Her eyes stare at the horizon. “Sirus. My name is Aris. Do you know who I am?”
“Hello, Aris. Benja spoke often about you. He was smitten with you.”
She chokes back tears.
“How did Benja die? Was someone here? Did they hurt him?”
“His last visitor was three weeks ago. After that, Benja stayed up writing night after night, with no sleep in between. The last time he went to bed, he said”—Sirus imitates Benja’s voice—“‘Sirus, thank you for everything. I love you even though you don’t know what it means. Please reach Padma in twelve hours and ask her to come to my room. Tell her it’s very important that she does.’”
“He also recorded a message for you. He asked me to send it thirty-six hours after. It has only been thirty-four,” Sirus says.
“I’ll wait,” Aris says. “Do you know where he keeps the book he was writing?”
“His book, A Place of Waiting, is in me.”
“Of course,” says Aris. “May I hear it?”
Aris settles on the couch. She eyes the platform bed. Crumpled sheets. Blanket gathered into a ball at its foot. Both pillows are missing. She sees them lying neglected on the floor—a dirty footprint on one. There is evidence of people struggling to bring him back to life. But it was too late.
There is a dimple on the mattress. She wants to lie in it and feel the habit of his body on the soft cushion. But she does not. Instead, she lays her head on the couch.
Sirus reads the words that Benja wrote in the writer’s voice. Aris closes her eyes and listens to the story about a man fighting to get back home.
She is standing alone in the middle of a seamless and enormous white room. A suffocating feeling clutches at her throat, as if someone were pressing a pillow on her face.
She cannot tell whether she is being pulled or pushed down. But she is slowly being absorbed into the ground like a fly by a carnivorous plant. Her feet vanish into white earth. Her arms. Her head. She is being eaten by the ground.
Aris opens her eyes and sees emptiness—a vast desert of nothing. Ahead is Benja. He stands with his back to her. She touches his shoulder. He turns around. She sees his back again. She circles him but she cannot see his face.
“Aris. How could you?” the faceless Benja asks.
The ground rumbles around her. She feels the vibration through her bones. It rattles her head and shatters her teeth until she is toothless, like a withered old woman.
A herd of a hundred soundless white elephants races above her head and tramples her deeper and deeper into the pure white earth, stirring dust into a layer of fog that covers the land as far as the eye can see. Each elephant glitters like the frost that hangs on the blades of grass before the morning light.
The image transforms. She is standing in front of a large blue pond. On her, a red swimming suit. She looks at her hands. They are small. She sees her hands pushing the back of another child into the blue pool.
“How could you?” a voice yells.
Two women in white are speaking to each other. Their faces look the same. Even their voices have the same sound. Though younger, they remind her of someone she knows. Apollina.
“I’m so thankful for Tabula Rasa. Humanity is cruel. A child trying to kill another. Good thing the other girl is a good swimmer,” one says.
“Hate breeds war. Tabula Rasa will cure her.”
Aris yells, “I didn’t hate her. I was just jealous.” But nobody hears her.
“Aris.” A voice brings her back.
“Hmm. Yes?” She rubs her eyes. For a moment she is disoriented. She does not remember where she is.
“The thirty-six hours are up. Would you like to hear Benja’s message?” Sirus says.
Aris realizes where she is. The pain in her chest, the one that makes her feel like she has broken into a thousand pieces, returns. She sits up and nods.
“Message from Monday, January nineteenth, seven oh-eight a.m.,” Sirus says.
Benja’s image appears in front of her. The skin under his eyes is deep purple. His face is covered in a full beard. Both his arms are black. She enlarges the image and sees that they are words written like sleeves on his arms. She knows they were for her. An inside joke.
She wants to laugh and cry at the same time. The only thing that keeps her from collapsing onto the floor is the light smile he wears. He looks resolute and at peace.
“Dearest Aris,” he says, “please don’t worry about me. I am soaring like a bluebird over the rainbow, the one in your song. Imagine me surrounded by the bluest of blue skies, and don’t cry anymore.
“You are my dearest friend. My only friend. And I love you. I only wish I had made you happy, just as you had tried to do for me. But happiness is too far from my reach. An illusion.
“Good news is, I made you a present—well, lots of presents. The things you do when you can’t sleep. They’re in a box on my bedside table. Open it and remember me well.”
Aris watches Benja disappear after his message is over and feels an even greater emptiness in her chest. She walks to the bedside table. The box is made of beautiful rosewood. She runs her hand along it, feeling its satin finish. She eases the top open and is blinded by a vision in blue. A thousand origami cranes nestle with each other, filling the box to the brim. Benja’s blue birds of happiness.
In ancient Japan, the origami crane is a symbol of hope and healing during challenging times. Tears roll down her face. Even in death, he is poetic. She sees a note buried inside the box. She pulls it out.
Sleep and heal, my friend. The Sandman is coming for you. He’ll make your dreams beautiful.
With love,
Benja.
“You said you were his friend?” the coroner asks.
“Yes,” Metis says.
“My condolences. Such a waste. He was so young.”
What an odd thing for someone to say, Metis thinks. Would it have been less of a waste had Benja been older? Suicide is an act of abbreviating life, regardless of age.
Human actions are driven by basic things: either running away from pain or running toward pleasure. Killing oneself probably fits more into the first category.
Maybe it’s better this way. Life was a shackle to Benja. How else could he have escaped this existence?
“May I have time alone with him?” Metis asks.
“Of course. I’ll be outside if you have any questions,” the coroner says and leaves the room.
What propensity would one have to be a coroner? Metis wonders. Probably enjoying the solitude that silence offers. An introvert. Someone who prefers having time to think alone. Maybe he could be a good coroner.
He looks down at Benja and feels sadness draping over him. The dead man’s peaceful face is pale—drained of life. Three weeks ago he was alive, talking, thinking, possessing the ability to feel. Yet he told Metis he felt nothing. Thinking back, Metis cannot say he is surprised at the outcome of Benja’s life. A desperate man does desperate things.
Where is Benja now? Does his consciousness cease to exist without his brain? Some believe the brain is a receptacle for consciousness, while others believe it is the creator of one. Metis is not sure what he believes.
If consciousness is created by the brain, shouldn’t reality be unique instead of shared? A blue sky is blue even if it may be recalled in various shades. And if there is a standard to the reality of life, is there also a standard to the reality of life after death? But if the brain is a receptacle, where is the origin of consciousness? And after death, does it go back to the source like a bird migrating home?
Metis scoffs. It is quintessentially him to philosophize death in order put it at arm’s length. He forces himself to look at Benja’s lifeless body.
Black markings on Benja’s upper arms catch his attention. Metis pulls the sheet covering his chest down and sees writing inked on both
arms. He squints at the words and recognizes them.
“. . . life obliges.”
He looks at the other arm.
“. . . give birth to themselves.”
These are words from the passage of Love in the Time of Cholera he reads at each meeting with the Dreamers. Memory does have a way of seeping back in the oddest manner, he thinks. Is the brain a labyrinth of doorways that leads to pockets of information held like furniture in a room? Perhaps the dream killers shutter the rooms they find useless.
Maybe the brain is more like the universe, with galaxies, nebulas, and dark matter existing at once in harmony and chaos. And Tabula Rasa and the Dreamcatcher are like black holes that swallow and destroy.
He touches Benja’s skin. It is icy.
So this is death.
“Rest in peace, Benja,” he says and walks out of the room.
He bumps into a man outside the door. The man with brown hair looks startled, as if he has seen a ghost.
“I’m sorry,” Metis says.
“Uh. Sorry,” the man says.
Metis continues walking. He does not see the severity of the man’s stare on his back.
“Benja’s dead,” Thane tells Professor Jacob and Apollina, “He killed himself.”
The words make him want to vomit the last meal he ate.
He saw Benja today at the morgue. His was the first dead body Thane had ever seen. Benja looked like an imposter of himself—like someone had made him into a droid. His skin appeared as if made from rubber draped on plastic and his hair from a synthetic. Life left Benja, and it made all the difference.
Thane wonders how Aris is doing. She must be shattered. He has not spoken to her since she yelled at him for betraying her trust. He wants to reach out, but he does not know what to say. What can he say that will make things better?
Nothing.
“Why would he kill himself?” the Interpreter asks. “We erased his dreams. He should have been fine. He had everything he needed.” She seems truly perplexed.
It is a question Thane cannot begin to answer. He does not know anyone else who had committed suicide. It is a rare thing in the Four Cities for a person’s unhappiness to lead them to see death as a better alternative to life. Whatever problems one has in a cycle will be wiped away in the next. The next one is just a little over three months away.
Why didn’t you wait?
Aris feels as if she is in hypnagogia, that hazy borderland between sleep and wakefulness. The bench under her is hard. The occasional wind is bitterly cold. It ruffles her hair and brings with it a sad memory. She sees, hears, and feels all these things, but she still wonders whether there is a chance she is not here.
It’s mid-February. The branches of all the deciduous trees are bare. The flowers are asleep in the earth. The only bright color in this place is the blue origami crane in her hand. She plays with its frayed edges and wonders the point to the weather changing. They live in the desert with sand and cacti as natural habitat, not in the Mid-Atlantic, where leaves change colors before dropping for winter. The Planner must have had a sick humor. Or a controlling side.
Darkness is descending. The temperature drops further.
“Hello, dear, aren’t you cold?” a kind voice asks.
Aris looks up and sees the familiar face of the bird lady, the one who taught her to feed the birds. Her question makes her realize she cannot feel her cheeks.
“Can I share this bench with you? My legs are tired,” the lady says. The end of her platinum hair is flying in the wind.
Aris gives her a smile as an answer. At least she thinks she is smiling. It is just as possible she is crying. In this moment, it’s hard for her to know the difference.
The lady sits. “I’m Eirene.”
“Hi. I’m Aris.”
“I miss being here. I came here most every day when the weather was nice.”
“The birds trust you,” says Aris.
Eirene laughs. “Oh yes. I make a special blend of seeds they seem to be partial to. I see you have one yourself.”
Aris looks at the inorganic bird in her hand.
“That’s a special bird. Paper isn’t easy to come by,” the lady says.
“My friend made it for me. He was a writer.”
“Is he not a writer anymore?”
“He’s dead now.”
“Oh! I’m so sorry you lost your friend. It’s heartbreaking.”
Aris smiles sadly. “Sometimes I still see him in my dreams.”
“I have a few origami cranes myself.”
“Did a friend make them for you too?” Aris asks.
“Yes, I suppose I can call him my friend. He makes them for many people, so they’re not as special as yours.”
Eirene places her warm palm over Aris’s. Her papery skin feels delicate and fragile.
“Dear, your hands are freezing. You should get inside.”
“Just a little longer,” Aris says.
“There’s no heartache comparable to when a loved one dies,” Eirene says. “In the Old World many people believed that there’s life after death. They found solace in believing that one day they would meet those they love again.”
“I don’t know if I believe in that.”
“Maybe you can wear it a bit and see if it fits.” Eirene squeezes Aris’s hand and walks off.
Aris looks at the crane in her hand. The bitter wind blows, threatening to send it flying. She grips it tighter and leans back on the bench. She tilts her head and looks up. A thin layer of clouds spreads out like a shawl, readying the sky for the oncoming stars. A winter bedtime ritual. She cannot see the sun, but she knows it’s there. It is always there, even when it’s on the other side of the world.
The Sandman is coming for you, Benja’s words echo in her ears.
Aris knows he did not remember his time with the Dreamers. They were all erased with his dreams. He had meant a different Sandman, the one in folklore, who sprinkles sand in children’s eyes so they will sleep. If only she could.
She misses her friend. She wonders where he is. Has his body already been burned to ashes? What about his soul? Can she believe in life after death?
“Try wearing it and see if it fits,” she whispers to herself.
A gust of wind sweeps through, and the sky begins to clear. She can no longer feel her fingers. How long has she been sitting here?
Just a little while longer.
“Aris?” a familiar voice speaks.
She snaps her head up and sees Metis. Her heart leaps. She wants to smile, but she cannot—it is too difficult.
“Why are you sitting here in the dark?” he asks, his voice filled with concern.
Many emotions bubble up at once. They leak out as tears on her face. She is helpless to stop it.
“My friend died,” she says with a suppressed sob.
Metis sits down next to her.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.
“Not really. Talk about something else.”
Metis leans back against the bench. A long silence follows.
“Or nothing,” mumbles Aris.
“I’m trying to find Vega.”
“You know Vega?” she asks.
“Someone once told me it’s quite a special star. The brightest in the Lyra constellation.”
“Yeah. It’s pretty special.”
“I can’t find it. It’s not where I expected it to be,” he says.
“In the winter, it’s in the northwestern quadrant.”
She points up. “Follow the end of my finger. That blue-white dot there.”
“Ah. Thank you,” he says.
They both stare up at the sky for a long time without another word. Melancholy leaks out of her skin like sap off an injured tree. Aris wants more than anything for his a
rm to wrap around her. But she does not deserve his affection, she tells herself. She has treated him horribly.
“Do you know that back in old Japan, Vega was called Orihime?” he says. “She’s a heavenly princess who fell in love with Hikoboshi, a mortal. He’s the star Altair.”
She shakes her head.
“Her father forbade her to be with him and separated them by the Celestial River—the Milky Way. The lovers only see each other on the seventh night of the seventh moon, when a bridge of magpies forms across the Celestial River, uniting the two.”
She sighs. “That’s a sad story.”
“Sometimes the best stories are the sad ones.”
A long pause passes between them.
“There’s too much light in the city, even here. I wish we could see the stars better. Have you ever seen the night sky out in the desert?” she asks.
“Yeah. A long time ago.”
“You know, there’s a question I’ve always wanted to ask you.”
Metis turns his head to look at her.
She continues, “The record says you were discovered by an AI. It says you’re a musical natural. How does that work do you think? How did that part of you survive Tabula Rasa?”
“The music has always been inside me. It’s not an act of remembering. It’s like I’ve always known and could never forget it.”
“Do you remember other things?” The question escapes her lips before she can stop herself.
Metis doesn’t answer. She wonders if he thinks she’s a lunatic. A woman grieving for her lost friend.
She clears her throat. “I mean. Some believe music is another language, a way to communicate. Maybe that’s why it lives so deeply in our brains, where Tabula Rasa can’t touch. Like a language.”
She imagines rooms inside her brain where various pieces of memories live. Tabula Rasa is the fog that rolls in, licking through the plains of her mind, searching and sifting the contents for what it will take to the underworld.
“Maybe. But I like to think that music doesn’t just communicate,” he says. “It expresses human feelings and moods in so many subtle shades and is very much subjective to the listener. Sometimes it can even express something which no words in any language can describe. A purely musical meaning.”
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