Image by Hello, I am Bruce via Flickr

Nothing but silence, quiet, emptiness; where was she?  Still, nothing – not an owl, a bat, or a mouse moved. All I could taste was the damp, damp, damp air.  I could barely see in the fog.  It was so dense.  Where did it come from?  Why now, why now, why now?  I couldn’t stand not knowing!  “Adele, where are you!”  How could she have done this?  It was so mean, just walking out.  

Anger flooded me – frustration, fear, pressure.  She knew how vulnerable I was.  “Come back love!  I need you.  Come back, please!”  The fog muffled my ears.  I heard the steady, minute, defined susurration of moisture popping against flesh.  My hands were in front of me reaching, grasping, clawing at nothing.  I stood still.  I was panting, my chest heaving.  Panic – no, don’t panic. Just calm down, calm down, calm – down. Where was she? 

It was the summer of ‘87.  She was stunning in her graduation gown, blond hair tumbling on delicate shoulders.  My chest exploded knowing this vision was mine.  The future was bright.  She was a journalist, I a linguist.  Our careers would be meteoric.  I had images of us flying to the pinnacles of our calling, like Odin’s Hugin and Munin – the eyes and ears of the world. Then I was diagnosed. 

“It doesn’t change anything,” the doctor said, “you can still lead a normal life.”  Normal.  What a joke. 

I could hear them now – the ravens.  They called from the white, the mist, the fog.  Circling, circling, always circling.  They tempted me, haunted me, baited me; tied me in knots.  They mocked and jabbered.  “She’s gone.” they croaked, “Gone, never to return.  Left you at last.  We warned, we warned.” The croaks faded, swallowed by the murk. 

I did not, could not, would not believe them.  Not my Adele.  Not after all these years.  She promised, she promised, she promised.  “Adele!  Adele!  Where are you?”  The ravens laughed; it echoed from the billowing walls.