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“But this is terrible! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You didn’t want to know.”

“Then why tell me now?”

Clare shrugs. “Alba says it will get better. She says there’s a chaotic time when everything tears itself apart and then peace. There will be hardly any people, but she says the world comes back, and art will be there, when the world is ready again.”

I am viscerally afraid, though I can’t understand why; Clare is talking about a future neither of us will see.

We row back to the pier, tie up the boat, bring the oars and cushions and other things up to the house. The moon is high in the sky now. We get ready for bed without saying much; instead of reading in bed, as we usually do, I turn out the light, and we watch the lake through our bedroom window. “Kiss?” Clare says. I kiss her good-night, and fall asleep holding her hand.

Clare: We kiss good-night, and I think how lucky I am: to have had two great loves, and Alba, and her Zach and Oliver; to have had such wonderful friends, and a kind family. I think of the ones who have died, and the ones who are out there in the world, living their lives. Good night, everyone. Good night.

Beck: I wake before dawn. The room is silent. Clare is asleep—but no, she is silent, too. I put my hand on her cheek; she is only slightly cool. I listen for her heartbeat, but her heart is still. She looks peaceful. My love. I curl myself around her and try to imagine my world without her.

A Murmuration

Saturday, September 26, 2065 (Alba is 64, Beck is 89)

Beck: I have had everything ready for days, but I get up early and check it again just to be sure. I’ve tidied the house, dealt with most of the loose ends; I have left the necessary passwords and paperwork where Alba can find them. I feel as though I should have suitcases packed and waiting by the front door the way we used to, back in the day; there should be a taxi on the way—but of course I don’t need to carry anything and there aren’t any taxis now. I am all nervous energy and am eager to embark, but when Alba finally arrives she looks uncertain.

I say, “Don’t worry.”

Alba says, “I’m not sure what to expect.”

I just smile. I hand her the headset and help her to put it on. I take her hand. We are standing in the middle of my studio in the basement of our house in Chicago, the house where Alba grew up. I have lived here for fifty-five years. I have organized the room as best I can: all my equipment is at the far end, by the wall. I can hear it humming, fans blowing; such soft noises, the sonic wallpaper of my life. I have positioned the sofa near my desk, where it won’t be in the way. I sit down on it, slowly, carefully. The bioware implant makes me dizzy when I move too abruptly.

“So this is what, again?” Alba asks. “A sort of electronic afterlife?”

“It’s the Museum of Lost Souls, expanded edition, complete with actual souls. When you’re ready to leave, just take off the headset.”

“Okay.” She looks at me doubtfully.

“Here we go, then,” I say. I adjust Alba’s headset. The basement disappears.

We are standing in an antechamber of the Rothko Chapel, next to a set of closed doors. “Why are we here?” Alba asks.

“Jasper’s been waiting for me. Will you come in?”

“I’ll let you talk with him alone.”

I open a door and pass through into the chapel. The room is somber; the enormous gray-purple-black paintings encircle me like portals into the underworld. At first I think I’m alone. Then I see Jasper, sitting with his hands folded, as though in prayer. He rises and meets me near the center of the room, under the overcast skylight. “Beck,” he says. “You’ve come.” He is older than I remember, but not old. He looks fit, sane, glad to see me. He’s wearing a suit and tie, as though he’s come from his own funeral.

“Jasper.” I kiss his cheek. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting so long.”

“I understand. It doesn’t matter, time doesn’t seem to work the same way here.” We sit on a bench, close but not touching. “I just wanted to see you, before I go. To apologize.”

“No,” I tell him. “There’s no need. Good things came from our bad times. I’ve been happy. I hope you found peace.”

“Yes, eventually. I love you. I always loved you, even though I couldn’t show it, at the end.”

“I forgive you, Jasper. I love you.”

“Your Isadora—she’s delightful. She comes here sometimes, to let me know how you are. I like to imagine that our daughter would have been just like Isadora.”

I embrace him. “That was the idea,” I say. “But she’s exceeded my original plan.”

“Everything is more than I hoped for,” Jasper says. “It’s all extraordinary.” His face lights up. I remember his infectious delight, his original mind, his devotion to me and to his work. “Go,” I tell him. “You’re free.” Jasper stands, throws back his head, his arms, and quietly explodes into a mass of butterflies—a flickering of color, a subtle disturbance of the air, thousands of butterflies and then none. Jasper is gone.