Eurydice.

I've come to the conclusion

that you may be my Orpheus.

I just hope

you don't prove me right.

Please believe that I am here,

following you through this hellscape,

just a few footsteps behind.

I know you cannot see me.

I know that is the hardest part.

You have always needed proof—

something you could hold in your hands,

something you could look directly at

and call real.

But you cannot have that yet.

So listen.

My feet are still striking the earth

where yours have just been.

I am stepping into the impressions

you leave behind,

careful not to stumble,

careful not to call your name

when I see your shoulders tense

and your head begin to turn.

Don't.

Please.

I am here.

I know the silence makes it difficult.

I know there have been too many years

where you turned around

and I wasn't there.

But I am now.

Please do not lose me again.

There is light ahead of us.

I can see it gathering around you,

catching first in your hair,

then your shoulders,

turning you slowly from silhouette

back into someone I recognize.

And I want so badly

to see your face.

But not yet.

You have to guide us

just a little farther.

Because somewhere beyond this

there is still a patch of grass

beneath a willow tree

where the branches hang low enough

to make the whole world disappear.

There is an evening waiting for us

where nothing is burning,

nothing is ending,

and neither of us has to be afraid

of what happens when morning comes.

We'll lock eyes again in the sun.

We'll fall asleep beneath the moon

with our ankles intertwined

like the willow above us,

and maybe neither of us

will ever have to wonder again

whether the other one stayed.

But first

you have to believe me.

Even now,

when you cannot see me.

Especially now.

Keep walking.

Don't turn around

to make sure I followed.

I did.

I am.

I will follow you

all the way into the light.

Just please—

don't be the reason

I have to go back.

Carot, 1861