Page 50 of The Time of My Afterlife

The room goes blurry as my eyes become filled with hot, stinging tears. ‘This is a nightmare,’ I sob. ‘I don’t want to die.’

‘Florence, don’t cry,’ he says, rising from his seat and coming to the sofa. As he sits down there’s a faint tapping on the window.

‘What’s that?’ I ask as he rises, pulls aside my curtains, and gasps. Outside my living room window, hundreds of butterflies have gathered. I gaze in amazement, having never witnessed such a sight. They fly against the glass repeatedly, fluttering their tiny wings. Clark opens the window, and suddenly, they all swarm inside. Breath catches in my throat as I stare at the kaleidoscope of Red Admiral butterflies that swoop past my bookcases. My living room is suddenly ablaze with colour – deep red, velvet black and spots of white. The afterlife has put on quite a show – the closing night performance for Clark and me.

A large butterfly breaks free and approaches me, dropping a white rolled-up piece of paper into my lap. The moment the message is delivered, they all rush back out through the window.

I brace myself. All my muscles tense. With trembling hands, I pick up the tiny rolled-up scroll. My fingers are quivering. I’m so scared.

‘Open it,’ says Clark, sitting down next to me.

Nausea mingles with fear inside my tummy as I carefully open it.

The words sting, but I am flooded with relief.

‘Not passed. Try again.’

We’re still here.

He leans over my shoulder, and he sighs. ‘Wow – I honestly thought we were going to die tonight.’

We both go silent. I close my eyes and silently thank Iris and Hilda for letting us have another go. When I open them, I glance at Clark, who looks like he’s doing the same. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I am busy silently thanking Iris, Hilda, your dad and my nan,’ he says, with a smile.

‘Me too, although I also need to start including Dad and your nan.’

I can feel the atmosphere between us has changed. It’s softer and not as charged.

‘Seeing all those butterflies was an experience,’ he says.

‘They were so beautiful.’

He gets to his feet. ‘Come on. We need to do some thinking. I can’t believe I am saying this, but we need your whiteboard.’

Oh, no! My heart starts thrumming. He can’t see it.

But he’s already heading towards it. ‘What the hell is this?’ he exclaims.

I rush over to him. ‘My future bookish-themed wedding. Please don’t look at it.’

It’s too late. He’s seen my ideas. The board is split into sections. Under ‘Book-themed aisle music’, I have written a few bullets.

Bridgerton string quartet?

Hobbit shire music?

Game of Thrones? (Too murdery?)

Under ‘Wedding Dress’, I have added:

Brontë-heroine chic – windswept hair, dramatic cape?

Fantasy warrior queen – armoured corset and sword?

There are other sections, but the most embarrassing is probably my badly drawn bride wearing a giant dress adorned with books, hearts and stars.

He glances at me. ‘I can see why you only got a C in GCSE Art.’