Seeing him was just part of her own personal hell: seeing him but never having him.

  Ruth should have known from the start.

  25

  Soul Level

  The world was unfurling at a lethargic pace, its movements honey-like and ponderous. Jeremiah found it frustrating, but years of existence had taught him that the pace of the soul seldom aligns with one's impatience. And Ruth Abadi, though a spirit he held in great esteem, was still an inexperienced soul—a tapestry of Arab-Israeli heritage and a turbulence of human emotions yet to be understood.

  A psychic ripple coursed through the air, prickling the nape of his neck. Ruth's energy quivered like a violin string struck too hard, no doubt ensnared in some visceral disquiet.

  She was easily unsettled, but then again, weren't all humans? He questioned whether he'd once been as vulnerable, but his furrowed brow yielded no answers.

  Before he could delve further into the recesses of his memory, Ruth collided into him, her face buried vehemently between his shoulder blades. "Jeremiah, make it go away!"

  Casting a look over his shoulder, he beheld a distorted apparition of Asher standing hauntingly at the path's end. Its twisted visage suggested that its artifice had been unmasked. "Alright, Ruth."

  Pivoting within the cocoon of her arms, Jeremiah curled one arm around her shoulder and extended the other toward the grotesque effigy. With a fluid sweep of his hand, the simulacrum evaporated into the mist. "It's gone."

  Her face remained hidden in the folds of his robe, a fragile sanctuary. "What was that?"

  Inhaling deeply, Jeremiah deliberated before speaking. "A fabrication, Ruth. A phantom conjured by your yearnings, your desires."

  "I didn't want that! I wanted Asher!"

  "He exists in his own separate realm," Jeremiah intoned softly, his words dripping like warm honey, designed to calm a soul as skittish as a frightened colt. "He can't come here."

  Ruth retracted, her fists clenched in the fabric of his celestial robes. "You said we could travel! You said—I've done it too! Into another world!"

  His hands found their way to the sides of her tear-streaked face. There was an electric charge in the closeness; her erratic yet beautiful soul held him spellbound. More enchanting than any soul he'd encountered thus far—undeniably so.

  "I won't calm down. I'm tired of you never telling me what's happening!" Her voice trembled, and she moved backward. But Jeremiah simply moved with her, unwilling to break the tactile connection. Her tears clung to his fingertips, hot and salty, marking him in a way nothing else could.

  "Ruth, you must understand—the world reacts to you, and you to it. The more you resist, the worse it will get. Your growing displeasure twisted the illusions, made them more malevolent."

  The nuances of emotional equilibrium seemed overwhelmingly complicated to most humans. Jeremiah was a distant observer to their fleeting rages, their profound griefs—emotions he could scarcely recall experiencing himself. Yet he grasped the fragile equilibrium of this otherworldly landscape, this ethereal web spun between souls and their deepest fears and longings.

  Time had etched the same scene onto the canvas of Jeremiah's memory more often than he could count. But still, he let a soft smile meander across his lips. His eyes locked onto Ruth's, her face a fusion of both Arab and Jewish ancestry—a beautiful mosaic of cultures and inherent complexities. Leaning down, he moved to press a chaste kiss onto her temple. A soothing benediction. Yet, he caught himself, arresting the impulse. Instead, he let their foreheads touch, as if they were two celestial bodies gravitating toward some ineffable truth.

  "Calm," he murmured, the word a faint whisper, dissipating in the air between them.

  Ruth's eyes expanded, vast pools of emotion. Even though his lips had never graced her skin, the almost-kiss hung in the air—a moment palpable yet intangible.

  "You." She faltered, emitting a small guttural sound from her throat—a fusion of fear and vexation. Her words then changed course, as if scrambling for firmer ground. "Are you telling me Asher was never here? Not even at the beginning?"

  Jeremiah nodded, his expression solemn. "Not even then."

  "You never told me!" Her voice trembled as she pulled away, her hands clenched into tight, pulsating fists. "You never say anything to me!"

  "In this realm, I am neither master nor puppeteer," he said, his voice tempered with a wisdom that transcended worlds. "I can only elucidate what you've already discerned. I can guide, offer counsel, but never manipulate. Both the world and I, we have our parts to play."

  "That's not fair," she protested, her bottom lip protruding in a pout—a gesture both endearing and naive.

  "Has fairness ever been a steadfast companion in your life, Ruth?" Jeremiah questioned, his tone etched with tender understanding.

  The air around them thickened as a look of indescribable woe shadowed her face. She spun away from him, her arms defensively crossed over her chest. "I just wanted..."

  He interjected, "What did you want? Not to be alone?"

  Her patience splintered. "Why do you keep asking me when I've already told you?"

  "Because your answers contain questions within them," he said calmly. "You claim loneliness, yet you are not truly alone. You have the curious creatures of this realm. You have the canine entity."

  You have me—this thought grazed his consciousness but remained unspoken, its weight heavy in his silence. Instead, he reached for her hand, their fingers intertwining like tendrils of fate. It was a gesture imbued with humanity, perilously so. "You are not alone. Then why this facade?"

  "Because I feel alone," she admitted as she allowed herself to be turned toward him. "I have felt alone—"

  "Since your death?" he prompted, although they both sensed this was not her full truth.

  "No, since always," she whispered, her voice frayed at the edges. "I only ever felt visible when Asher was near. I thought if I could find him here, we might find solace in our shared demise. But instead, I'm here! I'm dead and forsaken!"

  Her words were like shards of glass—sharp, translucent, cutting through illusions to expose the fragile core of her existence. And there, in that raw moment, Jeremiah understood that for Ruth, alone was not just a condition; it was a haunting. An ancient tale written long before her life became an epitaph, and now continued its chapters even in her afterlife.

  "You're not alone, Ruth. Allow me to illuminate something for you."

  Jeremiah sensed Ruth's hesitation as if it were a palpable mist in the air, yet she did let him guide her through the twisted, surreal expanse they had come to know. They navigated the nightmarish beauty until they arrived at the amusement park. More grotesque attractions had been swept clean, reanimated with an eerie, yet fascinating allure. It wasn't desolate, nor was it a hellscape. The lights shimmering in the atmosphere were spectral hues of white and purple, casting an ethereal glow over structures painted a gothic black.

  Finally, they paused before the House of Mirrors, its façade as though reborn, cleansed of the mire and rot that had once coated it. The walls of the edifice seemed to pulsate softly, like the rhythm of a dying heart.

  Jeremiah stood behind Ruth, enveloping her in his arms. His fingers traced down to her wrists, drawing her arms outward. Their hands entwined, his palms pressing against the backs of her hands as he extended their arms to the sides.

  In this posture, they stared into the mirror, whose reflection remained steadfast, unchanging.

  "What do you see in the mirror?" he inquired, his voice layered with unspoken depth.

  "Us," Ruth answered somberly.

  "No, Ruth. Be more precise. Begin with the broader picture."

  "I see the park," she started, hesitance veiling her words. Jeremiah hummed approvingly, a sound that dispelled her uncertainty. "I see the spider's coaster and the lights. And yes, you and me."

  It wasn't as elaborate as Jeremiah had wished for, but it was a seed. A starting point, and he could cultivate it into understanding.

  "The spider's coaster," he echoed, emphasizing the image. "So you acknowledge that the carts embody the spider?"

  "Yes?"

  "Then consider this: someone else exists in this park—someone who is neither you nor me. This someone observed your nocturnal sorrow and left behind delicate, woven tokens. Simple expressions, yet steeped in affection," he paused, his words hanging like droplets of dew in the air. "That is love, Ruth. Love in its rawest form."

  Her eyes widened, as if the reflection had shifted and she was seeing her world, and herself, in an entirely new light. For the first time, it appeared that Ruth was beginning to grasp the myriad forms that love—and presence—could assume, even in an existence as paradoxical as theirs.

  "You see the lights because you are merciful enough to your own soul to permit yourself glimmers of hope, to acknowledge that darkness is not your permanent abode. But you're also brutal enough to your soul to believe you're undeserving of full illumination," Jeremiah elaborated, sweeping his arm to indicate their surroundings. "This absence, this void, it's a reflection of that cruelty. Who attends to these carnival stalls? You have a myriad of creatures in your sanctuary, yet none have ventured out to really live."

  "They're just animals," she countered.

  "As was the spider," he reminded her, laying down his trump card.

  A contemplative veil enveloped Ruth's features, and Jeremiah considered leaving the lesson at that. It would have been a fine point on which to rest. But there was a sense of incompleteness, a subtle hunger for something more intimate in his teaching.

  Or perhaps he was the one hungry for more. A selfish yearning he couldn't quite place. A sensation he hadn't felt in eons.

  "We are also in that reflection," he finally said, a soft urgency in his voice. "I am present, right beside you, and you're worthy of that presence."

  Ruth let out a sound like a wounded animal and attempted to wriggle free.

  "Stay," Jeremiah entreated, "Look in that mirror. I am standing beside you, because you are deserving. You think you're alone even in death because you believe it's what you're entitled to. Let me show you differently. Let me teach you the inner workings of this otherworldly existence."

  "I am learning," Ruth exclaimed, a flicker of frustration in her eyes.

  "No," Jeremiah countered, his patience as eternal as the stars, "You're striving to bend this world to conform to your own narrative. But it won't happen, not if you keep justifying your own misconceptions. I impart wisdom, and you debate."

  The fight seemed to drain out of her then, her body going slack against his. "I don't mean to."

  "I know. Allow me to guide you," he insisted softly, "to teach you how to want for nothing ever again."

  With a weighted sigh, Ruth finally relented. "Alright. Alright."

  He ached to kiss her forehead. A mere tilt of his head and his lips could brush her temple. A small dip of his chin, and they could caress her cheek. But he knew he couldn't—shouldn't—indulge. It would be unfair, a line crossed.

  Instead, he released her, extending his hand toward her.

  She took it, allowing him to guide her once again. They navigated through the amusement park and out the entrance, walking toward the lane framed with oleander that would lead them back to the place she now called her eternal home.

  26

  Overexposure

  At times, Asher felt as though he was drowning in an excess of light—a relentless luminosity that bordered on the garish, infiltrating his senses until it sparked an ache behind his eyes. He kneaded his temple, remaining knelt beside the reflective pond. The object of his undying affection had vanished once more, cradled in the embrace of another.

  A molten tide of frustration surged within him, compelling him to rise. The park lay barren beneath the sun’s zenith, its light mirrored immaculately upon the water's surface. Gone was his wedding suit, its shade too heavy for his current disquiet. What remained were obsidian trousers. His feet were bare—a common state here where impurity was deemed unwelcome.

  “This constant vigilance grows tiring,” Asher muttered, his words laced with vexation. “I'm bored of this passive observation. I was on the cusp of reclaiming her—so very close—”

  He halted, caressing his face once again. Hurling his grievances into the void had proven fruitless; he had railed against the silence when his reaper had first abandoned him here, and on numerous instances thereafter when his ventures between realms met with failure.

  Recently, he'd come tantalizingly near to achieving tangible form. Yet, some ethereal barrier had thwarted him.

  “Fine.” He sighed in resignation. “If I can’t find a gateway, I’ll craft one.”

  Intending to leave the pond and its adjacent park, he moved to the perimeter where an ornate golden gate encircled the meticulously groomed lawn, extending out onto desolate, albeit pristine, roads. He hesitated. Observing her had become a form of addictive ritual. He longed not merely to witness her life but to participate in it, to fill the void beside her.

  Gritting his teeth, he propelled himself away from the pond, ambling down the whitewashed path leading to his fantastical residence. In many ways, this world was his Elysium—a near-perfect reflection of what might have been, of what should have occurred.

  Yet, imperfections marred this idyllic tapestry. Jarring echoes resonated in the depths of his consciousness, the ceaseless cadence of Ruth’s voice, as if descending from celestial heights. Was this what it felt like to be the recipient of prayers?

  Rather than lifting his spirit, these invocations imbued him with a poignant sadness. Ruth’s voice consistently bore a tone of desperation. Initially, he had struggled to discern whether these were the residual echoes of his final moments in life, or real-time entreaties. After soul-searching, bereft of any guidance from the reaper who had left him stranded, Asher concluded the latter was true. This voice was emanating from another corner of the afterlife.

  What circumstances had befallen Ruth in her transition to death? He had sought this information, yet remained hindered by his inability to manipulate the mysterious lights guiding the realms. The skill to observe through water was a fortuitous discovery, revealing that Ruth was indeed deceased. What also became evident was that she still yearned for him, that she still clung to some desperate form of hope.

  And that was the tragedy of it all.

  How could one, ensnared in an eternity like this, still find it within themselves to pray? To believe their voice could still be heard?

  'I’ll find you, Asher. No matter what they say, I won’t abandon you,' Ruth had vowed in her latest whispered invocation.

  If Ruth intended to traverse the intricate tapestry of worlds, then Asher too must redouble his efforts. He must breach these spectral barriers, these heavenly divisions.

  For he had no choice but to find a way back to her.

  There would be no other option.

  27

  Lies and Simulacra

  The next instance Ruth encountered the doppelgänger of Asher navigating through the shadowy corridors of her infernal abode, her heart swelled not with elation, but with a blaze of indignation.

  "You deceived me," she hissed, pirouetting abruptly to march in his direction, her olive features etched in a scowl. "You've led me astray!"

  Asher's phantom turned to her, his eyes distended in innocent confusion, his brows knit as if he were incapable of grasping the kernel of her wrath. "What? Ruth, are you alright? I was afraid you might not come to the wedding."

  "The wedding? You're playing with me! I know you're not my Asher." Her voice was laced with both ire and scorn. "Why do you still masquerade as him?"

  "I am not masquerading," said the spectral figure.

  To her, he was unworthy of Asher's name; he was merely an ersatz rendition of the man she had loved, an imitation steeped in deceit.

  "You are," she shot back. "And I see through you now. Once, my longing for him blinded me to the unbearable truth—that this is Hell. My Asher would never descend into this abyss. No one would--voluntarily."

  The fantasm looked at her, his expression unfathomably blank. "But I am here, am I not? Isn't that significant?" He inched toward her. "I didn’t even know where 'here' was, initially. Yet, I believe I'm grasping it now. This is to be our everlasting home, is it not?"

  "I have no desire to share an eternity with a forgery," she snapped, her dark eyes ablaze. "I wanted to spend my life with my genuine husband, among the living."

  "But I am alive," insisted the spectral Asher, his arms extending as though in demonstration. "Why else would I be here?"

  Frustration coiled in her throat, manifesting in a strangled sound. "You're missing the point."

  "How so?"

  "Because this isn't life! I'm a soul ensnared in this nether realm; there's no life coursing through me!" Ruth's voice sank with despair. Her hands shook as she swept strands of her dark hair out of her mouth, grinding her molars in vexation.

  The phantom Asher appeared genuinely perplexed. "But you are existent. In some form, we both must be. Right?"

  His voice wafted over her laden with a fragile hope, causing her final vestiges of fury to evaporate into the sulfurous air. How could she stay angry at a being so ignorant of its own hollow existence? Jeremiah, her guiding reaper, could have told her a hundred times that this Asher was an eidolon--a phantom, apparition, illusion, whatever!--yet her longing would have betrayed her into belief.

  Her shoulders sagged, and for a brief moment, she sealed her eyes shut.

  "Ruth?" The fantasm took another hesitant step toward her. "So, the wedding is off?"

  "I have to leave." She retreated a step. "I can't—I simply must go."

  "Are you forsaking me?" His eyes dilated, infused with a tremor of dread.