“I saw Will last night. In the light. In the labyrinth.”

She picked up their glasses and led Alex into the living room to the wood-burning stove. She explained about the script, Will’s page. She had played with the name and got: Will, I am. She had heard the words about being two souls, now one. At first she read it as her growing feelings for Alex—which was right. But she felt it included a second layer of meaning. Someone’s omega—their end—had been her alpha—her beginning. And then, she told him, she really had seen Will’s face. She’d thought it was Alex’s—the face she’d most wanted to see. But it was distorted in the candlelight: a slightly squarer chin, broader shape, a shade less refined, much darker hair, fuller curls, but otherwise strongly reminiscent of Alex’s own handsome face. “It was the face of this lovely boy, grown to a man.” She identified Will in a photo of the brothers as children, about ten and twelve, on the mantel over the fire. She could appreciate more of the similarities than the differences between them.

And then, she explained further, she’d heard the voice. Heard it. Alex must have been talking to her in his mind. “Yes,” he showed surprise, “I was.” And Lucy knew. But she also believed that this had a second significance too. Will’s voice was also there, so like his brother’s, slightly more melodic perhaps, a little lighter and less calming. And she’d felt something tangible brush past her. Will was there, walking the labyrinth a second time, with her. He could believe her, or disbelieve. It didn’t matter. She knew it to be true.

It was some time before he spoke. He was thinking of the South American doctor who’d given him the García Márquez book, inviting him to consider the space between reality and spirituality.