there is no such thing as​​ time, and​​ no such thing as dead or alive.​​ We​​ souls​​ live in the world of Schrödinger's cat​​ you could say, and like massless particles,​​ we​​ are​​ unaffected by​​ time​​ and space,​​ and therefore,​​ can exist at all possible​​ times​​ at all possible​​ places.​​ But this shouldn’t surprise you. It all falls within the laws of physics.​​ And Amber...​​ well,​​ you’ll find out soon.​​ But for​​ now,​​ we’ve got a​​ joint to smoke​​ and a bottle of wine to drink​​ with Jim,” she said pulling both out of​​ a bag.​​ Then​​ I guarantee​​ all​​ of this will be​​ easier​​ to​​ comprehend.”​​ 

“Like​​ with his—I mean its soul?”​​ Walter asked.​​ 

“Oh no. Just​​ his dead​​ body.​​ Last I heard,​​ Jim’s​​ soul​​ was​​ almost finished​​ redoing​​ its​​ life over as a writer.”

“You can do that?”​​ 

“Yes, many times over. And​​ you​​ already have. But guess what?​​ You​​ no longer have to.​​ You made it.​​ Today we leave​​ purgatory​​ together.”

He​​ began shaking his head​​ no​​ again. “So purgatory is real?”​​ he​​ asked.

“Nothing is ‘real’,” Shiva said,​​ “but yes.​​ We’re​​ in it. But not for much longer.”

“So what’s next?​​ Paradise?”

“So I’ve been told.”

“What’s it like?”

“Hopefully like paradise, but I’ve​​ never been.​​ I’ve been waiting for you.”

“You’ve been waiting for me? For how long?”

Oh, about​​ a year in ‘living’ years, but that’s nothing in purgatory.​​ I kind of got a hall pass on​​ it,​​ but​​ I wasn’t​​ going to leave without you.​​ That’s​​ why I gave you my hall pass, the​​ Ace of Cups.​​ It entangled our souls​​ together​​ and that’s why you were quantum-tracked through purgatory.

“Like quantum entanglement?”​​ he​​ asked.

She​​ smiled.​​ “Now you’re getting it,”​​ she said.

“So​​ was I​​ supposed to be​​ in​​ purgatory​​ much​​ longer​​ then?”​​ he asked.

From​​ a​​ four dimensional spacetime​​ perspective you were.​​ But you’ll eventually learn to see things outside your​​ lower-dimensional​​ bias.​​ Here...” she said lighting the joint then passing it to him,​​ “...this should help.”​​ 

Walter​​ brought​​ the joint​​ to his lips, but​​ then thought to​​ ask:​​ “So​​ were​​ you​​ dead​​ or alive​​ when I met you?”​​ 

Shiva sighed.​​ “You’ve really got to let go of being​​ dead​​ or​​ alive,”​​ she​​ said.​​ “In​​ reality,​​ we’re​​ all​​ just being.​​ However,​​ yes.​​ I was​​ ‘dead’​​ just like you. I​​ just​​ didn’t know it at the​​ ‘time’, just like you.​​ I also didn’t know the Ace of Cups was​​ a​​ hall pass,​​ but somehow, I still​​ knew I had to give it to you.”

“What did you die from?​​ Huntington’s?”

“No​​ the disease never had​​ ‘time’​​ to get me.”

“What did​​ then?”​​ 

“Well,​​ essentially I killed myself by entangling us together.​​ ‘Time’​​ had to be adjusted so that you and​​ I​​ died​​ at the same ‘time’ in the past, but still met​​ at​​ the same ‘time’ in the future. In order to do that,​​ the past and future​​ had to be​​ layered​​ on top of one another.​​ But this happens all the ‘time’​​ to ‘time’​​ because ‘time’​​ is nothing but a construct of our​​ lower-dimensional​​ four-dimensional​​ perspective.​​ But again,​​ this shouldn’t​​ be a surprise to you. After all, it​​ is​​ what you theorized.”

“Yes…” Walter said,​​ but​​ his head​​ was​​ still​​ saying no.​​ “But theorizing about the universe​​ is much easier​​ than accepting it.”

“Don’t worry,” Shiva​​ said​​ caressing his face, “you’ll adjust.​​ And again...” she took the joint from his hand and put it to his lips, “...this will help.”

He inhaled deeply and blew a smoke ring out.​​ She then took the joint and did the same.​​ 

“Now,” she said, “just imagine if our​​ universe—which is in truth just​​ a​​ fraction of the universe—was shrunk​​ down​​ to the size of an atom and someone tried probing in. Do you think that being could even fathom our idea of​​ ‘time’​​ from their perspective?​​ No, they’d​​ see an entire timeline of the universe​​ playing out at all possible places and at all possible times​​ just like we do when we​​ probe​​ into the world of the atom.​​ However,​​ when​​ you’re unaffected by​​ the fabric of spacetime and​​ no longer bound by the rules of light​​ and ‘time’​​ like​​ we​​ souls​​ are, you realize our world and the world of the atom​​ are​​ one in​​ the same.”

“Okay,” he said more​​ at rest, but still not fully​​ in​​ peace.​​ “But​​ you​​ still​​ haven’t​​ explained​​ how you died.​​ You died on our four-dimensional plane in​​ some​​ way and at some ‘time’ to be here, right?​​ And again, what about Amber? Can I see her? Where is she?”

She​​ looked at​​ him​​ sideways and smirked.​​ “That’s​​ another story for another​​ ‘time’​​ my love.​​ But right now, let’s just enjoy this.”