Wrapped in seaweed, sparkling bottle on the beach, I approached it while the waves edged closer and closer to reclaiming it. Lifted it with both hands like it was a baby, and wiped the dirty green away. Cork stopper on top, a rolled note inside, and… something more. It was heavier than it should have been.
Brought it home and put it on the table, next to the buddha and the photograph of us wearing garlands against a setting sun. What an ugly photo, with gaudy flash and distracting tourists in the background. But it’s what I had. All the good photos, she took with her, and she was gone now.
As soon as I pulled out the cork from the bottle, I felt a wind shoot for my face. It was fresh, a little floral. Not at all like the salty air of the beach that I was used to. The scent lingered for a few scant moments.
I tried to get the note out of the bottle, but first, a vial emerged. It had been inside the rolled-up note, and I caught it just before it could go crashing to the stone floor. A wispy yellow-green fluid glowed from inside the vial. Shaking it drew fresh new patterns inside, like dragons chasing each others’ tails.
I put the vial aside and opened the note. I recognised the handwriting right away.
The sentences toyed with my mind. My eyes scanned the same words several times, hoping to extract new meaning. Outside, the sun arched from moon down towards a sunset, casting orange light into the shack.
By the time I was done reading the note, several parts of the page had been smudged by my tears. The ink dissolved, swam, spread out. When I let it rest on the table, the paper curled up again. It rocked with the sea breeze, back and forth, back and forth.
I examined the vial and pulled its tiny stopper out. There was a whiff of cherries to the vial, despite its strange colouring. I closed it again. Shake before use. So I shook it, vigorously, violently, briefly.
No, I thought. I needed to read the page one more time, properly. So I put the vial on the table again, and unfurled the note.
A gust of wind accompanied the sunset outside. My eyes barely left the half-sunken disc of the sun, barely turned to the table when I saw the vial roll off the table.
I jumped, reached out my hand. The note dropped to the floor, crushed beneath my foot. My hand touched the vial, but it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t grasp it. The vial bounced, and I watched it arc before it landed on the stone.
A tiny shattering, like a child’s heart breaking. The liquid spilled out and spread on the stone, staining it at first, and then evaporating.
When I picked up the note for a third time, I didn’t read the words. Instead, I stared at the smeared ink, and I imagined what I wanted to read.
titsay
theartofmadeline
stormborns
jacobvanloon
blakekathryn
