The Haunting of Brynn Wilder

by Wendy Webb

Even after all these years, I can taste him on my lips. Hear his voice, low and deep, in my ear. I love him with every cell in my body, even now.

The age of this room radiated out into my bones. A century of souls inhabiting a place will leave an imprint that lingers long after they’re gone, and it lingered here. Not in a bad way. It felt well lived in.

He nodded. “I get it. Taking a break from the rest of the world?” “Something like that,” I said, tears pricking at the backs of my eyes. “I’m a college professor and was on sabbatical last year. I’m gearing up to go back to work in the fall, and I just wanted to take the summer to recharge.” Jason reached over and squeezed my arm. “This is a very good place to do that,” he said, his voice impossibly kind.

“I had a really good time. For the first time in a long time.” “That’s what it’s all about, girl,” he said, his face growing serious for a moment. “Enjoying life. People get so caught up in themselves and their dramas, or they get ensnared in their own sorrows and tragedies, they forget to appreciate the beauty around them.” “Or forget there even is beauty around them,” I said, remembering how gray the world had looked for the past few years. “I’m guilty of that myself.”

This is what life is for. This is why we are here. To find the person who can bring our souls to life.

I felt more at one with . . . something . . . when I was out in nature than when I was in a church.

“Tears are really close to the surface these days,” I admitted to him. “You looked so joyful just then, that it reminded me of . . . joy, I’d guess you’d say. I haven’t had much of it in my life lately, and just today I was thinking that I was close to rediscovering it.”

“I’ve found my world in you.

But sometimes the smallest of things can incite the biggest of revelations.

Aging is not for sissies.