where ghosts wander || ONC 2022

chapter six; of unburied curses and long-buried memories

The Edge of the world is not very spectacular, really.

Or maybe it is, but I have never been at the very edge of it, and I don't think anyone who was, has lived to tell the tale, not even in the Afterlife.

If you get too close to the edge of the Edge, you can hear it.

The thundering waterfalls, as the ocean drops down into nothing.

It's loud enough to shake your bones, they say.

Loud enough to dislodge your soul from your body, just a little.

Just enough.

So, no. I've never been at the literal edge of the world.

But the thing that's commonly understood under the Edge of the world, that one's pretty unspectacular.

Maybe that's because it's most often covered in thick layers of mist, a magical kind of fog that sometimes takes the shapes of your dead loved ones, if you don't focus well enough.

I've only seen the raw beauty of it a scant few times, and never as clearly as today.

It's almost unfair.

The fog only trails along with us in a few wisps along the forest floor, curling itself around big tree roots and the moss covered stones that mark the path.

It thickens a bit when we get close, and although I was determined to ignore her I can't help but notice that Priya shivers. Her skin is paler now, almost translucent, and it gets that pale blue glow that's typical to ghosts in these woods, or around midnight, or when they're close to passing over.

"Maybe you should stay here," I say. For once, the mist isn't there to swallow my words, and no ghosts are around to echo them.

None other than Priya herself, of course, who furrows her brow and asks, "Stay here?" She looks around, but there's nothing particularly remarkable about this stretch of wood. "Why?"

"We're getting close," I say, and hope that that explains it, but of course I can't be that lucky. Priya looks even more confused than before. "You should feel the Pull any moment now, if you don't already. The Edge isn't far from here. You didn't strike me as wanting to pass over already — unless I misjudged it, of course, in which case you're of course welcome to come along."

"Pass over?" Priya mouths to herself, absentmindedly rubs at her elbow. "Like, to the Afterlife?"

"Yep."

"Oh." There's a faraway look on her face, for a moment, as if she's really considering it, but then she shakes herself. "No, I don't want that. I don't think I'm ready."

I give her a fleeting smile. "That's fine. You don't have to be."

While Priya ponders that, I rummage in my bag to take out the butterfly jar.

The orange wings glow blue now, a different shade than Priya's skin.

It's darker, like murky water where the sun doesn't reach, like ink mixed with blood.

Ghost Glows are more telling of a person's sins than most other things will ever be.

(I'm not surprised that Priya's glow is among the purest I've ever seen.)

The way her eyes are fixed on the jar when I look up confirms once again what I've always suspected: certain knowledge comes intuitively once you've died.