The air tonight is a balm, a welcome change from the dust and grit that cling to everything in Silver City. Billy led me away from the saloons and the flickering gas lamps, out past the last scattered houses, until the only light came from the stars themselves. He seemed to know the way instinctively, his boots sure on the uneven ground, pulling me along with a gentle tug on my sleeve. I followed, not questioning, content to let him guide me.
We found a small rise overlooking the town, a quiet pocket of darkness where the sounds of revelry were muted and distant. The sky here is vast, an endless canvas speckled with diamonds. I have seen such skies countless times, from countless vantage points across millennia, yet tonight, it feels different. Perhaps it is the company, or perhaps it is the subtle shift within myself, the slow erosion of the detachment I have cultivated for so long.
Billy settled onto the ground, leaning back on his hands, his gaze fixed upward. I sat beside him, a respectful distance between us, and followed his line of sight. The Milky Way stretched like a river of light across the heavens, a celestial tapestry woven with stardust and dreams. I could feel the warmth radiating from him, a comforting presence in the cool night air.
“You ever wonder what’s out there, Tak?” he asked, his voice soft, almost reverent. “Beyond all those stars?”
I considered the question, the weight of ages pressing down on me. I knew what lay beyond, the cold, empty void, the endless expanse of nothingness punctuated by fleeting moments of creation and destruction. But I could not tell him that. Not yet, perhaps not ever.
“I imagine it’s different for everyone,” I replied, choosing my words carefully. “What do you see when you look up there, Henry?”
He was silent for a long moment, his eyes tracing patterns in the stars. Then, he spoke, his voice tinged with a wistful longing that resonated deep within me. “I see a house,” he said. “A place where I can finally be still.”
He described it then, this house of his dreams. Not a grand mansion or a sprawling estate, but a simple, sturdy structure built of wood and stone. It had wide windows that let in the sunlight, a fireplace that crackled with warmth, and a porch, offering a view of rolling hills and endless skies. He spoke of a garden filled with wildflowers, a place where he could grow vegetables and herbs, a place where he could finally put down roots.
“It’s got to have a library, too,” he added, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Filled with books of all kinds. Stories to get lost in, you know? Adventures I can have without ever leaving my chair.”
As he spoke, I could see it, this house of his dreams. I could feel the warmth of the sun on the porch, smell the scent of wildflowers in the garden, hear the crackling of the fire in the hearth. It was a place of peace, a sanctuary from the chaos and violence that had marked his young life. A place where he could finally be himself, without fear or judgment.
And then, he said something that struck me to the core, something that made me question everything I thought I knew about myself, about my purpose, about my place in the universe. “It’s got room for two,” he said, turning to look at me, his eyes shining in the starlight. “If you wanted to stay.”
The invitation hung in the air between us, a fragile, shimmering thing. I wanted to reach out and grasp it, to accept his offer, to lose myself in the warmth and comfort of his dream. But I couldn't. I knew that I could never truly belong in that house, that my presence would only taint its purity, that my immortality would cast a long, dark shadow over his mortal life.
I looked away, back up at the stars, searching for an answer in their cold, distant light. But there was no answer to be found, only the endless, indifferent expanse of the cosmos. I am a ghost, a shadow, a fleeting presence in a world that is not my own. I can never truly share in the dreams of mortals, for I am destined to outlive them all.
“It sounds beautiful, Henry,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “I hope you find it someday.” But even as I spoke the words, I knew that they were hollow, that they offered no comfort, no solace. I had glimpsed a possibility, a fleeting vision of a life I could never have, and the knowledge of that loss settled upon me like a shroud.
