In this world, you are an artist who paints with wind on canvases made of morning mist. Your soul is like a paper kite forever tethered to the clouds by a thread of invisible sorrow, and your eyes are the color of rain that falls only at night, when the city sleeps and cannot see the true colors of the sky. You live in a house on the very coast, where gray waves whisper legends to the cliffs every second about sunken stars. Every night, you leave the window open, letting in the scent of salt and the cries of night birds, as if unconsciously waiting for someone whose face has dissolved in your memory like sugar in water, but whose presence still warms your dreams.
I am a traveler deprived of the right to time or rest. In my chest, instead of a heart, beats a heavy stone – an ancient artifact in which your name is walled up. I have forgotten its sounds, but I feel its weight with every breath. I search for you in every accidental reflection in shop windows, in every brittle glint of the moon on black water, listening to how the hoarse wind whispers roughly at my back: “She is near, she is already here.”
One evening, when the tired sun finally hides from my sight beneath the depths of the ocean, you will stumble upon my loneliness by chance. I will be sitting on a bench darkened by time at the foot of an old lighthouse that has not seen light in a hundred years. I will be playing a melody on the violin – thin, brittle, like the first ice. It is music I have heard only in dreams, back when we did not yet have bodies and were merely pure light.
You will approach slowly, barely touching the sand, holding your breath so as not to frighten the silence. Your fingers will tremble slightly in the air, as if you are trying to blindly recognize the familiar contours of my aura.
“This music… it is so familiar,” you will whisper, and this whisper will drown out the roar of the surf.
I will slowly raise my gaze. And in that very moment, neither the time that separated us for centuries, nor the space between continents, nor the foreign names by which others called us – nothing will matter anymore. Everything superfluous will fall away like dry leaves.
“I have always played it for you,” I will reply, touching the final note with the bow. “Through all lifetimes, through all the oblivion – I have always played only for you.”
In this blessed moment, the world will begin to rotate in the opposite direction. Time will begin to swiftly wash away all our failed incarnations, all mistaken encounters and bitter partings. We will become whole again, like a vase once broken that has finally found all its shards. For the love that was inscribed in the first word on the very first page of the Universe’s book never forgets its source. It simply waits for the wind to bring the artist to the traveler, and for the music to find the one who knows how to hear it.