Back to Life...for Death?

The Third of November, 1828

The man back then, he haunted me. In every single dream of mine, I could feel him, hear him, or see him. And it didn't stop.

It's been three months now since I last went to visit William, and I've regretted not doing so every day. However he's never left my thoughts. There's been so much I've had to tell him, so many things that he's missed. It bothered me, but it bothered me most today. So I decided to ignore my fears, forget the young man with the cold hands and gentle, oh, so familiar touch, and go visit my beloved one’s grave.

But oddly enough there was already someone there, standing near the grave, and looking down at it. Such an artistic scene, as if it was taken from one of William’s drawings I still keep.

Except that two integral things are different.

I stared at the scene. In fact, it was almost so identical to a particular old drawing of William's that it looked like it had come right out of the portrait. Like his picture, his vision had come to life.

In the drawing, I was standing in the rose garden and looking down at a beautiful rose. But in the place of that rose, was now a grave. And the person lacked that sweet smile of mine.

The smile he used to love so much.

*

The person removed his gaze from the grave and instead focussed it straight at me. Into my eyes.
“How long should I wait for your return, my fair lady? The rains poured and washed the streets, the snow fell and covered the earth in a pure white blanket, but you have gone, as if you vanished into thin air.”
“Well, now, that the blanket lays in its place, I think is the time for me to finally appear again, isn’t it?” I answered him.
"Broken from the outside,
I was born without a flaw.”
“The simple truth about my love,
Is your smile.”
“The simple word sounding with your voice,
That’s what I’m saying.”

To anyone on the street listening to us, our talk would've just appeared as meaningless blabber, but for me, there was significance to it beyond mere words.
“How did you know?” I asked, my voice cracking in every word. A year and three months had passed, and now I could hear it, the same way he used to talk. The same poem we said when meeting. And a stranger was saying it despite the voice being familiar.
“It should be me asking, how don’t you realize? My sweet girl, Annabelle. Or, may I call you, Annie?”
It was for the first time, that I truly looked at the stranger.

“If a rose was to bloom,
In the gentle touch of the water.”
“Shall it be me,
Or the winter?”
“And if it was for me,
to drown in the ocean.”
“Shall it be me,
To rescue you?”

We used to read poems together. He read two sentences, then I would read the other two. Sometimes, we switched roles, but the game was always the same.
“So, if it is me, standing in front of you,”
“Then I will be your Mirror.”
“And if the mirror reflects somebody else?”
“Then it shall be me.”

“How can this be? It isn’t possible, this is an illusion!” I panicked, I screamed. I couldn’t believe my eyes or my ears. He wrapped his arms around me, and held me close to him. His touch was so gentle, regardless of his strength.
The embrace, the touch, was the same as always, warm, sweet, loving.
It was mine.
In some way, he was still here, with me.

And alive.