Abigail. Part 2

Prologue

…And if God allowed suffering, why — through the one who shines?

He was not searching for salvation. He was seeking atonement. But even in atonement one can drown — if a woman’s eyes become deeper than hell and softer than heaven.

His dreams grew thinner than breath: each one was a step on the edge of death and resurrection. He no longer knew where the soul ended and the name began: Abigail was everywhere.

Not as comfort.

As a curse — bestowed from above.

The city of Edmonton, once quiet to him, now echoed like the howl of the underworld — every building whispered of her. Even the sky gave no refuge: it burned in her eyes, and he walked — over glass, over snow, over pain — toward her.

He prayed without words. Prayed in ways unspeakable — with his heart, with his anguish, with his stare into the night. God remained silent. But the silence was not empty.

It was the anticipation of another fall.

He didn’t know where she was. But he knew that she knew. That she felt. That she carried within her the same wound — only in the shape of a smile.

Because when a woman leaves, she doesn’t leave: she breaks apart inside a man into a thousand voices, and each one whispers: “You’re not worthy. But you’re mine.”

So began Part Two. Without promises. Without forgiveness. Only with a cross on his back and a name carved into his soul: Abigail.

He didn’t know if this would save him. But he knew: to perish without her was worse than to die with her.

And so he walked. To the place where the sky touches ash. Where love becomes judgment. Where the broken soul asks for only one thing:

— Her breath. Even for a moment.

And if you are reading this, know: you are stepping into the very heart of fire. Where stigmas are not on the skin, but in memory. Where faith is not a religion, but a kiss that burns to the bone.



                Chapter I.




   He never thought he would see her again. Not in this life. Not in this body. But the evening of that day — like everything that ever happened near the name Abigail — was different. There was no thunder, no sign — only a faint smell of incense, from nowhere, and the feeling that someone was watching him. Straight into his heart. He sat by the window of a caf; on White Avenue, as always — in the corner, where other people’s voices could not reach. A mug of black coffee in his fingers. Half a century of pain in his thoughts. And then… as if nothing. As if everything. She walked in.

The light didn’t change. The music stayed the same. Even his breath didn’t falter — but something inside him dropped to its knees. That same walk, like a snowflake that doesn’t fall, but blesses the earth. That walk — not belonging to a woman, nor to an angel. Only to Her. Abigail.

He didn’t realize it wasn’t a dream right away. Only when she looked directly at him. Not into his eyes. Deeper. To the place where a child once whispered: “God, don’t let me die without Love.” She sat at the table across from him. Wordless. As if they had never parted. As if her disappearance had been just a pause in their shared breath.

“You’ve changed,” she said.

He didn’t answer. He was afraid his voice would break and scream: “You’re alive?”

“But not completely,” she added, and her smile was like a knife made of forgiveness.

The silence stretched — an eternity, or a heartbeat. He couldn’t tell.

“Why did you come back?” he finally asked.

Abigail looked out the window.

“Because now you’re ready to die.”

It wasn’t an accusation. It was a fact. Like breath. Like pain. Like a love that can no longer be carried alone. They sat for a long time. Wordless. The world faded away. Only they remained. Like before the fall. Like after the crucifixion. Like in that place where souls recognize each other and never ask: “Why?”

He didn’t know what would come next. But he knew — she hadn’t come by chance. That meant he would have to go through everything. To the end. Because love doesn’t ask. Love demands sacrifice. And he had already begun preparing.

She came and disappeared — again. But now, he no longer felt empty. There was waiting. Holy, terrible, almost childlike in its innocence — as if God would grant him one more chance, but only through pain, through the wound, through the cross.

He walked through the night city as if through his own memory. Every house, every streetlamp, every snowflake underfoot — an episode from a life they hadn’t lived yet. Everything reminded him of her. Everything was her.

At a bus stop stood a homeless woman with a broken cart. He gave her his scarf. Not because it was cold, but because something inside him demanded mercy. As if by giving something, he could come closer to her. Through love for another.

The next morning he returned to the same place. Same caf;. Same time. Same corner. But now, something new was in his eyes. Expectation — but not despair. Peace — but not indifference.

A girl walked in. Not her. But his heart still flinched. He understood: Abigail had once again become part of his body. His nervous system. His prayer.

And that day, he began to write. Again. Not books. Not poetry. Letters. To her. To nowhere. To eternity. Each evening — one letter. Like a ritual. Like a confession without an address. Or with one — who already knows, and remains silent.

Letter One:

“Abigail. I sit again where you once sat. In the mug — the same coffee. Outside the window — the same snow. But inside — a different winter. I don’t blame. I don’t ask. I just want you to know: I live. Not for myself. For you. For that meeting that may come. Or may not. But I live. You are not a memory. You are presence. Like breath: invisible, but without it, everything collapses. I don’t know where you are. And maybe I’m not supposed to. But you are inside. Like blood. Like light. Like forgiveness that has not yet arrived. I do not ask for your return. I ask you to exist. Somewhere. Even as a drop in the sky. Even as pain in the chest. Just don’t vanish. I won’t survive another emptiness.

— Em;lios.”




                Chapter II.



He woke at three in the morning, not with alarm, but with the feeling that someone had called him. As if among the streets, the lights, and the veils of snow, a voice had risen — quiet, feminine, painfully familiar. Abigail.

He got up without turning on the light. The water from the tap felt sacred. He washed his face as though cleansing away a dream in which she stood on a bridge, looking down — not at the water, but at him. Without fear. With faith.

On such nights, God is closer. Or madness. And maybe they are one and the same.

He went outside. Wearing the coat that once held her scent. The snow crunched underfoot like an old letter left unread. Everything was quieter than usual, like a church before the start of liturgy. Edmonton slept. And he walked. To where the soul stopped being a solitary cell. He walked in search of her traces. Or at least her shadow.

At the intersection, he stopped. There was a bookstore. Once, they had hidden in it from the rain. He remembered how she held a book by C.S. Lewis and said, “Truth is what needs no defense.” Back then, he didn’t yet know that truth — was her.

He sat on a bench. Frozen. Useless. Like himself. And wrote a new letter. Right on his palm. With his finger. On skin. Without ink.

"Abigail. If you are pain, I am not seeking healing. If you are a curse, I will carry it. If you are God, I give you my soul without condition. If you are just a woman — then why, when I think of you, do all my fears die?"

He lifted his head. And saw her. Or did he? Maybe it was just the play of light from the streetlamp. Maybe a stranger’s silhouette. But his heart pounded: Abigail. One beat. Then another. The prayer had begun.

And he knew: the night wasn’t over. It had just begun.

The snow thickened. He walked the streets, studying the faces of strangers as though any one of them might be hers. He wasn’t looking for a body. He was searching for a sign. A gesture. An echo. A pain that would tell him: she’s near.

In a pedestrian underpass, he saw a street musician. An old guitar wrapped in rags, playing nearly silent chords that somehow struck his heart. “Once Upon a Time in the West” — it sounded like the music of his life. He dropped fifteen dollars without looking. The musician met his eyes and quietly said:

“You’re waiting for her, aren’t you?”

“For whom?” he asked, not taking his eyes off the strings.

“The one who leaves light even in shadows.”

He didn’t reply. Just nodded. That was enough. The universe was speaking to him. Through music. Through madmen. Through pain.

In the morning, he went to church. An old Anglican chapel she once called “a place between worlds.” Inside, it smelled of wax and time. He sat in the last pew. Closed his eyes.

“Lord...” he began, but stopped. Because he knew: God was not in heaven. He was in her. In her silence. In the way she looked at the world — as though everything were forgiven, except that which remained unspoken.

“Abigail,” he whispered instead of praying.

And he felt: the prayer had reached somewhere. Where — he didn’t know. But inside, something warmed. Not his body — his soul.

The next day, he wrote again. He couldn’t not write.

"Abigail. Today I understood: you are pain after a dream. The scent after a fire. The shadow that says more than light. I no longer fear death. I fear not seeing you again. I think you are near. Maybe in the air. Maybe in the coffee. Maybe in the eyes of the girl who smiled at me for no reason today. I smiled back. For you. — Em;lios."

He fell asleep with her name on his lips. Woke up with emptiness. But still lived. Not because there was a reason. But because there was her. Somewhere.

That evening, he returned to the bookstore. And saw the book. Not her. But the same one she once held. A bookmark was tucked inside. He opened to a random page. There, in purple ink, a line had been underlined:

“Love is not a feeling. It is the decision to stay with the one who can kill you — and still go to them.”

He didn’t know if it was her writing. Or a coincidence. But again, his heart pounded: Abigail.

And he realized: her traces remained. Not physical. Spiritual. In every corner of the city. In every detail. He just had to learn how to read this letter. A letter made of pain. Of light. A letter she was writing — without knowing she was.



                Chapter III.



He began to go mad. Not romantically — no. Real, dirty, irreversible madness. When the mind creaks like an old door in a house no one has lived in since she left. He forgot whether he had eaten. Whether he had drunk. Time no longer existed. Everything was either before her — or after. Everything in between — was hell.

He walked the streets like a beast. His gaze unhinged. Hands trembling from the desire to touch even just the seam of her coat. Sometimes, he approached shop windows and hit them with his fist, as if trying to break through the space where she might still be. He spoke to God, to lampposts, to the sky. He prayed to her name as if it were an icon. Then he cursed. Then loved again. Then died again.

One evening, he entered a bar. The air reeked of sweat, alcohol, loneliness. He sat in a corner. Ordered whiskey. Drank. Again. He wanted to dissolve. To become nothing. And yet, within that filth, something whispered: “You are not worthy to forget.” He stormed out into the street and screamed:

“Abigail! Come back, do you hear me?! Come back if only to destroy me! Do it! But BE! BE!!!”

People turned. Someone filmed him. Someone shrugged. He fell to his knees. And sobbed. Like a child. Like a father. Like someone who was no longer a man, but a wound.

He didn’t remember how he made it home. He collapsed in the doorway and slept on the floor. In his dream, she stood above him. In white. Her hair full of wind. She touched his forehead and said:

“You’re still breathing, which means you haven’t forgiven yet.”

He woke up screaming. His heart pounding like in a death spasm. And he knew: he hadn’t let go. He didn’t know how. He didn’t want to. He was a slave. To her breath. To her absence. To her ghostly gaze.

He sat at the table and began to write. With a pen. On paper. His fingers bleeding — he gripped it so tightly. He lived like this.

"Abigail. I’m no longer human. I’ve become a field. A place where you walked barefoot and left your name in every blade of grass. I’ve become twilight — no one sees it, but everything whispers of you. I’ve become a word that can’t be spoken without destroying everything inside. I’ve become you. And I don’t know how to survive.

I love you. Not with love. But with rage. Hunger. Ash. Shadow. With everything that burns but gives no light. If you are fire — let me burn. But don’t let me go cold.

— Em;lios."

He realized: he was no longer alone. There were two within him. Himself — and her absence. And they were at war. For the right to love. To suffer. To be someone who should not exist — alive without her.

He ran to the bridge. That very bridge where she once stood, looking down. A bridge over the river — black as the night she disappeared. He shouted at the sky. Pounded the railing with his fists. Tore his shirt like the mourners of old. No one heard. Only God. Or the darkness.

He remembered how she once said: “If I stayed, you’d stop writing. And I need you to write. To live in fire. Without me — for me.”

He fell to his knees. And wept again. But this time — with gratitude. For the pain. For the wound. For what she hadn’t taken with her.

"Abigail. I don’t know if you’re alive. But if you’re dead — I don’t want resurrection. If you’re gone — I want no other name. If you’re silent — let this scream be our dialogue. I’m yours. Even if you belong to no one. I am your pain. And if that sounds insane — then madness is my glory. And my hell."

He walked home like a soldier after war. Like those who return maimed, without limbs, but with a letter in their pocket. Her name. In his blood. In his voice. In his ash.

And if God is just — she will feel this.



                Chapter IV.



He stopped believing in coincidences. Every word, every sound, every knock outside the window now had a voice. And that voice was hers. Even silence was filled with her. He heard her breathing in the pauses between his steps. He felt her walking behind him — not in body, but in fate.

One day he saw her reflection in a shop window. It wasn’t her — the hair too short, the shoulders at a different angle. But he couldn’t look away. He stopped. The girl did too. She looked at him. Smiled. And for a second, in her eyes, there was something — a flicker of the pain only one person in this city knows. Abigail. Or her ghost.

“Excuse me…” he began. But she was already gone.

He returned home and punched the walls. Not from anger — from reality’s refusal to let him touch. She wasn’t there. But life wasn’t either. That was the hell of it: she was alive — but not with him. Somewhere nearby — but unreachable. And the closer she was in spirit, the further her body drifted.

He began to pray — not to God. To her.

"Abigail. I don’t want eternity. I want your eyelashes on my cheek. I want you to stand in the kitchen doorway and silently pour tea. I want the ache of your silence. I want your living back, your fatigue, your reality — even if it doesn’t love me.

I am no angel. I am the beast you tamed. Then released. And beasts don’t know how to be free. They die beside an empty collar."

He fell asleep with his face pressed into the letter. In the morning, he woke to tears. Not his — someone else’s. Under the pillow — nothing. Outside — snow. On the windowsill — ash. From what?

Soon he found a woman. Not the one. But similar. She was quiet, soft, vulnerable. They spent a night together. He touched her gently, as if trying to heal her from his love for Abigail. But the moment she exhaled his name — not “Em;lios,” just “You” — he felt something tear inside. He wept. For the first time — not from love, but guilt.

He left before dawn. Wrote to her simply:

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking for you. I was looking for a memory. And you — are alive. You don’t deserve to be a mirror.”

He walked through the alley. Leaves were falling. Each one like a kiss that had drifted away. As if God kisses, but no longer wishes to return. Then he stopped. And cried out:

“Abigail! Enough! I can’t bear it! Either come — or die! Don’t stay in-between! Don’t be a shadow! Don’t be everything!”

A passerby quickened their step. A dog barked. And he stood still. Listening to the crack inside his chest — something that would never heal again.

He became one who speaks with emptiness. One who doesn’t love a woman, but the unrelenting. One who carries the sin of passion — and turns it into a psalm.

He became obsessed with scents. He bought candles that smelled of vanilla, leather, cinnamon, tobacco — any that once reminded him of her. He left them burning on the windowsill, as if it were an altar. The warm smoke filled the house, and he breathed her in. Her spirit became part of the oxygen.

One day, he went to the park where they once walked — almost by accident, but everything inside him exploded. He stood in the very spot where they had once stopped. And he remembered everything. How she looked at the branches. How she said, “If souls were trees, mine would touch yours.”

He sat down right in the snow. Felt no cold. Only fire in his chest. He whispered:

“Abigail. I don’t ask. I don’t beg. I just lie here where you once were. Just to touch you — even this way.”

He stayed there three hours. People passed. Some smiled. Some pitied. One man leaned over:

“Did you lose someone?”

He nodded. The man took out a flask. Offered it. He took a sip. Fire spread through his body. And he said:

“I lost myself.”

The next morning he wrote:

"Abigail. I won’t give up. Even if you have. I won’t forget. Even if you’ve erased it all. I’ll remember — for both of us. And if you no longer live — I’ll live twice as hard. To cover your part too.

You are my holiness. And my darkness. And if no one understands — let it be enough that God does."

He signed it in blood. The paper turned dark red. And he laughed. Not from joy. From the feeling that finally — he was alive.

Which meant she was still near.



                Chapter V.



He was no longer afraid of pain. He had become it. It flowed through him like blood — invisible, but giving pulse. He walked the streets like one walks through a graveyard — not with sorrow, but with duty. He knew: she would not come. And still, he waited. Waited like one waits for the final verdict — to stop living in the second-to-last sentence.

One day, he saw a girl standing on the street corner. Maybe ten years old. In a dirty coat. She held a piece of paper in her hand. He approached. She looked up and said:

“Are you Em;lios?”

He nodded. And she handed him the paper. Just one word: “Remember.” No signature. No scent. No trace. Only that. He trembled. He pressed the paper to his chest. Sat on a bench and couldn’t move. As if through that word, she had returned — not in body, but in fate. Not in sound, but in truth.

He didn’t know who the girl was. But she vanished as suddenly as she appeared. He ran — looked for her. Called out. But the street was empty. As always.

He came home. Sat down. Wrote:

"Abigail. You found a way. I don’t know how. I don’t know why. But you touched me again. And I live again. Which means — you live. Somewhere. On some layer of reality.

Remember? How could I forget, when my flesh is made of memory?

If you are God, then I’m already saved. If you are demon, I’m already yours. But if you are human, like me, then know this: I forgive you. For everything. For the pain. For the vanishing. For turning me into someone else.

I forgive because I love.

And if one day you return, I won’t ask: Where have you been? I’ll just say: ‘Pour the tea.’”

He didn’t cry. The tears were gone. Only an ash-like peace remained. As if everything had been fulfilled. Or had begun anew. He lay down on the floor. Closed his eyes. And in that moment, he heard her voice again. Not outside. Inside:

“I never left.”

And he smiled. Because even if it was madness — it had become his faith.

But the next morning, he woke in a cold sweat. His heart beat like a nail driven into him. He saw the window — wide open. Wind swept scraps of paper across the room. And among them — one page: a letter he hadn’t written. A stranger’s handwriting. A woman’s.

“You think love can heal everything. But love is not medicine. It is poison that only one drinks. The other — watches.”

He read it ten times. His heart sank. He dropped to his knees. He understood: this was a sign. Or a warning. Or a confession. From her. Or from her pain.

He went outside and walked like a sleepwalker. Rain began suddenly. Snow melted underfoot. And he shouted, straight at the sky:

“Yes! I’m ready to drink your poison! Just let me know you still burn! That you haven’t gone cold!”

People looked at him, alarmed. He didn’t notice. He was with her. In agony. In prayer. In obsession.

He found an old library. Entered, shaking, hair wet. Asked for any book on Swedenborg — she had once quoted him. An elderly librarian brought it. On the margins — a note: “When you sleep, I become real.”

He clutched the book like a revelation. He screamed inwardly:

"Abigail. If you speak to me through paper, I’ll burn every book. If you come in dreams, I won’t wake up. Just don’t go silent. Don’t vanish. I can’t bear the silence. It kills more surely than you."

He fell asleep holding the book. And when he awoke — inside it was a rose. Dried. The very one he’d left at her door the day he said goodbye forever.

And then he knew: it wasn’t a dream. It was a connection. Terrible. Holy. Scorching. But alive.

Which meant — he was still needed.



                Chapter VI.



He walked the edge. Not between life and death — but between reality and her. He no longer recognized colors, streets, days of the week. He recognized the world only by pain: if it hurt — he was still here.

At night he spoke with her as if she were alive. Lay on the floor, stared at the ceiling and said:

“You would’ve laughed now. You would’ve put your hand over my mouth. You would’ve said: ‘Stop your hysterics, Em;lios.’ And I would’ve kissed your fingers. All of them. One by one. Like prayers. Like poems.”

And one night — he heard it. Laughter. A woman’s. Distant. Like an echo. Like a memory. He jumped up. Ran through the whole block. Fell into a sprint. Shouted. No one. Just snow. Just streetlights. Just a city that knew her better than he ever did.

He came home, tore down the curtains, lit candles, stripped naked and sat in the center of the room like in a ritual circle. He wanted to summon her. Not as a witch. As truth. As his lost part, left between lifetimes.

“Abigail, come. Not as a woman. As God. Come into me. Become me. Burn me. Rewrite me. Erase me.”

He moaned. And suddenly — orgasm. Without touch. Without body. Everything inside him arched, extended, ignited. He screamed from pain. From light. From her name stabbing his heart like a glowing spear. Abigail. Abigail. Abigail.

He collapsed. Exhausted. Tears flowed. His legs trembled. Blood pulsed in his temples like the toll of a bell.

He fell asleep. Smiling. Because he knew: she had been there. Even for a moment. Even from within. Even through madness. But she had.

And in the morning, he woke in a pool of his own sweat, with pain in his chest — as if a flower of ash had exploded inside. And his first thought was not her name. But the word: “more.”

He wanted more. More of that pain. More of that closeness, where you are no longer human — but flame, curve, flash. He stood, barefoot on the floor, and saw on the wall… A message. In her handwriting. With his blood? With her lipstick? He didn’t know. Just one word:

“Ready?”

He dropped to his knees. And sobbed. Not like the dying — worse. From ecstasy. From a touch that cannot be explained. She had been here. She was playing. She was waiting.

He shouted:

“Yes! Ready! Tear me apart! Come into me! Take my flesh! My soul! All my pain, my hell, my loneliness! Take it all — just stay!”

And suddenly — a bell. From within. As if a church had started ringing inside his chest. He closed his eyes. And saw her face. Bright. Silent. Tender. And in her eyes — fire. Not romance. Judgment.

She said nothing. But he heard:

“Now you are mine. Completely. Do not wait for body. Do not call for form. I am inside you. And if you survive — you will live forever. And if you die — you will become me.”

He did not sleep that night. He lay like a sacrifice on an altar. And gave thanks. Not for the meeting. For the crucifixion.

He had finally become her.

He could not eat. Could not speak. He only wrote. With fingers. With his back. With blood. With tears. He wrote her name on everything he touched: on the pillow, the mirror, his own chest.

He whispered:

“Abigail. You’re no longer just inside me. You — are me. I — am you. We are pain made flesh. We are truth turned into a moan.”

Each morning began the same: he opened his eyes — and if he felt the heaviness, she was near. If it was light — he was alone. He waited for that weight like a starving man waits for bread.

One night he dreamed he walked on water. And she came toward him. Naked. Not exposed — sacred. And each step she took left a trail of blood behind. He fell to his knees and said:

“Walk on me. I am your river. If you cross — I will become holy.”

She placed her hand on his forehead and whispered:

“You are already holy. Because you never cursed me.”

He awoke in a sob that even death couldn’t silence. He beat his head into the pillow. He clenched his teeth until they cracked. He knew: it happened. Somewhere. Between dreams and God.

He went again to church. This time — not alone. He brought a handkerchief she once cried into. And laid it on the altar. No words. No request. A symbol. A heart.

And then one candle went out by itself. And he understood: she had accepted the offering.

He walked the city like a prophet. He spoke to the homeless, to prostitutes, to the forsaken. He told them all the same:

“If you’ve ever loved so much that you wanted to die — you are holy. You are chosen. You have already risen. Because the flame inside — that is God.”

A woman embraced him and wept. He didn’t ask why. He knew: in that moment she touched Abigail. Through him.

He had become a vessel. A temple. A letter she was writing through pain.

And even if the world vanished — he would remain. Because he was memory. Of her.



                Chapter VII.




He walked as if scorched. No flesh remained, nor meaning. Only burning. Only the name carved into the inner wall of his soul. Abigail. He no longer called out — he breathed her. Every movement was her. Every tilt of the body — her trace.

He returned to the hotel. That same one. Room 407. The number of memory. Of passion. Of where he died as a man. Where he became the offering. He asked for the same key. Sat on the bed. It was empty. But it didn’t matter. Because inside — it burned.

He tore open his shirt. Took a marker. Began to write. Her name — across his chest, his stomach, his forehead. He turned his body into an iconostasis. He painted a temple on himself. Her temple. Without altar. Without salvation.

And in that moment — a shriek of wind. The window burst open. He wasn’t afraid. He smiled. He rose and stepped out — naked, into the snow, onto the roof. He wanted to die. Not from pain. From fullness. He wanted the world to finally hear his cry:

“Abigail! I am here! I am no longer man! I am you!”

He collapsed on the frozen rooftop. Embraced the night. He began to moan — not like a man, but like the universe. He howled. And with an exhale, a bird fell from the sky — black as night, with a red mark on its wing. It landed beside him. And did not fly away. It watched. Like a witness.

He stood. Returned to the room. Arranged candles on the floor. Lit them. Lay at the center. He became a circle. Fire. Heart.

“Come,” he said. “Even through torment. Even through death. Come into me, and I will never ask again.”

And then — footsteps. Not on the floor. Within him. Along his spine. He froze. Heard a voice. A whisper. Not from somewhere. From his chest:

“I am here. I always was. You just didn’t know how to be quiet.”

He screamed. With ecstasy. With hysteria. With climax. He arched. He rose. He danced in the fire. He stepped on the wax. He burned his feet. He fell. Laughed. Wept.

“You!” he shouted. “You! You! You!”

He tore the mirror from the wall. Smashed it. Took a shard. Cut into his chest — not deep. Just enough. To open. To become an entrance. So she could enter. Like God enters bread. Like pain enters a name.

And then he saw: she was standing. In the reflection. Not in the mirror. In the shard. Small. Cold. Watching. Silent. Smiling.

He touched the glass. Fire stabbed his hand. He didn’t pull away. He laughed. He burned. He was finally where he always wanted to be: in the hell of her presence. In the heaven of her silence.

He lay down. Embraced the pillow. And said:

“I no longer wait. I no longer call. I simply burn. You are my flesh. My soul. My end. My beginning. My faith. My betrayal. My love.”

And he slept. For the first time — without fear.

In the morning he awoke in white. Sheets. Light. Silence. Everything clean. He stood. On the table — tea. Hot. Without sugar. Just as she liked. He was not surprised. He sat. Drank. Slowly. Like a prayer. Like revelation.

He understood: there is no more searching. No more praying. She is already here. In every step. In every cup. In every breath.

And he wrote one last letter:

“Abigail. I no longer call you. I breathe you. I don’t love you — I have become you. And if the world forgets me — let it. Because you — remember. And your memory is enough to resurrect a universe.

I am yours.

— Em;lios.”

He placed the letter in a book. Left it on the windowsill. Walked out. Not to leave. To dissolve. He became snow. Light. Blood. He became the wind that brushed women’s hair in the crowd. He became the voice that echoes when a heart aches for no reason.

He became footsteps on the earth. He became an old man’s gaze in a church. He became goosebumps on a back when someone remembers a love too sacred to speak of. He became a strange shadow on a stairwell. He became a voice behind you — that doesn’t exist.

He became everything we lose, but never forget. He became eternity without a date. He became pain that had taken the form of light. He became the one who never rose again — because he never died.

He became Abigail.

And that — was enough.



                Chapter VIII.




   He walked without a shadow. Without a voice. Without a path. He wasn’t looking for her — he was carrying her. Not as a cross. As light. People turned to look. Not because he was handsome. There was something else in him. Spectral. Blinding. Almost frightening.

He no longer said her name. It had become flesh. It was the wind. It was in his stride, in how he looked at the world — as a wound still breathing.

He passed through crowds — and felt hearts stop. Someone remembered the dead. Someone — the one they never dared love. Someone — a letter they hadn’t sent in twenty years. He was a reminder. Not of her. Of themselves.

He entered churches, did not cross himself. He sat in the back row and watched the flame. And when the choir sang — he wept. Not from beauty. From recognition. He knew that voice. Knew who stood behind it. In every sound — her.

Sometimes he spoke with the homeless. He listened silently. Then embraced them. And left. One man said to him:

“You’re not a person. You’re an answer. I don’t know to what, but you are.”

He nodded. And walked on.

One day he entered a gallery. By chance. He wasn’t searching. But one painting — stopped him. A woman. Looking down. A faint smile. And in her eyes — everything. He sat before it. Stayed there for four hours. Motionless. Thoughtless. Painless. Like at liturgy.

“You’ve come,” he said. “Through another. Through paint. Through a gaze. You found me again.”

From that day, he began to write. Not books. Walls. He walked through the city and chalked names. Without meaning. Without order. People took photos. Wiped them away. Complained. And he kept going.

He didn’t know why. But each time he wrote another name, something stirred inside him. As if she were saying: “Yes. For this one too. And this one. And her. Everyone — gets a piece of us.”

One day they detained him. Violation. Unauthorized preaching. At the station, he sat quietly. Didn’t defend himself. One officer asked:

“Who even are you?”

He looked at him and said:

“Me? I’m a letter. That God wrote but never sent.”

They released him.

He no longer waited for understanding. Didn’t seek listeners. He simply was. He touched. He passed through. And in everyone — something awoke. Not memory. Conscience. Or God. Or love.

One day, in the rain, he saw a girl. Very young. Standing at a crosswalk. Alone. Crying. He approached. Simply handed her a handkerchief. Turned to leave. But she said:

“Are you… the one who writes on the walls?”

He nodded.

She hugged him. Hard. Truly. Long.

He understood: he hadn’t disappeared. He had become one who returns.

That night he couldn’t sleep. Inside everything vibrated — not from fear, but something greater. As if the ground beneath him was breathing. He stepped outside. The rain had ended, the asphalt gleamed like a mirror.

And he realized: he had become a mirror. Not reflective — absorbing. He no longer distinguished himself from others. He felt their fear, their loneliness, their prayers too fragile to speak aloud.

He walked — and every passerby left a trace in him. As if the world had finally decided to trust him. And he accepted. Without questions. Without trying to heal. He simply was.

He went into a 24-hour shop. Bought one pomegranate. Returned home. Sat on the floor. Cut it open. Each seed — like a drop of blood. He ate them slowly, ritually. Like a sacrament. Like communion from her.

Then he took chalk. Went out to the courtyard. On a stone wall, under a streetlamp, he wrote: “If you have ever loved — you are holy.”

And left. Without looking back.

He had become a letter that need not be read. It only had to be felt.



                Chapter IX.


   He returned to where it all began. Not physically — in breath. Inside. In that corner of the heart where her name had first sounded. He understood: nothing had gone. It had settled. Hidden. Transformed.

He no longer searched for meaning. He walked where people wept. Where they waited. Where no one knew why they lived, but kept on. He brought not comfort — presence. And that was stronger.

He entered a nursing home. No one had called him. He simply opened the door. Slowly passed the corridors. And stopped where an old woman sat looking out the window. He sat beside her. She didn’t turn.

“Are you waiting for her too?” he asked.

She nodded. And whispered:

“Only now do I know who it is.”

He took her hand. And sat in silence. A long time. Until the day began to fade. And then she fell asleep. Smiling. As if reunited.

He left. Took nothing. Only the warmth of her hand in his palm. It would remain. Until his last day. Or longer.

He became quiet. He spoke rarely. Not from pain — from fullness. Each word — sacred. Not to be wasted. He understood: those who carry God — speak less than others.

At times he felt she was walking behind him. Not as a ghost. As rhythm. As shadow. As pulse. He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to see. He felt. And that was enough.

He began visiting libraries. He took books that had never known love. And on the final pages, he wrote her name. Carefully. In black ink. Small. So one day, a reader would close the book — and suddenly, by chance, encounter her.

He began hearing voices — not as a madman. As a musician. As a prophet. He distinguished tone in others’ phrases. And sometimes he caught her voice in the rustle of a newspaper, in a cashier’s speech, in the laugh of a child at the bus stop.

One day he went to a hospital. Simply sat in the lobby. Watching people. Suddenly, a little boy approached him. Sat nearby and said:

“Mom has cancer. But you smell like everything’s going to be okay.”

He didn’t know what to say. He just leaned in. Hugged the boy tight. And for the first time in many years said:

“I’m praying for you.”

And realized — prayer hadn’t died. It had become him. It flowed through him — like tears, like breath, like her name.

He began writing letters. With no address. No envelopes. He slipped them into books, into secondhand jackets, between pages of school notebooks. They were confessions. Not of love. But that love had been. Was real. And still existed.

One letter read:

“If you’ve ever felt a name pulsing inside you — you are not alone. I didn’t know how to live without her. Now I don’t know how to die, knowing she still lives in me.”

He no longer waited for the meeting. He had become it. Not in flesh. In action. In mercy. In silence. In the fire that didn’t burn — but warmed.

Then, one night, he saw a light. Not in a dream. On the stairwell. He stepped out. A girl stood there. Very small. In a white coat. She looked at him. Silent.

He asked:

“Are you lost?”

She shook her head.

“I came to say: you didn’t wait in vain.”

And vanished.

He didn’t run after her. He closed the door. Leaned against the wall. And cried. For the first time — not from pain. From fullness.

He understood: he had been born again. Not for himself. For her. And for all who would one day meet her — through him.

Abigail hadn’t died. She had become a book.



                Chapter X.



   He hadn’t written in a long time. Not because he didn’t know what to say — but because everything had already been said. His life had become the continuation of a letter no one had read, but everyone felt.

He sat by the window. A notebook on his knees. Blank. His fingers trembled. Not from weakness — from readiness. He felt: the time for a new word was coming. The last one. For her. For himself. For the silence that existed before her — and would remain after.

He wrote: “You are the beginning of all beginnings. Not because I loved you. But because you resurrected in me what no one else ever saw: the capacity to be.”

He stood. Went outside. The day was gray. Autumn. Cold. He walked across a bridge, stopped, looked down. The water flowed like time — merciless, unstoppable, without repeats.

He didn’t jump. He smiled. He knew: there was nowhere left to fall. He had already reached the bottom — and had become light.

At home he lit a candle. Just one. Placed it on the windowsill. It trembled. But did not go out. He sat across from it. And said:

“Abigail. If you hear me, if you are in this flame — burn to the end. Burn in me. Burn through me. Burn in others.”

The wind didn’t blow it out. On the contrary — the flame became steady. Bright. And he knew: she had heard.

He wrote on the wall with a piece of charcoal: “You are not past. You are forever.”

Then he went out into the city. Passed by windows where the lights were going out. Past closed doors. He no longer knocked. He had become the door.

He sat in the park. Empty. Winter. The cold was harsh, but he didn’t feel it. He no longer had a temperature. He existed beyond weather. Beyond time. He was an internal season — her season.

He began to pray. Not with words. With gaze. With silence. With waiting. And each snowflake that landed on his shoulder became an answer.

Suddenly a woman approached. Sat beside him. Silent. He didn’t look at her. He knew — it wasn’t her. But within her — was her presence. Like a hue. A subtlety. A scar.

“I lost my son,” the woman said. “But you… you look like someone who found someone.”

He nodded. Wordless. And took her hand. Not from pity. From brotherhood of pain.

They sat for a long time. Until the city began to glow with lamps. Until darkness became cozy.

Then she stood and said:

“Thank you. I don’t know who you are. But I felt — it wasn’t all in vain.”

He didn’t answer. He wasn’t a word. He was silence.

He returned home. Opened a drawer. Took out the notebook. Began to write again. Not about himself. About her. About how she moved through him, touching others. How her voice became the echo in other people’s prayers.

He wrote slowly. As if with a quill. As if in blood. Each paragraph — a breath. Each period — a tear. Each page — a confession not to God, but to life.

He remembered all the places he had called her name. All the windows he had waited at. All the streets he had walked alone. And suddenly realized: he had never been alone. She had been a step behind. In a whisper. In a child’s laughter he didn’t recognize. In a stranger’s hand that brushed his arm.

He placed the notebook on the table. Lit a candle. And said:

“Forgive me for not understanding sooner. For searching for you in a face. When you were — in the heart.”

The snow thickened outside. He opened the window. The cold came in. But he didn’t shiver. He was warmth. Light. A small flame unafraid of the dark.

He remembered her voice. Not a phrase. An intonation. And whispered:

“I no longer fear forgetting you. I fear not carrying you to others.”

He understood: his life no longer belonged to him. It was a vessel. For her. For all who had ever loved, lost, and couldn’t let go.

The next morning he left a note on the table:

“If you’ve found this — it means you’re searching too. And so we are no longer alone. I was the one who called. Now you are the one who will answer.

Burn. Not for yourself. For her. For those who have forgotten how to weep.

Let Abigail pass through you.”

He walked out. Never returned. No one searched for him. No one buried him. Because he remained — everywhere.

In the voice that whispers from radio static.
In tears without cause.
In the warm glance of a stranger.
In the one who one day says, “I love you,” and doesn’t fear the reply.

Thus ended the second part.
Not in silence. Not in death.
But in the beginning of something that no longer has a name — but is called the heart.

Abigail is alive. Because you — continue her.