The Four Numbers

It was upon an afternoon of no particular distinction, save for the city’s habitual melancholy drizzle — the sort of rain that neither cleanses nor commits — that my business partner and I found ourselves seated in the sombre glow of a rather pretentious café, the kind that trades more in the illusion of taste than in taste itself.

We were awaiting the arrival of a man whose reputation preceded him like the shadow of an overgrown monument — one Mr. Sarkar, a self-anointed luminary in the delicate art of modern marketing, whose name was uttered in business circles with the same reverence one reserves for authors of obscure but authoritative tomes. He arrived, as such men always do, precisely ten minutes late, as though to punctuate the world’s dependency on his counsel.

No sooner had we exchanged the requisite civilities — that thin, inelastic veneer which keeps the apparatus of human intercourse from rusting entirely — than we surrendered to him our modest visiting cards, tokens of identity in a world increasingly estranged from the concept.

Mr. Sarkar, with the solemnity of an antiquarian appraising a relic, held the small card at arm’s length and squinted through spectacles so thick they might have served as the portholes of a bathysphere.

“Ah,” he mused aloud, his voice oiled with self-satisfaction, “and what, pray, is the cryptic significance of these four numerals adorning your emblem? One seldom encounters arithmetic in the wild, outside the grubby ledgers of commerce.”

My business partner, a man of quiet but immovable composure, replied with unembellished clarity, “They are birthdays.”

Mr. Sarkar’s eyebrows, two grey caterpillars of ungoverned curiosity, arched theatrically. “Birthdays?” he echoed, as though the word were an ancient rune.

“Yes,” my business partner said, “ours.”

A silence, heavy and condescending, hung between us, broken only by the clink of a spoon against porcelain, like the prelude to some minor revelation.

Then came the question — tossed out with the nonchalance of a man who has long since ceased to regard the dignity of his fellow creatures as worthy of protection.

“Oh, really? Are you homos?”

There it was — the ghastly question, delivered with the elegance of a boot to the face, as though human connection could be so neatly dissected and catalogued, as if the unfathomable breadth of human friendship were a specimen to be pinned under glass.

My business partner, never one to dignify the grotesque with offense, replied with a calmness that could only be described as charitable.

“I am afraid we are not.”

There was a quiet magnificence in the way he said it, as if brushing a speck of dust from the lapel of decency. I noticed then how small Mr. Sarkar looked — a man diminished not by stature but by the architecture of his thoughts, a mind furnished entirely with the fragile trinkets of prejudice and presumption.

The conversation moved on, as conversations do, like a leaf carried downstream, away from the sharp stones that first unsettled it. But something had shifted. The veil had been drawn back for a fleeting second, revealing the shabbiness of a soul addicted to the comfort of categories and the safety of sneers.

It is, I have since learned, the peculiar plight of the unmarried and unattached man, whose very existence invites the world’s morbid curiosity — a creature viewed less as an individual and more as an anomaly to be explained away with gossip or derision. In some eyes, solitude is not a state but a suspicion.

And so, the four numbers remained on the card — unyielding, unashamed — quiet sentinels of our united histories, which, unlike Mr. Sarkar’s certainties, required neither explanation nor apology.

The Curious Case of Imagination and Pettiness

I found myself musing, not without a measure of dismay, upon the curious mechanism by which a man — a stranger to us, no less — could vault so hastily from ignorance to insinuation, and that too with such barren imagination. What obscure defect of mind or spirit, I wondered, had permitted such an empty and premature extrapolation to pass, unexamined, from his lips? One might have supposed that the years, which are intended by nature to mellow the mind as the sun ripens the fruit, would have endowed him with at least the rudiments of discernment, if not wisdom. And yet, it seems, time had left him curiously untouched, as though his thoughts had aged in body but not in depth.

But upon more sober reflection, I could scarcely lay the fault at his feet alone. He was, in the end, but a mirror — polished, perhaps, but nevertheless faithful — reflecting the wafer-thin mentality so fashionable in our age; an era wherein the soul is urged at every turn to exchange wonder for cynicism, and where the impulse for genuine exploration is starved by the baser appetite for derision. There appears to be, deep in the circuitry of the modern mind, some unfortunate miswiring which prompts otherwise unremarkable people to derive their small, nasty pleasures not from understanding but from the squalid thrill of speaking first and thinking — if ever — much, much later.

Had the places been reversed — had I been the one to encounter a name so remarkable in character — I should have done what decency and imagination both demand. I should have first acknowledged the quiet ingenuity that such a name implies, for originality is a flower all too rare in the grey gardens of commerce. Thereafter, I should have probed — not with idle curiosity but with the proper reverence due to any act of human creation — into the story behind it: what vision or sentiment had midwifed its birth, what bond of friendship or shared endeavour had shaped its form.

And once the veil had been lifted and the answer laid bare, the only appropriate response — the only one, indeed, that would have satisfied both heart and intellect — would have been admiration for the friendship and affection so evident in so deliberate a choice. Surely such a conclusion would have been more fitting than the vulgar little jest about sexuality which the gentleman, with all the tact of a child prodding a caged animal, had thought sufficient.

The whole encounter, steeped as it was in a species of pettiness that ought to have embarrassed even the most infantile of minds, roused in me a greater contemplation. It compelled me to set pen to paper and chart, as best I could, the many noble notions that seem to have drifted entirely out of fancy in this frothy, featherweight culture of ours — a civilisation so intoxicated with appearances that it can no longer distinguish the shallow from the deep, the crude from the kind, nor the trivial from the true.

Example 1

The Unremarkable Friendship of Mervin and Lawrence — and the World’s Remarkable Misreading

Mervin and Lawrence had been companions of the truest sort — a friendship forged in that golden age of boyhood, tempered by the trials of common classrooms, burnished on the football field, and matured into a bond so staunch that to describe them as “inseparable” would hardly suffice. They were, as it were, two strands of the same cord, distinct in fibre but woven into one enduring thread.

It was after one such day of strenuous exertion upon the field — the kind of afternoon that leaves a man feeling as though he has loaned every ounce of his strength to the soil beneath his feet — that Mervin sought the comfort of a Jacuzzi, the modern-day man’s poor substitute for the soothing embrace of the sea. Lawrence, in contrast, had yielded to his fatigue rather more suddenly and collapsed into slumber, still clad in his muddied battle-garb, on the couch in Mervin’s room.

At some quiet interlude, stirred perhaps by the unfamiliar hush of the room, Lawrence’s eyes opened just as Mervin, now fresh from his ablutions, stood at his wardrobe, surveying the garments within. His back was turned — bare and unguarded — the sort of unremarkable moment that passes, in most lives, without even the faintest echo. Yet Lawrence, possessed of that unstudied frankness that only true friends may afford one another, let out a teasing remark, half-laughing through his lingering drowsiness: “Dude, I am surprised that you have such a puny butt in comparison to the rest of your toned body.”

When Mervin later recounted this tale to us, over the lazy comfort of wine and the kind of laughter that only old friends know — the unhurried, unpoliced laughter of those who have nothing to prove and nothing to fear — the jest was received in the spirit of light-heartedness with which it had been born. It made no mark upon our esteem for either of them, nor did it so much as ruffle the gentle surface of that evening’s conversation. The remark dissolved, as all harmless jests do, into the larger sea of symbiotic stories. Or so it seemed.

For there was, as there always seems to be, one exception. One friend — whose understanding of the world, I dare say, was shaped more by speculation than by experience — believed, with the slyness of a serpent coiled behind the fig leaves of false concern, into the ear of another. 

Mervin and Lawrence must be gay.

It is an unfortunate hallmark of our times, that such austerity of companionship should be twisted and tethered by the small, stunted imaginations of those who, having little of substance within themselves, must look upon genuine closeness with envy, and reframe it in terms that their own narrow minds can endure.

I know of friends — honest, unpretentious men — who have traded jests, light as feathers, about the more delicate parts of each other’s anatomy. I know, too, of women, no less sensible or secure, who have shared confidences and observations upon their bosoms, as comfortably and unselfconsciously as one might remark upon the cut of a dress or the length of a hem. And not once, in any such exchange, did the shadow of lasciviousness fall upon the moment. These were, and remain, the harmless musings of human creatures perfectly at ease with one another.

The Foregone Reflex: A Glimpse into Human Nature

There is, moreover, a primeval and immutable truth at the heart of this — a truth that present-day man, in all his charade of sophistication, would do well to recall. When a man, by some happenstance or accident, finds his eyes momentarily cast upon the member of another, it is neither perversion nor perversity that bids him pause, but a reflex older than language, older even than civilisation. A fleeting instinct, born of that primal arithmetic by which nature herself once measured a man’s fitness to survive.

In the long shadows of our prehistory, it was the strongest, the most virile, the most physically assured of men who were celebrated, and whose seed was sown most widely, so that the tribe might grow stronger by his blood. The glance, quick and involuntary, was once a silent affliction — a vestige of the age-old contest for survival, not a token of desire. And though the world has changed, the primordial machinery remains, buried beneath the polished surface of modern manners.

Why then, I ask, do we persist in this tedious travesty of puritanical pretence? Why cloak so natural a reflex in the sackcloth of guilt and undertone as though we had stumbled upon some grievous sin, when in actuality we have only glimpsed, for the briefest flicker of time, the common construction of our characteristic humanity?

The world, it seems, would rather blush at the body than comprehend it — and in so doing, reveals far more about its own uneasiness than about the bodies in question.

Example 2

Delhi’s Ease vs. Bangalore’s Suspicion — A Tale of Two Cultures

Not long ago, a friend of mine — recently uprooted from the brisk and bustling avenues of Delhi to the softer, slower lanes of Bangalore — unburdened his frustrations to me over the course of an evening meal, the kind of unceremonious supper where conversation flows as freely as the drink.

“Bro,” he began, with the earnestness of a man disclosing some tragic philosophical absurdity rather than a mere societal irritation, “in Delhi we’ve a rather healthy culture when it comes to these things. No one bats an eye if you saunter about your own home in nothing but your briefs, nor if you greet your mates with an unstudied embrace — as one ought to, untroubled by the world’s prying gaze.” Here he paused, and a grimace passed across his face — not the sort that pain brings, but the far deeper ache of cultural disillusionment. 

“Besides,” he continued, the words growing heavier with personal history, “I’ve lived in hostels since my schoolboy days. When you’ve grown up among the brotherhood of bare mattresses and communal bathrooms, the sight of a bare backside is hardly cause for ceremony. But here — here in the South — the culture is, well, stilted. Any trace of closeness between male friends, any display of genuine ease, draws these narrow little frowns and raised brows, as if you had broken some unspoken covenant with decency itself. It’s so bloody messed up, man!”

I could not but feel an abysmal and unflustered empathy with him, for his lament struck against a reality I myself had long observed: that there exists, undeniably, in these parts a strain of general idiocy so astonishingly consistent it has almost the solemnity of tradition. Here, the art of minding one’s own business has not merely been neglected — it has, so far as I can tell, never been introduced into the curriculum of daily life at all.

The most trifling gestures of human comradeship, especially among men, seem to ignite in the minds of these self-appointed custodians of propriety the wildest and most vulgar conjectures, as though brotherly ease must, by some unsaid rule, conceal a secret perversion. The truly perplexing thing is not the existence of these idle tongues — for every age has bred its share of weasels and whisperers — but the sheer persistence with which they mistake the language of friendship for the grammar of sexuality.

Misreading Brotherhood: A Moral Illiteracy

It is, of course, a most elementary misunderstanding — one might even call it a kind of moral illiteracy — to imagine that where there is affection there must also be appetite. These people, poor creatures, are entirely blind to the fact that what they witness in such harmless moments is not the outworking of some furtive desire, but the natural and unpolluted ease of brotherhood — that primitive and upright fellowship of equals which asks for nothing but sincerity, and offers in return that rarest of all comforts: the knowledge that one is known, and yet not judged.

And so the weasels carry on, scurrying from corner to corner, finding scandal where only simplicity was meant to dwell, and seeing shadows where there is only light.

Example 3

Checks and Balances — A Brotherhood Beyond Biology

My business partner and I are, in the eyes of the world, much like Siamese twins — though no surgeon’s blade, nor the cold arithmetic of biology, binds us. We are, rather, living proof against the quaint delusion that blood alone determines the strength of kinship; a delusion so tenacious that many will believe no two souls can share the sacred togetherness of brothers unless they first shared the same cradle.

Years ago, a mutual friend — one whose wit, on rare occasion, wandered into the dominion of wisdom — remarked with admirable precision that we were like checks and balances: two halves of a single, working whole, each guarding the other’s limits, each securing the other’s freedom. I have long thought that observation the most fitting description of the bond we possess.

And for all this, I must make plain — if only for the benefit of those whose imaginations lean toward the gutter more readily than toward reason — that this friendship is, and always has been, untouched by the slightest trace of sexual interest. It is not so much a matter of self-restraint as it is a simple fact of nature: such penchants are not part of the engineering of this particular bond, for the very obvious reason that our inclinations lie elsewhere.

Indeed, we have each enjoyed, in the unadvertised privacy of our lives, more than our fair share of women, and the unruly pleasures that often accompany the company of the fairer sex. But neither of us is in the habit of parading our affairs upon the village notice board. We do not make public announcements of our conquests, nor issue bulletins to satisfy the nosiness of indolent minds.

And so, in the absence of such performative declarations, the dense and restless minds of lesser men — those always eager to fill the silence of another’s life with the noise of their own invention — will busy themselves with the oldest and most tedious of pastimes: babbling behind backs, weaving the small, brittle fictions that seem to give such people their only true sense of importance.

Example 4

M and V — Companionship vs. the World’s Fixation with Romance

At our members-only-club, amid the usual drift of characters that populate such haunts, there exist two friends — M and V — whose companionship has grown into the kind of quiet legend that often provokes more surmising than admiration among those whose own lives, alas, offer little material for either.

M is a married man, a creature tethered to hearth and home by the solemn vows of matrimony, while V, by contrast, remains unwed, unattached, and entirely untroubled by the endemic anxieties that this station seems to provoke in the minds of lesser mortals. The two are, by all outward signs, inseparable. When M is not dutifully by the side of his wife, he is found in the company of V; and when V is not with M, his time is spent either bent to the demands of his profession or engaged in that patrician and time-honoured pastime: cricket.

It is inevitable — and depressingly predictable — that in a world so obsessed on the commerce of romantic entanglement, V’s bachelorhood has become a matter of urban investigation. The question, posed more often than politely warranted, is always the same, though dressed in different, often clumsy words: Why, if he is as clever and eligible as he appears, does he not have a woman dangling from his arm?

V, for his part, answers this crude curiosity with the consistency of a man who has long grown weary of the question. His reply, always delivered with a composure that borders on the philosophical, is that he has no hunger for the shallow sport of casual flings, and that the carnival of ornamental ‘arm candy’ — so often mistaken for romance by the contemporary world — holds no charm for him.

But of course, such honest straightforwardness is seldom satisfactory for a populace that has grown more concerned with projecting its own fixations upon others than minding the course of its own small and scattered lives. The mere fact that a man might choose companionship over conquest, or friendship over flirtation, seems to strike these folk as a species of heresy against the unspoken dogmas of their day — dogmas which, one suspects, they obey more out of fear than conviction.

V, however, is no stranger to such bigots, and, with the untroubled coolness that marks the truly free man, he often meets their prying intrusions with a reply as dry as it is disarming. When the cross-questioning grows more persistent than politeness would allow, he will quip — in a tone so light that it might almost pass for cordiality — that if they are so consumed by meddlesomeness, they are most welcome to join him for a threesome. 

One can hardly imagine a more fitting riposte, nor one more capable of exposing the pettifoggery of minds so eager to sift the private dust of another’s life.

Example 5

The Brothers S and B — A Study in Fraternal Love Misunderstood

There are two brothers, S and B, whose attachment to one another is so constant and so unshakeable that one might, with little exaggeration, describe them as firmly glued — not by the adhesive of mere habit, but by that rarer bond of genuine fraternal affection which neither time nor circumstance seems able to erode.

And yet — as human nature rarely fails to stoop to its lowest common denominator — it was not long before I heard, floating through the slothful air of club-room cackle and back-alley chatter, the most ludicrous and distasteful of suggestions: that S and B were, of all things, entangled in an incestuous relationship. The word itself wafted about like the sour scent of something long decayed, and those who gave it breath seemed almost to revel in the vulgarity of the thought.

It is at moments like these that one begins to suspect the human mind, left untrained by reason and untempered by charity, is capable of descending into an abyss from which no ladder of redemption could possibly reach. Such imaginations are not merely misled — they are, I fear, unwell. There is in this sort of talk the unmistakable scent of an illness — not of the body, but of the mind — a sickness of perception so severe that one can hardly set a boundary upon the extent of its lunacy.

For there are follies born of ignorance, and there are follies born of malice — but this, I think, springs from a still lower place: the barren soil of a heart so starved of decency and intellectual effort that it feeds itself on the refuse of its own distrusts.

On Comfortable Masculinity and the Absurdities of Suspicion

There are certain things I have long wished to say — and would say, if only the blockheaded multitude could be trusted to listen without falling into their customary sneers and assumed idiocies. But since silence often leaves error to multiply unchecked, I shall attempt to say it plainly, for once.

Let it be known: a heterosexual man, secure in the quiet fortifications of his own nature, does not shy from the company of men whose orientation differs from his own. In fact, the openly self-possessed man — the one whose identity is anchored rather than adrift — feels no tremor of anxiety in so simple a circumstance as accompanying a bisexual friend to a gay bar, or offering his time and presence in solidarity with those whose lives chart a different course. To imagine otherwise is to mistake the world for a schoolyard and the adult mind for the playbook of a child.

The Sameer Test: Healthy Minds Think Healthily

Curious to test this theory, I once put the question — a thought experiment, if you like — to Sameer, a friend of mine whose acquaintance I have been privileged to enjoy for over two decades. I asked whether, in the fertile wilds of universal imagination, he thought the closeness I share with my business partner, or the steadfast bond between the brothers S and B, could ever be misconstrued as evidence of something more salacious. Sameer, scarcely believing the question required serious answer, looked at me with the honest bewilderment of a healthy mind.

“Are you serious someone even thought so about all of you, bro?” he asked, with a half-laugh that belied both pity and scorn for the blabbermouths. “Man, I’ve always envied you guys. The way you’re all so closely knit. Somewhere deep down, I’ve always wanted that kind of connection with my own brothers, or with some of my old friends.”

And at that moment, the gospel — which I had always suspected — rang with renewed clarity: healthy minds produce healthy thoughts. Those who trade in scandal, who assign wickedness where only affection exists, reveal more about their own barren interior lives than about the people they calumny over. And to any who would suggest I only value Sameer’s opinion because it flatters me, I say this: the judgment of a wholesome mind will always outweigh the mutterings of those whose hearts are darkened by supposition. Such creatures — with their cramped imaginations and perverse fixations — are best left to deteriorate in the company of their own kind.

Being ‘With’ Men vs. Being ‘Into’ Men: A Clarification for the Narrow-Minded

It is startling, really, how many fail to grasp the humblest distinction: to be “with” men is entirely different from being “into” men. One may seek the company of brothers, friends, comrades-in-arms, without the faintest hint of erotic motive. The planet, however, in its lethargy, continues to flatten this distinction, as though human intimacy were a one-note song, incapable of expressing anything beyond the sexual. The legitimacy is both elementary and uncorrupted: if you wish to surround yourself with men, do so. If you wish to be a man’s man — not in the slangy, shallow sense, but in the olden spirit of brotherhood — then by all means, be one. The world will chatter, of course, for it has always chattered. But so long as you are clear-eyed about who you are, let the world amuse itself with its guesses. Such inquisitiveness is less a sign of interest than of an empty, farcical mind.

What Will People Say? Why It Should Not Matter

And so, to any man who finds himself pressed under the dead weight of the question — “What will people say?” — I offer the only counsel worth giving: Do not trouble yourself about the opinion of inconsequential busybodies. Their words, like dry leaves on an autumn path, are noisy but weightless. Unless you feel, in your own quiet heart, some question worth answering about yourself, pay them no heed at all.

Society: The Great Engineer of Stigma

Much of the stigma that clings, like mildew, to the broad and varied spectrum of human sexuality would dissolve altogether if people’s prying eyes were blind to it. Judgement, after all, is not born in solitude but in the shadowed corners of national consensus — that invisible court where the uninformed pass verdict on the innocent. Were it possible to silence the superficial, or to cultivate in them some fragment of reflective wisdom, these burdens would lift from many a shoulder.

Love Beyond Understanding: Brotherhood Needs No Apology

It is worth remembering, too — and worth repeating until the lesson sinks in — that two people of the same gender can love one another with all the depth and devotion of siblings, without a trace of anything the unrefined imagination so eagerly conjures. Human affection wears many faces, and the world is poorer for each one we mistrust out of ignorance. Just because a feeling lies beyond the circumference of another’s understanding does not license retribution or incredulity. And if you should ever find yourself confronted by those who cannot fathom this — the immature, the uncomprehending, the homophobic — you would do well to consign them to the category of aliens. They are, after all, strangers to both reason and love.

The Marital Myth: “Past the Age of Marriage? Must Be Gay!”

One of the most galling, and persistently misused, notions floating in the civilian ether is this: “Oh, he has passed the age of marriage. He must be gay.” Or, “They seemed such a happy couple. This talk of ‘incompatibility’ must be a smokescreen; surely he has fallen for a man, or she for a woman.” One hardly knows whether to laugh or weep at the poverty of imagination that produces such conclusions.

There are, in fact, countless reasons why men and women choose not to marry. Some hunger for freedom, some for space, and some simply prefer their own company over the dim compromise of an ill-suited companion. And while I wish, with all the sincerity of my heart, that the age of forced marriages — pressed upon the young by parental iron fists — were behind us, the picture is less comforting. Such coercion, alas, still flourishes. And worse yet, we lose many a bright and promising soul to these very social tyrannies, their lives reduced to quiet resignation under the encumbrance of other people’s expectations.

Freedom from Blether: Learning the Art of Not Caring

But those who have matured past the juvenile need for local approval — those fortunate few who have learned the art of not caring — walk freely through these snares, impervious to the jeers and utters. Others, less fortified, may still feel the sting of damnation. To them I offer this reminder: just as you had the courage to choose the life that suited you best, so too must you train your heart to discount the purposeless hubbub of the officious.

Humanity has always thrived on rumour. Trifling tongues require no proof, only the whiff of novelty — and what muckrake reveals, more often than not, is not the clandestine life of its target but the dark, unexamined corners of the speaker’s own mind.

Bosom Buddies and the Beauty of Living Unapologetically

And so, I say — live as you wish to live. Love whom you wish to love. Give not the faintest consideration to the snarls and squawks of the world’s tittle-tattle. Intimacy is the province of two souls alone — whether mental or physical — and beyond that boundary, no other opinion need ever enter. Perhaps this is why the term bosom buddies was coined in the first place: to dignify with language that great, unsentimental brotherhood of mutual loyalty and affection that neither needs nor asks for popular endorsement.

So I say: go forth. Find your bosom buddy, and live your life upon the terms you yourself have chosen. The world’s view is a wind — and you, sir, are a ship. Let the wind blow as it pleases.

In the bosom of London, nestled among the antiquated avenues, stood a charming old-school café where time seemed to slow down. On a crisp autumn afternoon, two childhood friends, Oliver and Edward, met for tea. The atmosphere was filled with the rich tang of brewing tea and the subtle redolence of Bvlgari Man In Black, a scent that mirrored the sophistication of the establishment.

As the friends settled into the plush velvet chairs, Edward could not help but notice the air of success that clung to Oliver. His bespoke suit, immaculately polished shoes, and the restrained gleam of a watch on his wrist spoke volumes about his affluent lifestyle.

“Oliver, old chap, you seem to be doing exceptionally well these days,” Edward remarked, sipping his Earl Grey.

Oliver chuckled, swirling the aromatic tea in his delicate hand-painted-China-cup. “Ah, Eddie, life has its twists and turns, much like this delightful scent I am wearing today – Bvlgari Man In Black. It is a scent that transcends time, just like our friendship.”

Intrigued, Edward leaned in, curious to unravel the parallels Oliver was drawing. “Do tell, my friend. How does a mere ambrosial liquid reflect the intricacies of life?”

Oliver took a moment, inhaling the bouquet lingering in the draught before he began his tale. “Imagine life as a sonata, Eddie. The strong chords in the tonic of the first theme with its daring high, or in this case, top notes, like the initial burst of citrus in this heavenly blend, represent the zest and enthusiasm of youth. But as the melody progresses and transitions into the melodic second subject of the dominant key, the heart notes emerge, mirroring the depth and complexity we acquire with time.”

Edward nodded, savouring the analogy as Oliver continued. “Bvlgari Man In Black, much like the trek of our own lives, has a strong leather accord at its core – a reminder of resilience and the ability to weather storms. It is the perfumatory of a man who has faced challenges, yet emerged stronger and more refined.” 

Their exchange meandered through memories of shared childhood adventures, college escapades, and the trials of adult life. Oliver painted vivid pictures with his words, intertwining the spirit of the fragrance with anecdotes of success and setback.

“The base notes, Eddie,” Oliver mused, “they are the foundations of our existence. Just like the ever-present warmth of amber and the smoky touch of guaiac wood in Bvlgari Man In Black, these elements ground us and define our essence.”

Edward grinned in accord. 

“Did you know, Ed, that amber has this whole history? It’s been a talisman for courage and self-confidence, like a charm for warriors on the battlefield. It’s even a sign of good luck. And get this, older folks rock it as a sort of representational symbol of wisdom and fortitude. Pretty cool, huh?”

“Ah, I see,” Edward remarked, with a hint of contemplation.

“And, did you ever clock the smoky vibes of guaiac wood? It’s like this allegorical powerhouse, symbolising strength and endurance. People reckon it is a bit of a guard against bad vibes, bringing balance and harmony into your life. It’s got this metaphorical connection to vigour, protection, and grounding, apparently.”

Edward found himself captivated by the poetic comparisons to something so scholarly. “So, my friend, do you believe that life, much like this whiff, is a concoction of various elements that create an exclusive symmetry?” he asked, gently folding the sleeve of his suit. Adjusting the cadence of time on his watch, he stretched his legs, revealing the joyous glimpse of his socks—an exuberant detail accentuating his flawlessly handmade shoes.

Oliver smiled, a glint of wisdom in his eyes. “Precisely, Eddie. Life is an olfactory odyssey, a mélange of highs and lows, sweet and bitter moments, which get imprinted in our memories, often solidified by a rare scent that is accompanying, perhaps even unconsciously, these events. Like in a symphony, life’s pulse leads us through the peaks of bliss and sorrow and all their complexity, whilst imperceptibly and inevitably leads us to its harmonious conclusion. And just like a well-crafted fragrance, it is the equipoise of these elements that creates a masterpiece.”

As the hours passed, the friends delved deeper into the intensities of their lives, their laughter echoing in the quaint café. Each sip of tea carried the resonances of their collective past, and every inhale was accompanied by the constant trail of Bvlgari Man In Black, a testament to the everlasting friendship that had stood the test of time.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow over the city, Oliver and Edward rose from their seats, their conversation concluding like the final notes of a concerto. The fragrance of Bvlgari Man In Black dawdled, a reminder that life, like a well-composed tune, is a passage of synchronisation and parity.

With a firm handshake and a promise to meet again, the two friends parted ways, their footsteps echoing in the cobbled streets of London. The enchanting old-school café stood witness to an indissoluble friendship, enriched by the subtle nuances of life’s equilibrium – an opus that continued to play, with Bvlgari Man In Black as its odorous muse.

~

Author’s Note:

The parallel drawn between the perfume, life, music, and childhood friendship serves as a symbolic exploration of the intricate layers that make up the human experience. By likening life to the notes of a fragrance, the storyline delves into the idea that our voyage is a composition of various elements—some sweet, some bitter, yet all contributing to a unique and congruent orchestration. 

The fragrance becomes an emblematic creative influence, weaving through the plot to emphasise the enduring nature of profound connections, much like the childhood friendship that has stood the test of time. Just as a scent lingers, so do the reflections of cherished memories and the flexibility forged through the passage of years.

The account intertwines the aromatic journey of Bvlgari Man In Black with the consonance of life and permanent friendship. The title captures the essence of the story, highlighting the fragrance as a central theme and highlighting the euphonic relationship between life’s elements and the timeless bonds of friendship.

Acknowledgements: 

Additional dialogues by Evgeny Genchev. 

Much obliged Rahul Karnani, Subi Samuel and Anand Sivakumaran for your time and the invaluable suggestions. 

The salon at Café de Flâneur, tucked modestly behind an ivy-laced bookshop on Rue des Martyrs, was a sanctuary for the intellectually overgrown and romantically underfed. Spring had begun to flutter its lashes at Paris, breathing pale sunlight through the stained windows and sprinkling pollen over poetry.

Outside, a violinist played something so tragic it nearly wilted the flowers in Madame Renaud’s cart. Inside, among the clink of spoons and occasional existential sighs, sat two beings—of that delicate species best described as lovers not yet doomed, but certainly rehearsing.

He was all tweed and collarbone, the kind of man who ironed his newspaper. She, a paradox in ballet flats, wore a scarf like a secret and spoke in paragraphs.

“I am not taking my second shot,” he declared, raising his hands as though offering them up to fate or a particularly bureaucratic angel, “if you don’t take your first.”

She halted mid-sip, the porcelain teacup pausing at her lips. “You,” she began, eyebrows lifting like reluctant curtains, “are absurd.”

“Me, what?” he grinned, a gleam of mischief hiding behind his spectacles like a schoolboy behind a Latin primer.

“Do as you like,” she replied, waving a dismissive hand with all the gravity of Versailles’ last queen.

“Of course I am going to do as I like,” he said, leaning back with the languor of someone who enjoyed arguing more than winning.

She fell into silence.

“What?” he asked.

“What?” she echoed, each syllable landing like a dropped fork.

“Why no reaction? Everything all right?” he smiled, but the smile was brittle, like bone china tapped too firmly.

“Would my reacting make a difference to you?” she said, eyes narrowing. “You are as stubborn as a gravestone.”

“Whatever,” he sang, delighted by her vexation, “throw your tantrums. But I am not taking that second shot if you don’t take your first.”

A breeze from the half-open window brushed her cheek. She exhaled, gathering herself like a woman about to embark on an operatic monologue.

“You know I am not on the list,” she said, “because I am not a resident of Paris. And... and you also know I cannot go back home because London is sealed tighter than a Russian novel. We are only in the first week of March. Please, understand.”

He frowned, not the usual performative kind but a real, cumbersome furrow, as though he were trying to rearrange reality by thought alone. Summer loomed ahead, cruel and golden. Without vaccination, she would remain a prisoner of borders, postcards, and unkissed cheeks.

“What are you thinking?” she asked, fingers curling round his.

Their eyes met—his the colour of melancholy, hers the temperature of irony.

“What say we take a chance?” he whispered.

She shook her head. “You know if I get stuck in London, it’ll be dreadful.”

“Yah, but at least you’d be stuck at home.”

She reached across the table, pinched his nose. “You are a darling. Take your second shot. I’ll take mine when I can.”

But he shook his head with such conviction that even the sugar cubes trembled.

“Not until you take your first.”

“You are impossible!” she cried, half laughing, half lamenting.

And with that, the curtain fell on Act I.

ONE MONTH LATER

A smoky pub in the 6th arrondissement, where the wallpaper had long given up and the gin tasted like regret. The three of them sat there—he, and two companions from university, the kind of men who still used Latin aphorisms in jest and knew the tragic endings of operas by heart.

“So did you take that second shot?” asked Jules, the one with the limp and a fondness for Schopenhauer.

He shook his head, nursing a drink like it owed him money.

“Why not?” Jules pressed.

“Because,” he said, as if stating the obvious to a room full of schoolboys, “she didn’t take her first.”

Jean-Pierre, the other, exhaled smoke like an oracle. “Are you fucking serious.”

He nodded, with a solemnity reserved for dead poets and fallen soufflés.

“And she didn’t tell you,” said Jules slowly, “that she wouldn’t take her first until you had taken your second?”

“Nope,” he replied, the word barely rising above the crackle of pub jazz.

A long pause followed, the sort of silence that usually precedes revolutions or terribly refined insults.

“What fools,” said Jean-Pierre, lighting another cigarette, “what fools.”

And so, like twin stars who refused to shine lest the other went first, they remained unlit. Vaccination—both literal and metaphorical—postponed in the name of pride, poetry, and principles.

Outside, spring marched on unbothered, like a cat past a domestic tragedy.

And the pianist played on.

William loved the city. But he loved the village more. He kept tender memories of certain woods, of ponds, the hills and the river that stirred joy in him. And today, as he was walking along the countryside to his grandma’s cottage, whilst crossing the streams that glimmered in the sun, his thoughts wandered back to some remote corner of the hills, or the end of the riverbank, or to some garden, full with plenty of flowers seen on some fine day, and yet residual in his heart quite like the picture of a suave girl at the coffee shop, waving and smiling gleefully. The mere thought of the girl evoked in his mind an unsatisfactory longing for her – a feeling that he could not suppress, although it gave him a sweet sensation that happiness had simply whiffed past him. Opening the tiny-weathered-wood-gate, he watched as the hefty dogs charged at him and almost tripped him over as they licked and sniffed him. He cuddled them and noticed that the stables were empty. He took a deep breath, inhaled the pure air, and knocked on the main door. 

“I’ve been expecting you much earlier,” said his grandmother’s voice from within the cottage, “come on in.” He pushed the door that made a creaking noise and saw a wrinkled old woman with white fluffy hair sitting by the fireside doing some needlework. 

“Uh, grandma, I see that you still leave the door open,” said William with a tinge of concern. 

“Don’t you worry about me, little lad,” she said with a broad grin, “even today I can fight any prowler with just my bare hands.”

“I don’t doubt that for a second,” William said, hugging her and giving her a kiss, “but the times have since changed, grandma, and you ought to be cautious and careful.” 

“Oh, don’t you admonish me like your mother always does,” she said kissing him back.

“People these days are no longer trustworthy, my dear grandmother,” he said squeezing the sagging skin on her cheeks.

“This is where your generation goes wrong,” she said kindly, “you have to place your trust in people enough, and there would never be a time when they would not return the same to you.” 

William heaved a deep sigh. “Where are the horses?”

“I had them sent away to the farm.”

“I see.”

“Go along and see them, I am certain they’ll be as overjoyed to see you as I am.”

William smiled to himself and mumbled a faint – love you grandma.  

William set out into the orchards the same afternoon. Nibbling on berries and singing songs he reached the river that ran through it. He immersed his feet into the water and remembered the times during vacation when he would fish with his father every Sunday morning. On his way back home, and much to his pleasant surprise, he ran into his childhood friend Walter Moore whom he hadn’t seen in a long time. “William Smith, dear god,” exclaimed Walter, “do I believe my eyes or am I dreaming?”

“Well what can I say old chum, a city certainly changes some but not me . . . you do know how like iron, I am most naturally drawn to the magnet,” said William with a wide smile as they hugged each other tightly as any two friends would do in the villages sans the superficiality of the cities. 

Fishing rods in hand, worms in matchboxes, the boys sat silently by the river the following morning, concentrating on a good catch. With no luck at half past noon they decided to call it a day. Over the week they met regularly. On some days they did not talk and at other times they chatted endlessly. Having similar tastes they understood each other quite well without the assistance of words and a warmer friendship began to simmer between them.

Toward the close of the day, as cattle were being herded into the backyards and anxious fathers were returning home after a hard day’s toil to be united with their families, the sun was setting, rendering a blood-red radiance over the western horizon. The warm colour shone on Walter’s fair countenance emanating a shy flush as he thought about his girl who had moved to the city to study. And he so terribly missed her. 

As William jogged alongside the river one morning, the early sun caused a pale mist to glide over the water, and he felt that his heart was finally sold to the serenity of the village than to the savagery of city dwelling. He wrote to his mother and father intimating them about his decision not to return. Baffled, they tried to convince their city-savvy lad on phone that small town life was not for him, but upon noticing his unwavering determination they knew that they were happy in their son’s happiness. William admitted himself in the residential college that was elegantly tucked away in the middle of the rich flora and fauna. It was not close to their cottage, but it was not too far too. Yes, he missed his washing machine and microwave, but apart from such materialistic conveniences, he personally found that the simple life in the village was largely incomparable to the din of the city. He adored the idea of having to struggle a little in order to find what he wanted than to merely step out and get whatever it was that he wished in the city. He delighted in the significant charm of seeing the roads free of automobiles, and the aesthetic beauty of the scenic village landscape – well it had besieged him even as he was a tiny tot when he would visit his grandparents during holidays. He looked forward to the fishing expeditions with his friend, the lengthy walks, the soul searching. In time, all of the above, combined with academics triumphed with an unbroken regularity, and he cherished every moment of his life here.

William was more into literature and humanities, while Walter was ever hungry for scientific knowledge. He waited eagerly for the journals to arrive at the library, and managed to comb and digest each line with such rapid speed that it left him feeling a void that the wait for the next edition was unbearably long. William laughed at his friend’s restlessness and teased him about displaying such a devotion for a woman instead of a magazine because the former yielded far beneficial psychological and physical results than the latter. Walter in return ragged his friend by telling him that he was a pervert.  

Customarily, the friends walked home together after college, but at times when one of them had to stay back for some reference related work at the library, or a game of football with the boys, the other would be on the way home, alone. On one such day, since Walter had some math problems to solve with his teacher, and William had to carry provisions for home, William scampered along leaving Walter at the college, bought fresh vegetables from the market, and began walking through the woods. He loved the mystery of the woods, and as he was singing to himself in glee, something along the path caught his attention. On reaching closer he found a photograph. It was of a woman who looked stunning despite the damage caused to the picture by time. Smitten by her charm, he tucked it into his pocket, and upon reaching home asked his grandmother about the woman in the picture. His grandmother, visually uneasy by now, snatched away the picture from his hands and asked him in a shaky voice where he had found that picture.

“What’s the matter, grandma?” asked William taking note of her edginess that had now turned swiftly to trepidation.

“Keep away from where you found this,” she said sternly, as she shredded the photograph and flung it into the fireplace. William watched how within seconds the fire had consumed the beautiful woman’s picture leaving nothing but a blob of charred waste. 

“Did you bring all that I asked you to?” she asked coolly. 

“I did,” answered William noting that she was no longer overwrought like she had been a few minutes ago. 

“Would you please wash the vegetables and chop them my darling,” said she, looking into the fireplace like she were looking at someone real.

He telephoned Walter, detailed what had transpired between his grandma and him, and asked him if they could stop by the same spot where he had found the photograph. “I think it’s a bad idea,” said Walter with some reluctance. 

“Oh, come on!” said William with impatience.   

There was no response on the other side. 

“Are you there, Walter?”

“I’m thinking,” replied Walter, his voice heavy with introspection. 

“Come on, mate, let’s just go!”

“All right,” said Walter half-heartedly.

“Love you, mate!” exclaimed William, his belly tingling with interest as he hung up.

Walter carried a torchlight with him, and William some candlesticks. They walked side-by-side, leaving behind light posts and orchards, and then they ventured into the route bordering the river. It was about ten o’clock when they shone their torchlight and looked about the spot as scrupulously as they could; upon discovering no apparent clue, they turned to leave when William suddenly froze. Walter focused the beam of light on the spot where William was pointing his finger and saw something was embedded in the sand and appeared somewhat like a photograph. When he went closer, he established, much to his surprise, that there was nothing. 

“Strange,” said Walter looking at William terrifyingly, “I am sure I saw something.” 

“Don’t look at me like that, you’re the science enthusiast,” said William softly.

“I think science would explain it as nothing but an illusion.”

“You have your answer then, old chap!”

“Err,” said Walter unconvinced and went back to the spot. He wiped his face with his palm and was lost in deep thought. How, his mind was asking, how? Was it merely a trickery of the eyes, or was his mind playing games, or was it something else that was beyond the realm of explanation.  

“It’s already eleven,” said William, “let’s get going now.” 

The following day William was returning from a game of football when he met his grandmother along the way. She said she was scuttling along to her friend’s place for dinner and asked him to join them once he had finished freshening up. William relented on grounds of being exhausted from football. He had an invigorating shower, picked up a magazine on art and sculpture, and went to the kitchen in order to get himself a glass of orange juice when he saw a delicious looking apple pie with fresh cream sitting on the kitchen countertop. Rubbing his hands with glee, he attacked the pie with ravenous enthusiasm and devoured the whole damn thing in a sitting.  

Walter, on the other hand, was drowned in books at home, drawing probable explanations to the mysterious appearance and disappearance of the picture in the sand. Reading about illusions, he reasoned that what he saw was something like a mirage perhaps. However, mirages, he further gathered, were phenomena largely encountered in deserts or large expanses of sandy lands. This was sand by a tiny riverbank, and quite incapable of such mirages, then, what was it that they had seen in the sand, and how? The urge to uncover the mystery hounded Walter, and he knew that somehow he had to crack it until which he would not find himself at ease. 

Munching on his favourite white-seeded guava from the garden, William telephoned Walter. The boy was so busy with his quest to find answers that he had failed to hear the phone ring. After trying twice to no luck, William languished on the easy chair by the fireplace and opened a book. Before he could read a single page, his head loosely sunk between his shoulders and he fell asleep. With the pleasant air playing on his face, he was deep into the land of his dreams where he was skating on water when a gust of breeze woke him up from his sleep. The large window was ajar and dried leaves came flying in. He rushed and clamped the window lock; quite sure that he had secured it before he had fallen asleep. The dogs that were sitting quietly until now began whining; their eyes fixed at the windows. “What’s it Target and Tuffs?” asked he, cuddling them and peeking towards the window when he thought he saw a cloudy shadow escaping out of the hall. The door slammed with a bang and there was an inanimate hush in the atmosphere. As dreadful thoughts came, one by one, he remained immobile. Mortally stupefied, he felt his flesh had turned frigid. Just then the wood died out in the fireplace, and it suddenly became pitch dark. He fetched a candle and tried hard to light a match, but the match failed to ignite. Clouted by an uncanny feeling he closed his eyes tight and held still for some time. Then collecting strength, he opened his eyes slowly to espy a flimsy glow flickering under the crack of the slammed door. 

“Grandma, is that you?” he asked in a whisper, his voice sinking with terror. 

There was no reply. 

Feet nearly paralysed, William now moved very slowly towards the door and clutched its handle. It was cold. He pushed it with all his energy and his heart sank as he saw Walter standing right before him.   

“Jesus! How did you come in?” said William in a deafening voice. 

“The door was open,” said Walter, “is everything all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Did you light the candle?” asked William fidgeting with his forehead. 

“It was lit when I walked in.” 

“That’s not possible,” said William asking Walter how he was here.

“My father said the phone rang twice and stopped before they could answer it. I figured it would have been you. I tried your number, but your line was simply not getting through, so I thought I’d stop by.”

William nodded and heaved a sigh, but the apparent fright in his eyes was crystal clear.

“Sit down first and tell me what happened,” said Walter, detecting William’s face was as white as a sheet of white paper. William told him about what had happened before he had walked in. “I think it was just another co-incidence, that’s all,” said Walter after listening to William with utmost concentration. “How then do you explain what happened at the river?” William asked, his eyes bigger than usual.  

“I think most of the times it’s nothing but a figment of our own imagination. I had read somewhere that sound waves or magnetic waves act by blending into a part of our brain, and the different frequencies of geomagnetic energies affect us to varying degrees of hallucination.”

William was listening. 

“There have been accounts of ghosts being sighted, but upon investigation, magnetic waves were the real culprits. I think ever since you’ve found that picture you’ve begun to believe that something is eerie around here, though in my opinion, it’s purely a case of the mind over matter.” 

“Possibly,” said William seriously, “but I have a hunch that the recent happening may have had some relevance to the strange clash at the bank of the river. It certainly was beyond waves or energies.” 

Walter dropped by William’s place the following morning and shook him out of the bed. “I think I’ve found some answers,” he said joyously.  

“Dude, happiness bared is happiness not necessarily shared,” said William with a playful smile, rubbing his eyes and plopping his head on the pillow. 

“Books that unquestionably explain, generally the element of whimsy do they disdain,” said Walter rhyming William’s bared and shared with explain and disdain.   

“All right, all right, indulge me,” said William with a vast smile, sitting up. 

Walter started to read passages from a book that said that people did experience shocking things, and that sometimes these things may well be outrageously forbidding. He said that some parts of the planet are more vulnerable to such sightings, either by artificial or natural conditions, and sometimes they are created merely to entice and lure people into believing the unbelievable – that the power of the mind could influence physical objects and make one believe that something actually exists. That the ghost stories are nothing but a fine yarn, re-told and accepted with time to such believable levels that people who tell them, and those who listen to them too, begin to think they are truly living the event. He attempted to persuade William that the bizarre apparitions he seemed to witness were events that could be rationalised and if William continued to believe too much in them, then his saneness could be called into question. 

“You woke me up from sleep for this,” said William in a light-hearted tone. 

Walter laughed, “Say something, William.”

“What about?” 

Walter looked at his friend in anticipation.

“I don’t seem to understand your over-indulgence in this,” said William yawning and moving out of the coverlet. 

“I’m just looking for some answers,” said Walter with a tinge of restlessness. 

“Have I asked you for any answers?” 

“No, but,” he paused, “I’m merely trying to dispel your,” said Walter, raising his eyebrows, “your fright.”

“Or yours?” replied William coolly and poured water from the jug into a glass.  

Walter didn’t care to reply and left the room. 

His bladder full, William was on the edge, and the class was not seeming to get over. The moment the bell rang, he scurried out towards the lavatory and slammed into Hazel Sand on the way.

“William, hi,” she said, giving him a big smile, “in a hurry, are you?” 

William wondered whether they had met. He had forgotten that indeed they had, just once, and very briefly at the grocery store. He had helped get her a jar of cherry jam that she was unable to reach. 

“Hey, hi, I am in a bit of a hurry, sorry,” said William with a grin as he pointed towards the loo. 

She smiled, “Ah, go along then.”

He apologised profusely once again and took to his heels. 

William walked into the classroom after his visit to the lavatory and saw that Hazel was sitting alone. He sought her permission to occupy the seat next to her. She agreed. He glanced at her surreptitiously from the corner of his left eye. She was not beautiful, only simple, and attractively so, regardless of the fact that she was low in body weight. Walter who was sitting on the seat right behind William mildly pierced the sharp nib of the fountain pen on his friend’s arse. William pushed the pen away and smiled at Hazel who was now looking at him. Staring into her eyes for the first time, he recognised that she had lovely hazel eyes that most aptly suited her name. When the classes were over, William and Hazel spent the entire evening together, and there was such a tremendous charge in the air that it could light up a room full of fireworks without any friction. After dropping her off at the main gate, William went in search of Walter and saw him coming out of the library. “Have you looked at the sky?” he asked Walter. “Love makes even the cloudless skies look so very enchanting,” said Walter with a teasing smile. William gave Walter a punch on his tummy as Walter broke out into laughter. They then went to their much-loved spot on the bank of the river, immersed their feet in the icy waters and chatted until late into the night. 

After that day, Walter, Hazel and William walked home together after college. One Sunday afternoon William invited Hazel to join him for fishing. She told him that she had never fished earlier. William went after her with a clear sense of determined charm and she could not refuse his invitation. Despite being the novice that she claimed she was, she quite speedily grasped the tricks and ended up yielding the largest catch of the day. In time, William concluded that tough Hazel tried her best to be outgoing, more so to please him, she was not what one would call adventurous. He found that she devoted more of her time for events that dealt with charity; like a ritual, she was at the old age home every Sunday afternoon. She helped her colony with weekend chores. Instead of buying something nice for herself in the pocket money that her father gave her, she purchased toys, or some useful books for the orphans. If one thought her benevolent activities seized at that, they did not – she nursed unhealthy animals at the veterinarian clinic too. At times William wondered how he felt so intensely attracted to her; they were so unlike each other. 

Walter was visiting his girlfriend in the city for two days. With plenty of time on hand, William and Hazel debated about the pleasures of fishing against the nature of charity, about books and paintings against the nursing of animals. When Hazel figured that William was not of the same school of thought as her, she asked him whether he would like to watch the sun go down with her. William smiled and said mischievously, “So long as you do not insist that I also watch the sun rise with you.” Hazel smiled shyly, “Actually, I would love that,” she said as she slid her hand in William’s hand. Holding hands, they sat by the river watching the fiery orange sun slowly shrink. The air was crisp and she disentangled her hand from his hand and started to take off her clothes. “Err . . . Um . . . ,” stuttered William, “what are you doing?”

“What do you think I am doing?”

“I know, but,” he trailed off and watched her as she locked her eyes with his eyes and dropped her knickers. He swallowed hard, his eyes on her eyes, as she smacked him jovially on his chest and dived into the river, altogether naked. He sat on the bank and watched as she sliced through the water like a fish and disappeared inside for a few seconds, emerged on the surface, wiped her face, and called out to William. “The water’s warm. Hop in!”

He shook his head. 

“Don’t be a prude.” 

“I—I.”

“Gosh, you’re a virgin,” she guffawed, accentuating on the virgin. 

He looked about, “Shhh, can you keep it low.”

She laughed exuberantly, swam to the shore, and moseyed towards him. William tried to look at the rocks, the sky, the water and then unable to keep his eyes off the first naked girl he had seen this up, close and personal, he rested his gaze on her: her arms were much more slender, she had the firmest breasts despite being thin, her legs were not as skinny as they appeared through clothes, her skin was glowing white; the veins could be seen clearly. “I think you ought to get naked too,” she said in a hopeful tone. William deliberated for a few seconds, and she knew what he was thinking. He opened the first two buttons of his shirt, and then shaking his head, he buttoned them back again. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, “and can you please put something on.”

“What’s troubling you?” she asked, knowing she was being a cock teaser. 

“That,” he said not meeting eyes with her. 

“That you’ll have to get used to anyway, so . . . .”

He grinned and covered her up with her clothes that were on the rocks when they suddenly heard the sound of footsteps behind them. They turned around, as she began to put on her clothes, but there was no one in sight. It was getting dark rapidly and William suggested they leave the place at once. They had hardly walked a few steps ahead when he felt that he had stepped on a piece of paper. Arching down, he picked the paper up. In his hands was another picture, this time of a man. Fear drove blood in surges into his heart and he felt himself struggling for breath.

“What’s it, William?” asked Hazel, observing the hysteria in his eyes.

Shuddering like a leaf, he handed her the picture.

“Why do you look so shocked?”

“That man,” exclaimed William, “do you know him?” 

She looked at the paper in her hand. “What man?”

William recovered from his shock. “The man in the photograph you are holding.”

“This is not a photograph, William, it is a paper, and it is plain,” she said, showing it to him. 

“I don’t believe this,” exclaimed William, his face still pale with fright.  

“Here,” she said giving the piece of paper back to him, and when William looked at it, the face of the man stared at William from the picture. Was fate playing an eccentric game? Or was he going insane? Unable to reach a rational consensus he stuffed the photograph into his pocket, grasped Hazel’s hand and began walking in quick paces. “Slow down, William. What on earth has got into you,” she protested trying to catch up with him, but William walked even faster, slackening his speed only when they set foot on the main road. There was silence between them for a long time. Once his breathing had returned to normal, he recounted what had happened over the last few weeks. She heard him intently without saying anything. “You don’t believe a word of what I’m saying, right?” he said seeing her vacant expressions. “I don’t disregard the existence of another world other than ours. But I also strongly believe in my god and that he powerfully protects me from any kind of evil that I cannot fathom,” she said calmly. William said nothing but walked along quietly until they had arrived at her place. She invited him inside for a cup of coffee. He politely declined her offer. “Not letting you get away this easy,” Hazel said, holding his arm and yanking him inside. He noticed that the house was huge, but orderly. The furniture was tasteful. A stunning chandelier hung from the centre of the ceiling in the room where she had asked him to sit. A lacquer cabinet stood in a corner exhibiting an assorted variety of lovely collectibles. Drawn to the formidable display of books, he was browsing the titles when his vision stretched across an open door. In the other room, he could see a piano against the wall. The floor was carpeted, and books were lying on it. He was engrossed in admiring an old carved chest when she returned with two cups of coffee. The delicious aroma filled the air, complimenting most perfectly the beautiful décor, and William spared no praise on how tastefully the home had been done up. “Thank you,” she said smiling, “it’s a joint effort between my father and I.” 

William dreamt of a child crying bitterly one night. Over the week, the same bleary oracle repeated itself twice. In spite of trying hard to delve into his mind as the image of the child was clear, he was not able to establish the identity of the child in his dream. He wondered what was it that was speaking through him? Was someone in danger? Did someone need help? He wished he knew. His heart thumped, and his mind galloped in numerous directions as the agitation of the unknown kept him awake for long hours, and the confusion had gradually begun eating into his productive time. He discussed the dreams with Walter, who again gave them a logical contour, and the flashes then abruptly stopped, and William began believing that Walter may have been right – everything was perhaps only a figment of his imagination. 

Back home from an evening well spent at Hazel’s place, William was revelling in sweet thoughts of her, as he pulled the coverlet over his cold feet and felt nice with the warmth that it provided him. He had hardly fallen asleep when he had a flash – a fuzzy image of someone being tortured. Tossing around restlessly in bed, and dismissing it as another delusion, he was just about to sleep when the vision appeared again. Flinging the rug to a side, he saw the time. It was three-thirty. He rang Walter, “We have to meet, Walter. And urgently,” he exclaimed. 

“I want you to first calm down and then tell me what happened.” 

“I’ll explain. Just come along to my place as soon as possible,” said William hurriedly, disconnecting the line.   

Both of them were at the location where the pictures had been discovered, and stood exactly where the pictures had been found. William looked around and drew a blank and then as if out of the blue he said, “If we cross the bridge at the end of the road there’s a vintage cottage in the woodlands.”

Walter made a face, “You’ll only find a perplexing labyrinth out there, Willi. I’ve lived here my entire life, and I know the woods inside out.” 

“Follow me,” said William with sureness. 

“Are you crazy, William? It’s wee hours of morning, and it’s very cold too.”

“Just follow me.” 

Grumbling, Walter followed his friend, and soon after they crossed the river, he felt a cold-blooded chill when he actually saw an old, time-worn cottage.

“Where on earth did you see this?” he asked William in a whisper.

“In a vision tonight.”

“I think what you need,” he paused, pursed his lips and murmured, “is to see a psychologist, William. I’m sure there is something wrong with you.” 

“I don’t dispute it at all, but this is no time for debate,” said William, “because now we have to find a pathway with cobblestones, so keep a watchful eye.” 

In minutes, they found the pathway with cobblestones. 

“Now?” asked Walter, amused at the bizarre range of unfolding events. 

“You’ll reach a rusted and dilapidated picket fence next,” said William and as he was describing the fence, within Walter’s eyesight was a run-down picket fence.

“Walk along and you’ll meet a length of wall with solid stone masonry.” 

Just a few steps ahead; Walter stretched his hand and touched a cold wall. He beamed the torchlight, and indeed, it was solid stone masonry. 

“You’re beginning to spook me, William. Just tell me you’ve been here before,” he said, anxiously. 

“This is my first time here,” said William softly, stopping a few steps ahead. 

Walter looked at him questioningly.

“I think this is the place,” said William with reliance. 

Walter looked puzzled, “What place?” 

“Shhh,” said William searching about the area. 

“What are we looking for?”

William did not answer Walter and ran his hand over the wall as he located a crevice. Using his penknife, he slowly but steadily dug deeper to figure that the wall did not resist the exploring, and he felt fragments of limestone in his fingers. Walter watched in disbelief as his friend was behaving like he was almost involuntarily following the instructions of someone or something guiding him from somewhere else. 

“What on heavens are you hoping to ascertain here?” muttered Walter with trepidity. 

“You’ll know in a wink,” William said as he kicked the frail wall that exposed a deteriorated door behind it. 

“Someone has deliberately patched this with limestone in order to hide the door,” said William trying to open it. A little push, and it opened, plunging behind with a deafening bang. William coughed as fragments of dust filled the air. He entered the space and went towards a dilapidated table. He picked up a vase with one hand as his torch slipped and fell from the other. He was trying to find his torchlight in the pitch darkness when he heard Walter shriek. “Come here, William!” he said in a shaky voice, “Soon!” Unable to find his torchlight, William followed Walter’s voice into another room. “Look,” said Walter shining his torchlight to a corner. In William’s vision were two skeletons. One dangling from a hook in the roof, and another chained to a chair. Suddenly the phantasm from his dreams seemed to fall in place. William took a step closer and the frizzled remains of once soulful people were surprisingly intact, except that time had weathered the chain to rust and it was loosely lying in the lap of the one tied around it. The other skeleton that was suspended from the roof was clothed in something that looked like a skirt in tatters. 

“Who do you think they are?” asked Walter trembling with disquietude.

“That’s something we’ll have to determine, and on the quiet.”

They left the scene untouched and went straight to the chief of police’s house, Mr Matthew Word, who was Hazel’s father. Hazel answered the door and said her father was out of town for two weeks enquiring why both the boys had a frightened look on their face. 

“Frightened? I’m not frightened. Says who that I am frightened? Why should I be frightened?” said Walter as William looked at his friend and smiled at Hazel, asking her to join them for breakfast at the local eatery. They met an hour later and updated her on the finding. 

“I don’t know what to make of this,” she said. 

Walter stared at Hazel with a straight face, “I’m amazed, Hazel. It was so bloody precise,” said Walter.  

Hazel looked at William; he smiled and turned his face away feeling slightly embarrassed. 

“What if I were to write an anonymous letter addressed to your father leading him to the site. Do you think he could trace the sender?” asked William. 

 “They’re the police after all. They can dig out anything from anywhere,” she said as she paused, ran her fingers over his cheeks lovingly and continued, “I suggest that you tell him the truth.”

“Also, I think we must keep this bizarre ability of mine under wraps.”

“Oh, yes, if word got out, it could get messy,” said Walter, “if it were couple of hundred years back they would have burnt you at the stake for being a sorcerer.” 

They agreed to keep tight-lipped about this for the time being.  

One afternoon William fell asleep at Walter’s place. Walter made himself a glass of carrot juice and sat in the porch reading a book. Past forty-five minutes or so, he went in to see if William had woken up and found his mate soaked in sweat, a terrified look on his face. Walter woke him up at once and asked him what was happening. “Nothing,” said William looking at Walter quizzically as he rubbed his eyes and was still drowsy in sleep. 

Hazel’s father was back, and both the friends disclosed everything to him. The skeletal remains were taken into custody and a routine questioning was conducted. Being a small township, a letter was sent to the nearest city police station for assistance in the investigation, but since it was not a recent murder the city police stated that they had much work on hand and that the investigation could wait. When the team finally arrived from the city, they suspended the case due to lack of insufficient clues and information.

As the evening mist enveloped the pathways and the moonlight played through the grilled windows, Walter felt a hounding feeling of helplessness raid him in entirety. He firmly believed in proof of science but what he had seen with William defied his beliefs. Confused, he telephoned Hazel. They discussed that though the mysteries intrigued them; there were many facets of life that were still unexplored and many things unexplainable. Hazel also told Walter that she believed in the terrors of the unknown. That neither William nor anyone could solve the riddle because other than god, no one else had so much power to tell what was exactly happening. That night, Walter lay awake all throughout the night, introspecting the extent of his opinions.  

A classmate was having a party at his farmstead. While his friends and classmates were rejoicing and dancing around the bonfire, William sat watching Hazel. She looked so whimsical to him. So beautiful. After sometime he went inside to fetch a glass of wine and stood talking to some friends. Twenty minutes later when he came out into the garden, Hazel was nowhere in sight. He asked his classmates whether they had seen her. No one had. He telephoned her house and there was no reply. Troubled by her sudden disappearance, he skimmed every foreseeable inch of the farm, and then rushed to the spot where they usually met in the evenings. She was not there either. He began to venture into the woods and called out for her several times as he was proceeding along when he noticed that he was standing in a pool of blood. He woke in a cold sweat and saw the time. It was three-thirty in the morning. He rang Walter up. 

“What’s with you and three-thirty, hunh?” asked Walter groggily.

“I don’t know, but something gory is about to happen again.”

Walter shook his head, “You are terrifying the wits out of me now!”

There was silence from William’s end and then he spoke in an aggrieved tone, “It’s about Hazel.”  

“For heaven’s sake, spare her, William, and please let me sleep,” said Walter. 

“Fine!” snapped William as he hung up, irritable that his friend was taking this moment of despair with such lightness. 

Just as Walter kept the telephone receiver on the cradle and was turning out the table lamp he sensed that someone had run across in his room. Curling up in the foetal position under the blanket, he left the table lamp burning and didn’t remember when he had fallen asleep. 

At a get together over weekend, Walter recollected something that William had said to him on the telephone. He felt somehow that the scenario at the party matched almost perfectly to what William had described. Half an hour later, William and Hazel showed up at the gathering. People were drinking merrily and dancing around the bonfire. While Hazel enjoyed herself with her group of friends, William sat admiring her from a distance, and then went inside the house for a glass of wine. As William was heading towards the table, a familiar feeling of similarity struck him again. Worried, he rushed out of the house and searched for Hazel. He couldn’t find her anywhere. Then he looked for Walter. Even he was nowhere in sight. With sweat trickling down his sideburns, William stood rubbing his fingers on his forehead when a friend tapped him on his shoulder. “Hi,” said William, wiping out the sweat. His friend looked at him keenly, “Feeling all right, are you, mate?” 

“Have you seen Hazel or Walter around?” he asked trying to remain as calm as he could.

“I don’t know about Walter, but Hazel asked me to give this to you,” he said, handing William a piece of paper. William read the note: “Too much noise in here. I’ll be waiting by our favourite spot. Meet me there when you’re done with your friends – Hazel.” William’s stomach went weak with fright. When he reached the spot, his nerves froze as he saw Hazel lying on the sand, in a pool of blood. He rushed to her and noticed that there was a wound on her head that was bleeding profusely. Holding her in his arms, he began yelling for help when he saw his college professor spring out of thin air. 

“What happened?” said the professor sharply.

“I don’t know. I–I found her like this. Please help me get her to a hospital,” said William with panic in his tone. 

“Oh, certainly,” said the professor as he slammed William on his head with a club. William passed out instantly, and when he regained consciousness, he saw a fuzzy picture of the professor sprinkling petrol on Hazel who was tied to a tree. He tried to get up but felt powerless by the blow. He heard Hazel sobbing inconsolably. Unable able to stand, William panicked when the professor seized him by the collar and threw him on the ground. His eyes glaring with fury, the professor kept throttling William’s neck with one hand, and with the other hand, he began to strike William savagely on the face. William tried his best to untangle from the heavy man who was over him to no avail. Coughing and choking, William tried to gasp for breath, but the infuriated man socked William with another hard punch and blood started to ooze out of the lacerations on his lips. Hazel began to cry at the sight of blood. The professor yelled savagely at Hazel. When she failed to quieten, he commanded her to stop crying or face dire consequences. She became silent. He then dragged William to the tree and picked up a thick rope. As the rope was being tightened around William’s chest, William tried to wriggle out and was awarded another stinging slap. Horror apparent in their eyes, they asked the professor what he was going to do to them. He bragged that he was going to roast both of them alive, and delight at the sight of them petitioning for sparing their lives.

“Sir,” said William, helplessness in his tone, “whatever have we done to deserve this?”

The man sniggered, “I got away by killing that couple eleven years ago, but you two rotten boys and this stupid little girl have uprooted the dead again!”

“You may have got away with the previous murders, sir, but you cannot get away if you harm us, sir,” said William as Hazel stared on, too stunned for words.

“Ha! Ha! I was foolish to leave their bodies, but I'll leave no trace this time,” roared the man in wrath, “I’ll light you up and watch you both burn.” 

“Why did you kill them?” asked William.

“Oh never mind,” snarled the man in anger, squeezing Hazel’s chin aggressively.

“You can tell us, sir, dead men tell no tales,” added William in a challenging tone. 

The professor punched William in the face. William yelped in pain. He then explained that the two of them were a handsome couple, and that they visited their child every summer. Though the woman was happily married to her husband, the professor was drawn to her beauty. He called the couple to the cottage in the woods, drugged the husband, and raped his wife. Shocked and shaken, she threatened to inform the police, so he killed both of them and knew that no one would discover the place since it was out of the town; a weekend getaway that his parents owned, and not many people knew of its existence.

“Weren’t the couple reported missing?” asked Hazel in a docile voice.

“The child who studied in our school was born before they were married, so naturally his existence was kept a secret. I heard there was an enquiry in their hometown, then everyone assumed that they had moved to another place without wanting anyone to know anything since the couple had some domestic problems with both their parents,” gnarled the man.

“What about the child?”

“That’s enough,” screamed the professor, guffawing wickedly and pouring some more petrol on them. 

“Please don’t do this, sir. Please!” said Hazel, snivelling in terror.

“Shut up!” he bellowed, pulling out a matchbox and muttering how enjoyable it would be to see them scorch in the fire. 

William struggled to pull his hands away from the ropes, but unlike in a movie there were no miracles here. Moreover, in this deserted place, there was no hope of survival and they knew that they were going to die. With not much to fight back with, William prayed inwardly as the professor inched forward and Hazel began to cry loudly. He gave her a harsh slap, and observed how William was shivering from head to toe. In a blink, the wretched man lit the match as Hazel and William shut their eyes. They prayed hard. They remembered god. They pleaded him for mercy as they felt the heat of the fire that was spreading towards them at a rapid rate. Death was just a few steps away from their bodies; and utterly defenceless, both of them did not know what they were feeling that very instant when they heard a gunshot. William opened his eyes to see the professor plunging on his face, exposing Hazel’s father standing with the gun still pointed at his back. Walter quickly began extinguishing the fire by throwing as much sand with his bare hands as he could. He untied Hazel as her father was checking the professor for a pulse and found him dead. Since Hazel had lost enough blood she was rushed to the hostel dispensary, whereas William was still in a state of shock. Walter stayed with William at his house, and when he was out of the drowsiness induced by the medication, he asked Walter how he had found them. “Mark showed me the note Hazel wrote you,” said Walter. 

“Ah, now understand why you were missing too.”

“I knew you would be looking for me, but I had to fetch her father first.”

When William and Hazel were in a state to speak to the police, their statements were recorded and a letter was sent to the town police stating that the culprit had been found and done to justice. Hazel coped well and showed signs of normalcy in no time, but William’s worries were still not over: the dream of the crying child did not seem to let go of him. One morning while William waited for Hazel at her house, her father informed him that the burial ceremony of the couple was to be held the coming Sunday after mass. 

“Thank you, sir,” said William as Hazel put in an appearance.

“I have some reading to get done. You kids have a nice time,” said the man and left the parlour.   

“I was going to brew some coffee, would you like a cup too?” asked Hazel. William nodded as he made himself comfortable on a settee. While Hazel was away making coffee he got up from the settee and browsed some books in the library. He was about to extract a title from the shelf when Hazel entered holding two cups of coffee in her hands.  

“What a beautiful day it is, isn’t it?” he said taking a cup. 

“Sure is,” Hazel replied, smiling at him and taking a sip from her cup.

“Excellent coffee,” said William looking at her with tenderness in his eyes. 

“Thank you,” she said, smiling. 

William looked across the garden that was visible from where they were sitting and thought to himself that looking out of a window provided him such peace, it was a sight far better than any painter can ever paint on their canvas. 

“Would you fancy anything to munch with the coffee?” asked Hazel.

He turned his gaze back at her. “How’s your charity work progressing?” 

“From when have you developed an interest in charity?” she asked him inquisitively. 

“Uh, let’s say just now,” he said with a smile. 

She said nothing but burst out laughing. 

William felt his cheeks getting warm, “Did I say something funny?”

She continued laughing and said, “You came here to enquire about my charities, did you?” 

The decisive moment had finally arrived. He flushed crimson and cleared his throat, “You’re right. I came here to ask whether you’ll have dinner with me the coming Monday,” he said gingerly.

Hanging her head loose she smiled, “I don’t suppose my father would have a problem with that.”

“Oh, thank you so much,” he said kissing her on the cheek. 

“You are most welcome,” said Hazel with poise. 

Leaving the finished cup of coffee on a little inlaid table in front of him, he stood up, “I’m afraid I have to be off now.” 

“Really?” she said giving him a big smile.

He studied her carefully. 

“Mission accomplished, and so the gentleman decides that he better be on his way out.”

He went red, “Err . . . err . . . you know I didn’t mean it like that.”

She became serious. “What did you then mean it like?”

“Ah,” William scratched his head. 

She burst out laughing, “I was only messing with you.” 

He sighed and kissed her quickly on her cheeks again. 

“Just the cheeks?”

“Yes,” he said firmly, “just the cheeks.”

Hazel smiled and bid him a goodbye. 

When William told his grandmother about the funeral she grimaced and asked him to keep away from anything to do with the funeral. 

Walter retired into the reading chair with a book. Halfway, perhaps, he had fallen asleep and woke up to a start when he heard the windowpane rattling violently. He walked up most lethargically to the window and fastened the stopper. His sleep now gone, he made himself a toast with peanut butter and pineapple marmalade, and travelled back to his room. Keeping the plate aside, he reached for the water glass and struck it down accidentally. He cleaned up the mess with a waste cloth and was about to shut the light when a chill whooshed through him again. He couldn’t believe his eyes – there was a picture of a child on his desk. Startled, he felt his knees buckle. He tried to shout, but his voice failed him. Closing his eyes he murmured, “Jesus! This is not happening!” His heart was racing like a motorcar, and he was contemplating running to his father’s room that was adjacent to his own room, when he caught a whiff of a pleasant fragrance in the air. His father had a perfume allergy, so perfume was never brought home, and even if he had bought perfume, why would he wear it at midnight? Wondering whether William’s words were really affecting him, he shook his head and moved his feet forward with great difficulty. Gathering some strength, he walked out of the room and noticed a shadow running up the attic stairs. He followed curiously, what he thought was nothing short of a hallucination, but on reaching there, he saw quite strangely that the attic door was partly open. Pushing the groaning door slowly, he peeped inside, it had been years that he had stepped into this area. He toggled the switch couple of times and realised that the bulb might have fused. So he pulled out a matchbox from his pocket, extracted a matchstick and had just taken it near the wick of the candle when it automatically erupted into a flame. He ran his hand over the flame to make certain he was not merely imagining it all and he knew he was not when it felt hot. His distress then switched tracks with wonder and vice versa. Drawn to a large elaborately carved wooden trunk, he stacked some books little above the height of the box and placed the candle on the books. Within the trunk he found a tiny-checked shirt that was soiled. Underneath the shirt was a pair of blue trousers, some strands of pearls and a wristwatch. Dusting the pearls, he picked up the trouser and saw a picture fall down. Holding the light in hand, he examined the picture closer and saw a beautiful woman and a well-built handsome man, both were semi-naked. The picture, it appeared, was taken on a holiday and Walter noted that the lower portion of it was missing. He searched his pockets, pulled out a piece, and completed the puzzle. Flipping the picture behind, he saw the names – Mrs & Mr Moore & family. His face went pale as he was wondering why the picture was in his attic. Placing the items back in the trunk, he rushed out of the attic, tripping and tumbling down the stairs. Walter’s father heard the commotion and came out of his room to see Walter curled up at the base of the stairs. He was shrieking in pain. His father summoned the doctor who diagnosed a broken wrist and ankle. Walter was shifted to the dispensary the following morning. Still dizzy from the high dosage of painkillers, he was happy to see Hazel and William by noon the next day. When his father left the ward to fetch himself some coffee, Walter asked them to come closer and told them everything. He then asked them to go home in pretext of fetching him some stuff and stop by the attic. 

Walter’s father took them home and left them to pack whatever Walter had asked them to bring along. He told William and Hazel that he would be breezing in and out of a shower. When they heard the bathroom door shut, they ran up to the attic and searched the trunk. William’s eyes were suddenly filled with delirious horror when he saw the wristwatch. He examined it carefully and exclaimed, “This is bizarre.” Hazel glimpsed at him questioningly. He took the watch closer to her and she noticed through the smashed glass that the arms had stopped at three-thirty. “This is scaring me, William. Let’s leave,” said Hazel, elevating her eyebrows. William grabbed the box, and they had barely climbed down the last step when Walter’s father came out of his bedroom. 

“What are you both doing with the box from the trunk?” he asked, his facial expressions wearing a troubled look.   

William didn’t utter a word and sat on a chair nearby. Walter’s father sat next to William and said sombrely, “I never wanted him to know his parents were brutally murdered.” 

Hazel’s eyes popped out, “You knew all along?” 

The gentleman took a lungful of breath, “I was wandering in the woods one day when I heard chilling screams. I followed it to an abandoned cottage. As I tip toed inside, I saw your school teacher murder Walter’s parents.”

“Why didn’t you report it?”

“At first I was shocked at what I had witnessed. Once I had collected myself and decided to go to the police, your teacher intercepted me one evening as I was returning home and threatened to kill the child and me, if I ever opened my mouth.”

“Gosh,” said Hazel.

“Then one evening the evil professor overheard your grandma and I talk about it at the farmer’s market, and threatened to kill your entire family too, so that is when your grandma forced your parents to leave the village and move to town.”

“But?” said William confused, as he looked at Hazel. 

“That explains why your grandma was apprehensive when you brought the picture home,” added Hazel.  

“Where was Walter during all this?” asked William.

“Locked and crying in another room.”

“Your dream,” said Hazel turning to William. 

William froze as a chill went down his spine. 

“What dream?” asked Walter’s father.

“Long story,” said William, “let’s go to the hospital now.”

“How did you open the attic because I had done away with the key the day I placed that box inside the trunk there?” 

“You probably wouldn’t believe us but something led Walter in there,” said William.

“Something?” 

“Yes the same thing that has shown me this picture in bits and pieces and probably the same thing that has helped me get to the crux of this matter.”

Walter’s father’s jaw dropped when he heard what William had to say about the incidents in sequence.

“So he knows?” said Walter’s father rather poignantly.

“I’m afraid he does,” said Hazel. 

Back in the dispensary, Hazel unfolded the mystery behind the box, and though it was a sudden jolt to Walter, he knew that Pete was his father, immaterial of what had happened in the past.  

The burial was carried out after mass on Sunday. Almost the entire town was there. Walter was wheeled into the cemetery and paid his last respects. That night William felt liberated from the shackles of something that he couldn’t explain. Though one point that was reinforced with much certainty was not the unearthing of the scary secrets, but whatever it was that was leading him, had aided in bringing justice to two restless souls and yet didn’t cause him any harm. 

With fishing rods in hand and the tin can filled with worms, both the friends strolled to the river. His feet dangling free in the cold water, William turned to his friend, “The truth, Walter, is that the world is not as simple as it looks. There’s lot’s going on beyond our five traditional senses.”

Walter smiled, “Maybe.”

“So do you now believe that there exists something else other than what science can corroborate?”

“I had read that in science, the imaginative experiment is tested by confronting it with physical experience, and in literature, the imaginative conception is tested by confronting it with human experience. So, no matter what, I still think that there’s always an explanation.”

William smiled, “Say whatsoever you want but I think that we are all intimately linked to each other even though through thousands of years we have been conditioned to believe otherwise.”

“Maybe,” whispered Walter. 

A Week Later

Walter was snoring when he woke up to a start. His alarm clock had gone off. He rubbed is eyes and turned on the bed lamp. Then almost instantly he covered himself with the blanket and curled up inside, sweating profusely. The time: three-thirty in the morning.