1
Daniel
Waypoint Research Station
Antarctica
‘Austral Summer’
Dec 7th.
Ghosts were not real, yet I was seeing one.
I was a NASA researcher and physician living on a remote station in Antarctica, studying how humans coped with extended isolation. Turned out, I was coping the worst. Because what else could explain the apparition that had just walked in through the doors of my clinic?
A tall man dressed in an aviation suit stood looking at me.
“I’d have done the same for Dr. Park,” he said.
That was my name. Yes. He was talking about me. Specifically, he was talking about how he would risk life and limb to rescue me, should the need ever arise.
Apparitions didn’t talk this clearly. Obviously, the only explanation was that my mind had finally broken.
There was a precedent for this sort of thing. Under extreme circumstances, the human mind could create powerful mirages. Years of collecting data on everyone who passed through Waypoint Research Station had shown me the tremendous power of human longing.
I took a deep breath. No need to panic. I could fix this. I just needed to—
He started walking toward me, and I stopped breathing.
A warm, calloused hand landed on my cheek, jolting me to my core. There were voices all around. People were talking, but I couldn’t hear anything over the sudden roar of blood in my ears. This was not a hallucination. It was real.
Reed was here.
How washehere?
“Hello, my prince.”
My blood ran cold at the voice and then turned hot when the meaning landed.
My husband’s stupidly handsome face swam into view. The crooked nose, the broad grin, the piercing blue eyes that held me captive. The sheer bulk of the man was impossible to ignore.
Okay, time to panic. All systems were failing.
“Hey. Back up. The doctor is married.” Someone tried to pull him back.
“Yes,” Reed replied. His voice was low and unhurried. “The doctor is married.”
I watched him look at my friends, then glance back at me. Straight into my eyes and through my fucking soul.
“To me.”
I was going to pass out.
Or spontaneously combust.
Or just die.
“Daniel?” Viktor, my roommate, called from somewhere, but I couldn’t find the words. I was having trouble even forming thoughts. My prefrontal cortex had gone offline. Cortisol was probably shooting through the roof. I should be capturing this data right now, but apparently, I was not functional enough to do that.
