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Can you hear me?
My memories are fuzzy.
I look at you and see the little worry lines which now adorn your forehead even when you're resting. You are still young, but you are growing older, love. I don't remember much, but you I could never forget.
Time has changed you. I reach out and try to run a finger along these new lines painted by the past years, but I can't. I am a shadow, and my hand falls right through you.
You didn't feel that, did you? Yeah, neither did I.
I look around and recognise the place in an instant. But why would you return to the garden? Is it because I stayed here? I never wanted you to come back for me - this wasn't the plan, that much I know.
I don't think it's the actual garden, however. Perhaps it's real for you, but it's built like a prison for me. My exit is bricked up, and I cannot leave. I am sure that, unlike me, you see a regular door which opens just well. This place is my tomb - it's warm and sunny to you, but to me, it's colourless and shrouded in thick fog.
Until now, the old pond was my bed. It seems to have no bottom, and something lurks in the dark, but I have come to appreciate the quiet once I submerge and let my consciousness become one with the water.
But somehow, you have pulled me out of its grip.
The year is 1891 - I have seen that much through your eyes. It means that I have not left the pond for eleven years until I found myself sitting next to you today.
Feeling asunder, I turn around to look at it again. I know it sounds scary to you, but I promise, one sleeps like a baby in there! It takes all your sorrow away. I am tempted to go back - it feels like home now, but I haven't seen you in so long that I barely remember our good days. I choose to stay and, perhaps, remember them if you'd let me.
"Jon..." you finally say.
It's my name. I wouldn't say I had forgotten it, but I didn't remember it either until now. Your eyes are closed, and you are oblivious to my presence. From your perspective, you are but talking to the air, and your worry lines deepen from all the effort you're putting into this.
"I know that you are here. I have come to get you. I have come to bring you back home."
There is determination in your voice even as it quivers. It should make me feel a certain way, but I can't feel much yet.
"I know you," you whisper. "I remember you. I remember every little detail about you, Jon."
Your eyes stay closed. You know you wouldn't see me even if you opened them, so you try to imagine me instead, and this requires great focus.
I only remember you, Sherry. I seem to have disappeared into you.
"Your name is Jon. It's short for Jonathan, but we never use your full name - you prefer the short version, and I have also grown attached to it. I met you in 1865, shortly after my father passed away. You were my best and only friend for all my life until I-"
The memory is like a deep cut into your soul. You swallow hard, and your brows furrow. It doesn't hurt me anymore, but I remember that it did once.
You decide to stick to the basics for now - the unhappy memories can wait until later.
"Your hair...," you begin again, "it is dark brown. It is the colour of well-roasted coffee beans. You always sport an undercut, but it's rarely freshly shaven. The lower, shorter part is a quarter an inch long and feels spiky to the touch."
Like velvet - you don't say it, but now I remember you like the feeling. It gives you goosebumps whenever you run your fingers through it.
You continue, "Your longer strands are soft - like silk. You comb them to the right side. They have the subtle scent of clary sage - you greatly enjoy this fragrance."
And you enjoy it, too, I recall. You don't say it, but I sense you remember all the times I've held you close, and you've breathed in my scent before relaxing into my embrace. We did that a lot when we were younger, didn't we?
"Your face, however," you say, "is always perfectly shaven. One cannot tell you can grow facial hair at all until one gets very close and sees the subtle shadow. It feels smooth and smells like shave soap at all times. You have many sunspots, and one can see your forming laughter lines. Do you know you used to have freckles? They disappeared as you grew older."
You smile. I smile, too - I had forgotten the freckles. You still seem to remember me fondly, which makes me feel a little warmer and more substantial as I sit here.
"You have a strong jaw and a broad chin. All in all, your face has the form of a square. Your features are much rougher than mine, and yet..."
You don't finish the sentence. You don't have to. I relax on the bench as I study you. Whatever you are trying to do, it's essential to you. You aren't feeling that well, and you need me.
"Your eyes are... kind-looking."
This doesn't sound like you, 'kind-looking', and you seem embarrassed when you use these words, but you believe them to be spot on. It's crucial to you to describe every piece of me with the greatest possible accuracy, even if it sounds sentimental and foolish in your ears. Only this way can you make sure that you remember me right.
"They have the colour of a hazel, but they glow like warm amber when the sunlight hits them. Your eyelashes are rather short and straight, and your eyebrows are well-formed and much paler than the rest of your hair. Your nose is straight, with a long dorsum and a downturned tip. And your mouth..."
You exhale, and your lips part just slightly.
"Your lips are thin and of pink colour. They are soft. You have a prominent cupid bow."
Your memories of me become more vivid, and I feel less disoriented as you speak. A frail longing replaces the emptiness inside me. It's been eleven years, and I finally remember myself as I see myself through your eyes.
I feel I have missed you. I have missed your voice, unfiltered by the murky water which used to surround me.
"You are an inch or two shorter than me, Jon. But you are well-built and stronger than I am - visibly so. Your skin is naturally fair, but the sun has given it a golden shimmer, which perfectly suits your warm tone. You prefer wearing a slate-blue linen shirt, even though it's slightly too small for your broad frame. You always open the first few buttons, and your sleeves are rolled up, too."
I have to chuckle at this. I remember I liked my old suit, and I suppose you enjoyed it too, even though it didn't fit me.
"You wear a vest with a brown suede back and a front made of dark beige gabardine fabric. You prefer beige hemp trousers and black safety boots. A brown leather harness finishes your look."
You have started speaking faster - not too fast, but my absence doesn't dishearten you yet. The more you talk, the more vividly you remember me, which seems to motivate you further.
But I am here, Sherry. I have been here all along, albeit in another form.
Yet you can't hear me.
"Your lower arms have more sunspots than any other part of your body, and your hands look rough. They feel rough to the touch, too. I have never minded it." Your voice cracks.
You desperately need this to work, don't you? Only now do I sense your loneliness- the guilt that breaks your heart.
You have made a grave mistake, my dear Sherry. You haven't listened to me and played with the fire. You still carry the burns, but it's not the worst thing you have done.
The whole world thinks you are dead. I am grateful you have spared your brother the pain of having to bury you, but you weren't this kind to anyone else.
And I want to say how you are the most brilliant man I've ever met and yet also the most ignorant one. I eye the pond again; the temptation to go back to sleep is growing, but I can't. You need me, don't you? Because even a decade later, you have not learned to love yourself and put yourself first, and you know that I can love you the best.
"Your name is Jon, and your voice is warm and smooth. You always sound youthful, and I believe so do I when I'm with you. You have always been the best part of me."
Your breath hitches. I know you have tried to forget me, to let me go, but the heartache of our goodbye comes back all at once. So do the memories of the times you've called for me in vain.
I want to tell you I've heard you, but there was too little left of me to respond, and that little part of me was lost in deep slumber.
You have come all the way to the island, hoping that this time would be different, but you don't hear a word when I speak to you. It terrifies you that your last hope has been nothing but a delusion.
"Your name is Jon, and you love the sea, you are fond of animals, your taste in books is dreadful, and you have never given up the idea that magic exists. You like dinosaurs and pineapple on pizza, you enjoy sketching flowers and playing the piano, and you love journaling more than anything else."
I smile - it's a lie. I love you more than anything else. I finally remember this feeling because you feel it, too. You are mapping out a world that I have forgotten - for me. Your eyes are filled with tears because despite forcing yourself to remember someone you've long lost in every bitter-sweet detail, you feel alone, all alone in this haunted place.
"Come back to me, Jon," you finally say and smile. "Let us go on adventures together, just like before. Let us visit unknown countries and solve compelling cases. We have all the time in the world, and I promise I will never let you get bored again. I will read all the books you recommend me and ignore how absurd they are." You laugh a little at that.
Did you know you only needed to imagine this place? You didn't have to come to Cordona to meet me because I've never been here for real. I'm not bound to places, Sherry - I'm bound to you. However, I realise that you have nowhere else to go either way.
Still, isn't anywhere in the world better? Do you, perhaps, still feel this is your home despite all the sorrow that dwells here?
I want to ask you these things, but you can't hear me - not yet.
You grow exhausted, and you finally open your eyes. Your focus shifts away from me - you have become quite rusty at this, and as you no longer imagine me, I also start feeling tired. It's no longer a conscious decision when I enter the pond. I admit it's not very inviting, but the water washes everything away, and I become stagnant again. I sleep, and I dream of the world you see.
But I know you will return tomorrow - you tell me as much. It's a nice thought to have before I dissolve.
"It was so much easier when we were little," you say.
We are back at the bench. Time passes differently for me than it does for you while I'm stuck here, but I know a few days have passed.
"I needed a friend, and I created you. I drew portraits of you, gave you a name, and pretended to talk to you for so long that you eventually started responding. I don't think I ever expected to get this far, Jon, but it was a pleasant surprise to watch you become more and more tangible by the day. I never wondered how and why you grew to be who you are."
It was a child's play back then. You had never intended for me to become more than I was - a pleasant story a lonely boy told himself for comfort. But a nice story is no longer enough for you, is it? Our memories can't fill up the hole in your heart.
You have spent the last few days making me remember myself and our fifteen years together. Much like I did with you the last time we were here. I no longer feel as tired when you open your eyes, and even when I enter the pond, I no longer feel my entire being dissolve in the water. I am becoming more tangible again, and I wonder if you could hear my voice now if I spoke, but I don't want to talk yet. I'd rather sit still and listen for now.
Because the more I remember, the more I feel torn. I don't know if I should come back to you at all, Sherry. My existence was nothing but painful by the end. The only thing that keeps me here is that you have forgiven yourself for what happened to her. You have finally begun blaming the real culprit and not the little boy, who only wanted to help his sick parent.
There is still hope for you. I believed there was none when I left. I suppose I gave up on you too fast, didn't I?
And yet the patterns remain. You always walk the fine line on the edge, and I don't know if I could bear living with that fear again. But I also cannot refuse you, can I?
You look so tired, Sherry. So alone and abandoned. It hurts me to see you like this, and I know my heart won't let me leave you again - not when I can make you feel better.
"I even read books, Jon. Occult and theosophical books about people like you so that I could find a way to see you again. Pitiful, I know. I have taken all we had for granted before. I was a fool and wished I could turn back time."
I find it endearing that you say 'people' like me. I feel acknowledged.
In the end, I know I will cave. Non-existence isn't that scary to me now, but existing together with you feels much better.
"I can sense you," you eventually say after a long moment of silence.
And the words come as a shock, although they shouldn't. We are one, after all. Yet I remain silent and listen.
"I don't know where you are, but I can feel that you are still there. I can feel you watching me, Jon. I can sense you listening to my words. I always have, which is why I never stopped calling."
Your senses are correct. I have never stopped listening, Sherry. What little consciousness remained whenever I entered the water, it was always directed towards you. Even when stripped away of everything that made me myself, whatever remained of me could not avert its eyes from you.
I want to absolve you, I genuinely do, but I don't feel ready to speak yet. I'd rather listen for now. I hope I can be forgiven for this once again.
Over the course of a month, I learn to remember everything that makes me the person you miss. We spend every day on that bench, and although you can't see me, I know who I am now.
My silence disheartens you, but you don't give up. Instead, you tell me stories about us and our little adventures. But I remember them now - I can recall them long before you mention them to me. I can say I finally feel whole again, Sherry. I finally feel ready to talk to you, but what do I say after an entire decade of stillness? I cannot find the words.
The pond is just a pond now - the water does nothing to me anymore. I rest on the bench whenever you sleep because I still can't leave this garden and join you. The weather is improving, and the fog has evaporated, but I'm still a prisoner here.
But I have made up my mind.
You have run out of words today. You simply sit next to me, eyes closed as always, but you are exhausted, and your hope to see me again is dwindling. All our stories were told, and you feel like you've put yourself through this ordeal for nothing. And sleep - it didn't visit you last night at all.
But your pain is my pain, Sherry. I feel your heart aching, and mine aches as well. Instead of speaking, I reach out to you again and cover your hand with mine. I don't expect anything from this gesture, but you inhale sharply, and I freeze.
Can you feel me, Sherry?
I believe you can because I can feel you a well.
"Jon?" you whisper, and your whole body tenses up.
It's a subtle sensation - as delicate and fleeting as touching a soap bubble, and we are both scared to move lest it would burst. We linger like this for what feels like ages before you lift your hand from the bench and turn your palm upwards. Then, our hands met again, fingers lightly curling around each other, and I hear a soft laughter coming from you.
"You have made it back, Jon," you whisper again, "I've always known you wouldn't fail me. My anima."
Your heart beats so much faster now. I know you wonder if you are imagining this and should simply give up, but you dismiss these thoughts fast. You are ecstatic, and nothing else matters for now.
I smile. I'd never fail you, Sherry. Even when I'm gone, my soul will always live within you.
When I finaly speak to you, you barely hear me.
"Hey, Sherry," I say as you sit down on the bench. I didn't find better words, so I simply go for a greeting to keep things more casual. You know me, after all. I'm a very casual man. It's a beautiful morning, and the sunlight fills my heart with joy, but my voice sounds strange to me - I'm not used to hearing it anymore.
You freeze for a moment, mouth slightly ajar. You haven't expected to hear a response from me, possibly ever again, and this turn of events means more to you than your words can convey.
"Hello, Jon," you finally reply once you've gathered yourself. "I haven't heard your voice in so long. It's still very quiet, but I promise it will get better with time. You only have to stay with me."
This brief interaction moves you, and for a while, you struggle to speak further. You try to hide it from me, possibly embarrassed by your strong emotions, but you fail - your breathing trembles too much, and you start fidgeting with your hands. You are hesitant to open your eyes, fearing your focus will shift and I will vanish again.
Because none of this can be done within a day, can it? A long time will pass before we are back to how we used to be, my dear Sherry, but I believe we will get there.
For now, sitting in the garden and talking should be enough. After a while, you begin telling me about your life after you've left the island, but there is one more pressing question on your mind: you'd like to know where I have been all this time, yet you are not ready for this conversation. Do you dread my reply? You don't have to.
In the meantime, I am beyond thrilled to finally understand the context of all these things I have seen through your eyes but have been unable to process, so I listen intently. Of course, I don't tell you this much - it's too early. We know each other better than anyone else, but we have been apart for too long and still need to warm up.
And what a man you have become! I disagree with your decision to have yourself declared dead, and I let you know with great pleasure! But aside from this, I am endlessly proud of you. You are the bravest man I know, and I no longer have doubts about wanting to be by your side. It's a privilege, Sherry. I feel like the luckiest person in the world.
It's exhausting for you - to listen to my voice for that long, but you don't leave the bench until you can barely keep yourself awake. It's already late at night when you finally open your eyes and get up. Despite the utter exhaustion, you look happier than I've seen you for years.
And when I wish you goodnight, you hear it despite not focussing on me anymore. It makes you chuckle with joy.
You say you see me, but my form is still fuzzy.
"It's like looking into a distorted picture," you say, "but it gets better each day."
You say you see the parts of me that you focus on very clearly, but the rest becomes a visual mess. Still, it's quite an achievement after only two months. For now, you focus on my face as you speak, and when that, too, becomes too exhausting, you lean against me and rest.
I must admit these quiet moments are my favourite thing in the world. They may not be productive and not further our goal, but to me, they are worth living for, Sherry. I love holding you close and feeling you relax. I have missed you too much, and you have missed me, too, and it's certainly nice to be together again.
"Are you ready to leave?" It comes out of nowhere. You sound tired when you pose the question - you sit up on the bench and look at me in expectation. "I don't mean to rush you, Jon. You know you can take as long as you need, but I would like to know how you feel. "
I also want to leave this place behind, Sherry. I don't feel ready to be a part of your world yet, but I'm growing tired of my prison cell, and I hope we can find ourselves a nicer place to meet.
But there is a problem.
"I fear I can't. I don't see a door," I reply, and you look puzzled before I elaborate further. "You need to make a door for me, Sherry. I believe you are familiar with mental barriers. I can't overcome mine without you."
This is news to you, although you have surely wondered why I never join you when you enter the house. I can't tell for sure what's going on through your head - the more independent I become, the less I can sense you unless you focus on letting me do so.
After a moment, you get up from the bench and take my hand. I follow you to the door, but unlike you, I only see a brick wall. Nevertheless, you try to lead me out of this place, but once you enter the manor, you disappear.
A moment later, you are back in the garden again.
"I could no longer see you, Jon," you say, and I can only give you a sympathetic smile in return. I expected this much.
It's going to be a long way, Sherry. We can't expect everything to return back to normal this fast. Nevertheless, I don't want you to suffer in this place any more for my sake. I tell you that you can leave anytime because our connection is not bound to the garden. You can always visit me in your mind until I'm ready to leave.
But you refuse.
"I will not leave the manor again without you, Jon," you say. "We will leave through this door together again, just like we entered eleven years ago."
I smile. Yes, Sherry. We'll go together one day.
It takes us over a month until one day, you ask me to close my eyes. I finally see the door, but I'm nervous about taking a step past the threshold for the first time. Instead, I peek through it but don't see the manor on the other side. I can't tell what I see, and I hesitate.
I'm still not a part of your outer world yet - I'm not bound to one place like you, and I know this door can take me anywhere you'd like me to be. I trust you, Sherry. I know you would never do anything to harm me, but the nervousness stays because I haven't left the garden in so long that it feels like I'm rooted here.
"You will like it," you promise and smile. "We need a new place to meet until you are ready to join me, Jon, and I know just the right spot."
I smile back and take your hand before closing my eyes and letting you lead me. I can feel my heart race as we take a few steps. You are endlessly patient and walk slowly, and from time to time, you squeeze my hand to give me some comfort.
And we are together - it's all that matters to me!
First, I feel the stone path of the garden under my feet. Next - the wooden surface of the door's threshold, and as I take yet another step, I feel sand. I am excited, but I force myself to take a few more steps before finally opening my eyes.
Then I see grey rocks. I see yellow sand. I see an old wooden boat with a makeshift sail, an old helm, and a plank with the name 'Themis' written on it with white paint. We are in a small grotto at the shore of Cordona, and it happens to be my favourite place in the world.
Instead of letting go of your hand, I pull you close and embrace you as tightly as I can. I'm too happy to articulate it properly, but you know. Of course, you know. This place is our safe haven, and now, it's my new home, too.
"Until you feel ready to join me again," you say and give me a pat on the back. "There are no doors or brick walls to hold you back now. You'll only have to walk out of the cave, and you will be with me, Jon. No matter where I am."
I nod. I'm not there yet, but knowing I could be with you at any time now is liberating.
I ask you about your plans because I doubt you'd stay at the manor now that I've also left it. And to my surprise, you answer:
"Tibet."
Tibet sounds fun to me, and I promise to join you while you are there. I ask you why you'd picked this country in particular, but you can't name me the reason.
"But I'd also like a fake name. Otherwise, you risk being recognised once people figure out that you travel with me," I joke, and you laugh. I can pick any fake name in the world, you say, but I have to promise you that I will always remain Jon.
We spend the rest of the day in our safe haven. You no longer have trouble seeing me or hearing my voice, and I think that we really made it.
I think that nothing can separate us now, Sherry. I think no matter where life takes us, we will always find our way back.