The crow landed at Jim’s feet again and curtsied like a widow in mourning. Jim was mesmerised by the bird and the document he’d just read, the one he’d written when his wife was alive. He recalled the circumstances behind the strange tale and her reaction to it. She became unnerved and was never quite the same after reading it. In the months following, she began to deteriorate, as if she had nowhere to go after this life. Jim now knew that to be so. Not even a spirit, he pondered.

These thoughts would normally send Jim into a spiral of deep depression and grief. However, he felt precisely nothing. He stretched out his arms and waved them in a flapping motion but the crow merely stood and observed the crazy old man imitating a bird. Jim began to laugh uncontrollably, something he hadn’t done in years. Passers by gawped at the man flapping his arms and guffawing. The crow bowed twice, let out a single ‘caw’ and left him to it. He pushed himself up from the bench and said goodbye to the sand, sea and crow; nature, how sensible.

Jim made his way home and set about finally locating Marguerita. Alongside Jim’s desire to see her again, there lingered a budding doubt. That of her very existence. Deep down, there was an emptiness whenever he brought her exquisite features to mind. 

***

It was a totally different Jim who boarded the crowded Monday morning Metro. He recalled a week ago when the weight of another world was on his shoulders. Seven days in which life had been transformed, in the most magical way.

Exiting the train, he decided to cross the city to its other university, and conduct his research there. He entered the library of The University of Northumbria and found a vacant booth. Taking his laptop, he opened the browser and typed in, The National Museum of Death, Mexico, the only link to his young companion.

The first page was in Spanish, so he clicked the tiny Union Flag in the top-right corner. Google Translate immediately interpreted it into English. Jim selected Menu, then Our Team.

At the top of the page were Marguerita’s features, transformed into the face of a middle-aged man. The eyes, nose and dimples on his smiling face were those of Jim’s lost beauty.

He clicked on the photograph, and began reading the short biography.

Pedro Vasco de Gama Rodriguez has been curator here for  22 years…

He copied the name and pasted it into another search. A list of pages appeared on the screen, all in Spanish. He selected several, mainly news items, about the Museum. The next page he selected was that of the local newspaper. The headline contained the word Muerte twice. Something stirred in Jim’s chest, and it tightened.

He selected the link in the text, and the two photographs hit him like a baseball bat. The first one showed Marguerita with the old man, his arm draped around her, cheeks touching. However, the second picture froze Jim’s neck muscles. He could neither breathe nor swallow.

The photograph showed what was left of a car, wedged up against a giant tree. The tangle of metal was only recognisable from the single remaining wheel.

Shaking, he tried to control the mouse in his right hand. He managed to translate the page and wished he hadn’t. The headline screamed at him like a demented banshee.

Daughter of Death Museum Curator Killed in Road Accident.

With exponential horror, Jim read on.

The promising young academic was fatally injured when her car left the road and hit a tree. Marguerita Vasco de Gama Rodriguez was planning to study in the UK next year…

Jim checked the date in the newspaper. It was six months ago. He slowly closed the laptop lid and laid his head on it again. The sobs came in waves, and he didn’t heed the shushing of several students.

Just then, his left eyebrow began to itch. As he was about to scratch, he stopped himself. Closing his eyes, he concentrated.

‘Hello Jim. So now you know. I’m sorry you had to find out this way. However, don’t worry. I’m not going away. As I said, our connection is unique. Let’s talk about spirits.’ The voice in his head was that of the young woman on the Metro.

‘I guess you have many questions for me,’ the voice uttered; for that’s what it was —a voice and nothing more.

Although the Latino intonation was identical, the absence of her stunning features, elegant form, and impeccable dress sense was tragic; Jim was struck dumb, if there was such a thing in one’s thoughts. He opened his eyes to ensure that the words weren’t coming from the woman he’d encountered the week before.

“She’s dead. The evidence is there in front of you,” he said out loud, staring at the photograph of the accident scene. More muttering and hushing followed his outburst. There was something familiar about the image, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. It was as if he’d seen it before, somewhere else.

‘You have indeed, and all will become clear soon. Please do not be sad for me. You have communicated with the spirits years ago. At least one of them, anyway.’

Jim was taken aback by her statement. Again, she’d burgled his thoughts like a skilled house-breaker. He tried to recall the ethereal experience in his past. It was a diversion from the initial shock of her fate, soothed further by her reassuring words.

‘Please don’t grieve for me, Jim. It was my choice to become a spirit. As I said, you will learn everything. All of your questions will be answered. I have been searching for you since that fateful day.’ 

He felt a strange kind of calm surrounding him. At that moment, Jim entered a world that was alien to the terrestrial one he’d existed in since birth. Everything would have to be relearned, just as if he’d been born at that moment; and Marguerite was to be his mother. Mother? That wasn’t what he had planned! A familiar laugh interrupted his thoughts.

‘Yes, I know it wasn’t exactly  your intention. Let me tell you though, what we have is greater than any love affair that has graced humanity since the first man took a mate.’

“I don’t understand. What is happening here? Are you dead? Did you perish in that car in Mexico?” The hushing and tutting started over as Jim realised he’d been talking out loud. The librarian approached.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave. You are disturbing the other students. May I see your ID card please?” The woman asked politely. She was the polar opposite to the wicked witch at the other university, and Jim composed himself.

“I’m sorry. I have just had some very bad news on my, erm, phone. I’ll pack up and leave immediately.” Jim assembled his things and made for the lift. He took out his identity card and showed it to the librarian who accepted his explanation with grace.

‘Are you still here?’ He asked, this time in the confines of his head. He closed his eyes tight as the lift descended.

‘I’ll always be here, my love. We are unique,’ the dulcet tones of Marguerite informed him.

‘My love?’ He began to shake, as if a winter frost had descended upon him. Holding his quivering hands up to his face, he witnessed the visual evidence of his descent into shock.

‘Breathe, Jim. Slow regular breaths. I will take you through this. We will experience it as one.’ Jim heeded her words as if she’d cast a spell on him. As the lift reached the ground floor, the sense of calm had returned. ‘Let’s go home. Your lessons will begin.’

Jim opened his eyes and Marguerite was standing next to him in the lift. She smiled and took his hand. He recalled the tingling feeling as she’d done so in the Metro station.

“How?” He uttered out loud.