Page 12 of Where Light Cannot Follow

A chuckle escapes me. "Few in your era are. But music—music is your culture's poetry, I believe."

His eyes slice back to mine with laser intensity. "I'm not fond of music either."

My lips part in genuine shock. "You must be joking."

"It's a frivolous indulgence. What good has ever come of music?"

"What good—?" The words burst from me. "All the world wraps itself in words and song. Even trees compose their own symphonies if you listen with proper attention."

The slightest uptick touches his mouth. The motion is barely perceptible. "I live in a city, if you recall. Not many trees about.”

"Music and poetry form the language of love itself."

Whatever hint of levity had entered his features vanishes like smoke. "Another waste of time. Love.”

No hesitation, no uncertainty wavers in his tone. He means it absolutely. Understanding crystallizes within my mind. I see something of myself in this fiercely beautiful man. Not in his appearance, for he bears thick dark hair and the muscular build of Apollo, while my own features run softer in both coloring and composition. No, I see myself in his desperate need for control, his iron grip attempting to steer a vessel blown about by fates beyond mortal influence.

The endless repetitions of my reality have worn me smooth, but once I burned with hunger. To see my words outlast flesh, to etch my name into human memory as indelibly as the gods.

What a precious price I paid for that ambition.

But here is the point where we diverge fundamentally. This man has navigated life unloved, and whether that was by choice or circumstance matters little now. I, at least, possessed those brief, radiant years with someone who taught me warmth I carry even in this darkest realm.

This man needs love. To receive it, yes, but more crucially, to open himself to its possibility.

He must discover something that matters more than his own safety, his own fear. That path leads out of his loop. It's also the most treacherous of these paths to navigate.

I’ve remained quiet too long, so I offer a brief chuckle. Of course, he despises music. Naturally, he turns from anything speaking of sentiment or emotion. Dangerous territories, those. Unsafe.

My mind races through possibilities as words flicker across thought.

Words. My safety, my hiding place, my history.

My prison.

I should walk away. Within moments, he’d forget me and resume his path. Twice before, I’ve tried to mend souls with wounds like his. Twice I failed spectacularly, and the weight of those failures still clings to me, their wails threading through every silence, haunting the spaces between thoughts. Perhaps that is why I keep up this endless monologue: because words are all I have left, and because if I fell silent, I would hear nothing but their agony.

"Rendering you speechless proves more amusing than anticipated," he says. His voice is a low rumble stark against the cool expanse of his self-imposed limbo.

I meet his gaze and find warmth there as subtle as a damp wick's flickering spark, but present. And hungry.

My resolve crystallizes. Once more, then never again. "Even if your taste in art is abysmal…” I give him a wry smile, but he only meets me with that same unabashed intensity. “I can still help you break this loop. If you want it.”

Time stretches between us. The tree looms ominously. He doesn't shift, doesn't break that focus. It’s nearly burning in intensity. It's the first time in eons I've imagined feeling warm.

"You know the way out?" he asks carefully.

"The way through. But yes."

His lips compress into a thin line before he nods. "Very well."

"Follow me."

Surprisingly, he does. Hands thrust into pockets, posture rigid as a soldier's, but he follows. When we reach the door—a polished wooden one standing impossibly upright against the fog—I gesture toward it. The incongruity makes him frown.

"You must open the doors yourself. I cannot do it for you."

He hesitates, then reaches out. His gloves are supple leather, double-stitched. Luxurious armor for privileged hands. The knob turns without resistance, the door swinging wide.