The Fog
By C. T. Hill
A haze had settled on my soul, one that I was not sure I could escape. It was weighted and powerful, and it grew heavier with each passing day. I found myself asking the age old questions of why, though they continued to remain unanswered. All the while, angst painted a picture in my mind, one that even I had no desire to be an audience to.
Sleep had long since abandoned me, and I remembered not the last time food touched my mouth or water graced my lips. That moment so long ago left the world empty. I was lost in a fog.
One evening, I went for a walk to gather my thoughts. It was as an evening should be, cool and quiet. Yet, despite these comforts, my nerves stood on edge. I find it hard to explain, though I suppose it felt as if something was out of place, like the very fabric of the universe had somehow changed, and I was the one left without knowing.
I looked back. Lights from the town were barely visible in the dusk and fog. The village was small and my cottage was removed from it, nestled in the hills, hugged by the woods. It was home, and it was all that I knew.
I made my way into the forest, to the stone—our stone. I moved carefully. The underbrush pulled at my feet and legs. My breath caught in my throat as I stepped close enough to see all that was left of her. No matter where I had intended on walking, I always ended up at the same place. I knelt down slowly and kissed my fingertips, pressing them against the cool stone.
"Do not forget me, my love, for I will be with you soon," I said, pushing back the tears.
I know not how long I sat there, for time seemed to slip past me when I was with her. Sometimes, an entire day would pass with only the chill of night to brush me away. This evening, however, was different, for the wind carried with it a hum of deception.
To say that I was completely unprepared for what stepped out of the brush would have been an understatement. I stood slowly as I watched her move into the small opening that surrounded the stone. I was dumbstruck, for the figure was no more than a girl, small and fragile, young and pure; yet she had an aura of wisdom revealed in each movement, confirmed with each step. She moved gingerly through the underbrush, her bare feet picking their next placement with careful consideration. I could have been mistaken, but it seemed as though she had yet to notice me.
My eyes followed her lithe body as she continued her silent dance. Sheaths of waning light glinted off of her porcelain skin and shimmered through her golden white hair as the sun dropped beneath the horizon. My heart skipped a beat when she passed by me. She smelled of flowers. She smelled of spring. She reminded me of the moon.
She knelt down in front of our stone and spoke, but her voice was soft, and I was unable to make out any words. After a moment, she turned her head and faced me, her hand still touching our stone.
"Could you tell me about her?" Her voice caressed my ears and eased my soul, as if she were a messenger from God Himself.
Words escaped me.
It is quite hard to explain, for, as long as I could remember, she was all I could think about. It was as if every thought were intertwined with her whisper. Yet then, in the face of that which I could not explain, I was breathless. I was mute. I searched for the words to explain my love, my pain, but the thought occurred to me that perhaps explaining love, really explaining it, was impossible—like trying to decipher a beating heart or solving the mystery of a prayer.
She cocked her head to the side with a curious smile as I stumbled through my thoughts.
"I beg your pardon, my lady, but you had words with her?" I regretted the question as soon as I asked it.
