The account tells of a young man who appears in a village on the North West coast of Brittany. Jim translated the next three lines. They were identical to his composition. He slipped further into the rabbit hole that was his new life. After translating two pages that matched his assignment word for word, he closed the book.

Jim checked the time, 6.05am. Two hours and over forty pages in his notebook in one sitting. He recalled that it took him four separate sittings to produce Missing, the piece he’d written for his assignment. What he failed to remember was the presence of his wife and her coffee ceremony,  desperate to read them afterwards. He got up from the table and poured some water into the kettle. As the water boiled and he prepared a brew, he began to analyse the statistics.

 The original composition was 5599 words, the number etched in his brain and on the corner of the original submission. The kettle clicked and he scalded the Earl Grey teabag, adding a quarter of a spoonful of sugar to the cup. His notebook, he recalled, usually held around 130 words per page. Forty pages would be over five thousand words. He disposed of the used teabag and added a dribble of cold water to the brew. As he inhaled the steam and sipped the aromatic liquid, he relived the previous two hours and the similarities between the two compositions. Never before had he written more than ten pages at one attempt. A fact confirmed by his aching thumb joint where he’d held the pen–the curse of arthritis.

He leaned back in the chair and savoured the floral taste of bergamot and the bitter smack of tannin. The first cup of the day always calmed him down. This morning, however, he didn’t need calm; he was calm. What he needed was Marguerita. The list of questions for the young woman formed a mile long queue in his head.

Something struck him at that moment. Something the spirit had said, Siren’s Return. This was the only part which differed from his own composition. He recalled the difficulty he’d had in finishing it and how disappointed he was with the ending.

He reached for the laptop and typed in the expression, not expecting any results. Matches were forthcoming. None however, regarding seafaring myths. Ignoring the movies, TV series and computer games named after the phrase and several acronyms of SIREN, Jim finally found, on the eighth page of Google.

Siren’s Return: Seafaring Myths

Siren’s Return refers to a condition currently known as secondary drowning.

Jim read on. Apparently, sailors rescued from shipwrecks often died a day or more later from the apparent symptoms of drowning. Legend has it that the Siren, a mythical creature who was responsible for luring sailors to their deaths, had returned for those who had been rescued. This can be explained by what is now known as secondary drowning, where water remains in the lungs and, in small quantities, can cause inflammation. The resulting build up of fluid, pulmonary edema, leading to the lungs’ inability to oxygenate blood,

causes respiratory failure. The symptoms mirror that of drowning, hence the term secondary drowning.

Jim could understand how, at the time, it seemed that the mythical creature had returned to reclaim the victims. The richness and the mystery of Jim’s newfound ability were both riveting and terrifying. Waves of realisation rushed over him from time to time as he went about his daily routine. A routine which was a chasm away from what had gone before. There were days in the past when he wished he had amnesia, the tragic last days of his late wife’s existence had haunted his every thought. Alcohol had been the only cure for this torment and brought with it a coach full of other problems.

Now, however, the grief of losing her was eclipsed by the Mexican woman. Marguerita had not taken her place;  she had enveloped his every thought. Jim could, nevertheless, look at life in a detached and objective way, a kind of acceptance.

He had yet to reconcile the link between his writing and the spirits which had first been highlighted by the tragic young fisherman João.  Today was Sunday, and Jim decided to curate his work and try to find a connection. The flat was more welcoming now, as it was when he first purchased it following his wife’s sudden death. He had the boiler repaired and serviced and gave the place a good clean. The cupboards and fridge were stocked, and he was eating well again, although he hadn’t become teetotal.

Beer was still part of his now-conservative social life. For now, though, it was time to investigate his academic collection. He took the leftover chicken Mandi from the fridge, refreshed it with a sprinkle of the hadji spice, and set the air fryer to low. He sat at the table and opened his laptop, finally recalling what a special place this was to work.

Jim opened the original folder, containing the first words he’d ever written. He’d begun to write following the passing of his wife, from an aggressive pancreatic cancer. The first story he wrote involved cooking, as he looked up at the gently humming air fryer and took in the delicious aroma of Middle Eastern spices. The story was entitled The Slow Cooker and was inspired when he was looking for something to eat a few weeks after the funeral.

Following this, he decided to write about the five stages of grief, never managing to tackle the final one, acceptance. It had avoided him in both a literal and literary sense.

Jim suddenly realised this was his acceptance story. The one he couldn’t write! Everything was falling into place. The appearance of Marguerite, the spirits and his coming to terms with Marie’s demise began to make sense. He made the decision to record everything and see where it took him. He opened each document and read every word, finding nothing to link with the spirits.

The next file was his first attempt at a Novel. A historical fiction piece about a young woman who was murdered in seventh century Iran, The Broken Doll. He recalled that at the time, it was a mystery where the inspiration came from. Jim noted the piece for further investigation, along with three others. Then he came to João’s story. Missing. As he opened the file, he experienced a strange sensation. He shivered and recounted in his head the visit to Ploubazlanac cemetery, in Brittany and the wall of the disappeared. Reading the account, he was sucked into the world of the tragic young man. 

Jim was brought back to the real world by the air fryer’s beeping. As he took the drawer from the appliance, the room was flooded with incredible aromas. It was as if he was surrounded by Fatima’s eternal presence. Perhaps we are immortal after all, he thought, in the memories of others. He settled down to his tasty lunch and read João’s tale.

The Wall of the Disappeared at Sea: