The Woman on the Astral Plane

The Woman on the Astral Plane

She remembered dying. Not clearly — only the colour of it, and the choosing that came after.

Her eyes darted from one to the other as they passed by in a blur of colour and darkness. The dark ones she feared. The colourful ones reminded her of flowers and butterflies.

Something caught her eye.

He was standing to one side, as he always had. The way men stand when they have learned that stepping forward changes nothing. She had seen his face before — not here, but in the heat of a page, on a beach in Algeria, in a story that never once asked his name.

She spoke his name.

Everything around them stopped. The lines came first. They had been cut deep, those lines — years of sun and silence and the particular erosion of a man who has learned not to expect to be seen. They softened. Then they released. His jaw unknotted itself. His brow, which had held its tension so long it had forgotten what it was holding against, simply let go.

He raised his eyes and met hers. He smiled. Then he was gone.

She studied the blackness and started to understand her fear. What remains is what they leave behind. She wondered where it goes — whether it has a destination, or whether it simply gives up and withers away with no one left to cling onto.

Something caught her ear. A voice. Over and over —

If I had gone. If I had just gone.

She turned towards it and saw him — a boy worn into a man, standing at the edge of everything, his hands at his sides the way someone stands when they have spent years not knowing what to do with them.

Behind him, barely visible, the outline of an old man — weathered, vast, already fading, an ocean stretching out past him. Not here for her. Somewhere else, now.

She looked at the boy.

As the tears fell she spoke softly, the way you speak to someone who has waited a long time to be forgiven.

He knew you wanted to be there.

The tears turned black and darted away.

She stopped.

The vision that struck out was colour — but it was spread out beyond how the others were. She circled around it, confused at first. But the more she looked the more the shape came together, spiralling in all directions, pulling itself in, the features of a man slowly appearing. He was kneeling with his hands over his head.

She had seen this before — not here, but in a grey building in a grey city where the calendars lied and the photographs were rewritten and the men who disappeared were made to have never existed. She did not know his name. Nobody did. That had been the point.

He raised his head. His eyes were wide, looking beyond her, looking at something that was going to hurt him.

His eyes softened first.

I see you, she said. You were real. You existed.

He lowered his hands slowly. He looked at them as if seeing them for the first time — surprised they were still there.

The shape lifted. Not vanished. Lifted.

She focused on what remained. The blackness lingered, searching. She felt pity — whatever he’d carried had a home once. Now it was free and did not know where to go.

She watched as it took flight.

She heard him before she saw him.

I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to.

The colours were more vibrant than anyone’s she had seen — every colour of every rainbow she had ever known pierced through everything else. She stopped. The feeling of butterflies grew stronger. She tried to reach the meaning of it. As she got closer a shape appeared — the outline of wings, splashed in colour — then it was gone.

The man looked at her. Helpless like a child. He held his hands out towards her.

I didn’t mean to, he sobbed.

She held his hands and closed her eyes.

The butterflies.

She opened her eyes and there they were — hundreds of tiny butterfly outlines, their colours swirling, darting in and around, hovering just above his head. He stared. He smiled. Then he started to giggle.

Look, he said.

He knew, somewhere. He had always known.

He slowly drifted from her. She watched him go and saw where he was headed. She didn’t rush. Didn’t intervene. This one was his.

She saw her there before he did — the red, unmistakable, the way it had always been unmistakable. No longer something to fear. Just her. Waiting.

He stood where the colours were brightest. She watched the butterflies circle them both. The colours darted around the red. The red faded. The colours came together.

A rainbow formed above them.

She stared. A tear fell.

The butterflies carried the rainbow higher and higher until it faded — leaving behind only soft laughter, until that too was gone.

She waited.

The blackness never came.

It was not there.

It never was there.

She wiped the tears, gazing to where the voice faded away. Where do they go, she wondered.

Something behind her. She had sensed it since the Arab. Since the very beginning. But she had not looked. She had been scared.

She closed her eyes. Took a deep breath.

She slowly turned. Paused.

Deep down she had always known.

A smile formed.

She opened her eyes.

Butterflies. Black butterflies. Hundreds of them, hovering. Waiting for her to move. When she stepped away they turned. When she turned they followed.

Her smile turned to laughter.

Of course, she thought. Of course it was always going to be this way.

They had come to her because she was the one to find their home. She knew exactly who these belonged to. Every careless page. Every unnamed wound. Every story that moved on without looking back.

She stopped. She turned. She opened her arms.

They came to her — all of them, every one — gathering, circling, settling. Not a storm. Not a weight. A homecoming. The black butterflies moved around her the way breath moves. The way sleep comes when you finally stop fighting it.

She stood there with her arms open and let them in.

All the darkness. All of it. Hers.

She smiled and moved forward — looking, searching. The characters of colour and darkness passed her by. Slowly they dwindled in number until there was nothing.

She searched, then came upon a square door shape where light forced its way out from the edges. She rested her hand on it and slowly pushed.

The light was colour. It circled, it darted, it swirled.

In the corner a shape appeared — blackness and colour drifted past like wind. She held her hand out. The shape stayed still.

It’s ok, she said. I’m here.

Who are you? he said.

I’m the one to give you life.

He looked up and gazed at her. His body was lifeless — no colour, nothing. Just transparent.

You have to let them in, she said.

He looked around him. I’m scared. I open for the colour ones — these are happy and calm. But the black ones try to creep in.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a pen. Then a piece of paper.

Look, she said.

He rose slowly and awkwardly walked towards her. What is that?

The paper held characters — many characters. They all had blackness and colour inside them. He marvelled at what he saw. Their stories unfolded before his eyes.

Can I be one of those? he asked.

She smiled. You have a story to tell.

He looked at the black butterflies.

But will they hurt if I let them in?

Sometimes, she said.

He looked at the paper and the characters inside — blackness and colour woven together, inseparable. He watched for a long time.

He took a deep breath and opened his hand.

A butterfly of colour landed. He studied it. Then a black one settled beside it.

He gasped.

It’s ok, she said. Watch.

The two circled quietly around his hand. He smiled. He clasped his hand slowly — and as he did they disappeared.

He looked at her.

Is this how it feels?

Like what?

I feel. I actually feel.

That’s right.

He placed his arms open in front of him and let them come inside.

His smile turned to laughter. He spun around — arms wide, head back, laughing the way someone laughs when they have never laughed before and cannot believe what it is.

She watched as his body filled. Colour crept in at the edges first — fingertips, the curve of his jaw, the corners of his eyes. Then deeper. Rushing in the way light rushes into a room when the curtains are finally pulled back.

Then the black — not overwhelming, not crushing. Just present. Woven in. The shadow that gives the colour its depth. The weight that makes the joy feel real.

He was no longer transparent.

He was alive.