I can still remember the very first time I met her. It must have been seven or eight years ago, when I was twenty and still living in the city. Even now, the details return to me as sharp as glass: her face, a small porcelain heart dusted by jagged black bangs; her eyes such a vivid blend of colours one must assume she had trapped a rainbow within them; her dress, something silken and silvery. At the time, I wondered what had prompted her to approach me, especially since I was prone to exude a cautionary pretence of what might be called reticent unsociability. And although I was initially praying she would simply pause a moment, note my existence, and then move along, I found myself taking an odd interest in her. Granted, this interest was mixed with a fair amount of wariness. The direction of our conversation was anything but ordinary, and it reserved the right to put me in a state of perpetual unease.

Before I go into specifics, allow me to craft a scene of that evening and explain exactly how we had found ourselves together to begin with. All of these events about to unfold took place during a time when my father was one of the highly respected politicians in Seattle. With elections just around the corner, he had already secured his mayoral candidacy. My father was never one to procrastinate, after all. His wealthy supports—including her father—had decided to host an overly extravagant gala posed as a fundraiser. My parents had only been so excited on rare occasions. Conversely, I was busy brooding about the prospect of attending such a prestigious event with Seattle's most superficial well-to-do. My father, Mr. Godfrey, noticed the black clouds heavy over my head and wasted no time in sharply rebuking my presence.

"Roman," he said slowly, the underlying hint of a threat in his baritone voice, "do me a favour and drop the act, okay? There is absolutely no reason for you to be glum. You need to be happy here. Smile."

Smiles had never come easy to me, but believe me when I say that I tried. I tried so hard I felt my cheeks start to cramp, twisting the overly cheery grin into something of a grimace within two minutes of entering the plaza. It wasn't that I was particularly disdainful of the aristocracy gathered at the gala. I was simply nervous as hell. I had always been that shy sort of person who slowly dies on the inside during sociable outings, so I spent most of my time sitting at empty tables, staring out at the glittering cityscape eighty floors below. No one really spoke to me, and I was grateful. They were all too busy sipping champagne and carrying on the most mind-numbing small talk while showing off their thousand-dollar suits and cocktail dresses. My father preferred to show off his beautiful wife instead of his attire, but in essence he was the same as all of them. He shepherded her around the vast room like some kind of trophy. I knew they would be occupied for a while, so I seized the moment by the collar and used it to make my getaway. I ascended the nearest mezzanine, walking out into a cool, crispy autumn night. Here, everything was sheltered. It was quiet, but not deafeningly so. The muffled chatter could still be heard behind the glass doors, and the city life murmured some sweet nothings below. It was peaceful.  

She followed.

I'd caught her face when I first entered the ballroom, but it hadn't registered that she had been watching me as well. A swell in the noise, then a click as the door eased shut again. Soft footfalls of someone light on his or her feet. I tried to ignore it, focusing instead on the spider web of sparkling avenues weaving here and there, taking passengers from places unknown to destinations more unknown. Wishing I could be one of the anonymous. A feather light hand on my shoulder blade forced me to turn and confront my companion. One slight turn of the head, and our fates came crashing together like waves before the storm.

She smiled when our eyes met. Sort of. It was more an upward tilt at the corners of her eyes, and a dancing light reflecting from those depths. They say the eyes are the gateway to the soul. I admit I had not believed it until that moment. I felt something in that gaze, some sort of wise curiosity that left me feeling uncomfortably exposed. She had glanced into my soul, I know it. And to this day I continually wonder about what it was she had seen in me.

A long silence held the air between us, and then she breathed. "Hello."

I didn't know what to say. Anxiety shoved its way into every conduit and crevice in my body, and I ended up giving a slight nod in response. Thankfully, she didn't seem to mind. Actually, it seemed as if she interpreted my little twitch as an invitation to approach. As she neared, I saw it: the blue Aura. It hovered around her slight frame like a close friend, ebbing and ominous in the dim light. It was the same Aura I had seen on my older brother and countless other souls that had expired. It was something I never wanted to see on another human being again. And yet there it was a sickening miasma rippling and pulsing around her.

With her proximity, I could determine her eye colour. From a distance, they seemed an electric green, but in reality they held much more than a single pigment. Green and blue were the dominant colours, but I could easily pick out rays of yellow, flecks of purple, and swirls of red.  Strange and mesmerising, they seemed hypnotic almost and I struggled to look away.

"What might you be doing up here by yourself, Mr. Godfrey?" she asked.

I remember thinking it was odd, how she referred to me by my father's name. Except it is my name as well. I suppose I simply don't wear it as proudly as he.  I didn't bother trying to tell her that as I was still struggling with my words, but I found that looking anywhere but at her helped a touch. So I resumed my observations of the city as I responded, "Just admiring the view." My hand drifted out toward the city in a half-hearted gesture.

"I see. It is beautiful tonight."

I looked back at her. Seeing her standing at my side, chin tilted up as she watched the sky rather than the earth, I felt myself say, "Absolutely."

She actually smiled and cocked her head to one side. The Aura danced with the movement, and I tried my best not to shy away from it. She said, "Well this certainly is interesting. The son of the honoured guest would choose voluntary isolation than to be the centre of attention in the ballroom where bottles of champagne and red wine are waiting for him."

I shrugged. "Yeah, well I suppose I'm not really one for parties."

"You don't say," she murmured, that peculiar look returning to her face. It lingered for a moment, narrowing her eyes and puckering her scarlet lips slightly before it vanished. "Good, because neither am I."

"Is that why you decided to join me out here?"

"Don't think me weird or anything," she started, hold her hands up in a peaceful gesture, "but I noticed you sitting alone earlier. I was going to say something, but you left, and I decided to follow." She laughed sheepishly. "I thought we could strike up a nice conversation."

"About?"

My tone was rather sharp; expressing my suspicion more than the eyebrow I raised to accent the question. This made her laugh, a clear sound like the pealing of small chimes. It was a lovely sound. "Easy, Mr. Godfrey, I just came for a stimulating conversation that didn't involve politics. I think we could be great friends in time. After all, we have quite a bit in common."

My lips twitched upward in amusement. "Oh?"

"You can see it too, can't you?"

The question was so innocent, and her eyes were so wide and pleading that she could have been mistaken as a child in that moment, but all I heard were her words. My blood ran cold. Any ounce of amusement I had was instantly purged. I felt my anxiety growing, and in a quick effort to disguise my panic, I instantly built up my defences becoming cold and distant. She instantly noticed the change and silently left my side for the other end of the balcony. She turned and nodded for me to follow. I obeyed. I stayed kept a farther distance between us now as we both leaned over the railing, gazing at the streets so far below. They were busy, even at such a late hour. Cars speeding here and there, pedestrians scurrying like mice minding their own business, it was normal.

The girl pointed to something.

"Do you see that man on the bench there?"

I didn't want to look, but her soft voice compelled me to go against my better judgement.

"Tell me what you see," she whispered.

I followed her finger and noticed a lean, middle-aged man laughing, presumably to someone on a phone as no one else remained in his company. It was hard to be certain due to the distance and the bright blue Aura engulfing him. It was much thicker and darker than my companion's. In that moment her message registered to my tired mind. It was the sole reason she had wanted to talk to me. My eyes widened then narrowed. I couldn't believe it. I didn't want to believe it. This young woman was just like me. She could see them, the lights. How did she know I was her counterpart in the first place? By simply looking, I was nothing special. I was exceptionally tall, and I had been told many times that I was good looking, but that was nothing. Likewise, she was small, reaching to about my chest in height with large almond-shaped eyes and generous lips. Still nothing that could distinguish her from anyone else, except those eyes. But we did not share the same eyes; while hers were a kaleidoscope of colour, mine were simply an glassy green.

"What do you see?" she asked me a second time.

"A—nothing." I lied. "Just a man."

"Mr. Godfrey, please do not mistake me for a fool. I know a lie when I hear one. Try again."

When I spoke again, my voice was quiet. "I see a light surrounding him."

"The colour of the light?" As she continued to prod, I could feel the anxiety manifest into something more. Paranoia.

"Blue." That was the last word I wished to speak in her presence.  Sharply, I pulled away from the railing and started off toward the party, intentions set on losing her in the masses, black dress shoes clipping along the metal floor. A whisper of heels told me she was following me once again. I wished she wouldn't. I had never met someone who shared the same ability as me. I had wished for someone with whom to share this, but now that said wish seemed to be coming true, I wished for nothing more than to make it stop. For this girl to go away. Because if she could see it then it wasn't simply in my head, and I couldn't cast it to the back of my mind. She had dragged it to the forefront, and there it would stay. I realised that this was something I did not want to be mutual.

"It's alright, Mr. Godfrey. I can see it, too. There is nothing to be worried about." Oh god, please just go away.

"I am not worried," I said smoothly over my shoulder, masking my deep inner turmoil.

"Then why are you walking away?"

"Because this conversation has ended, and I have grown bored of it." Lies came easily. Much easier than the truth, anyway, so I allowed them to continue slipping from my tongue like slippery snakes.

"No need to lose your temper," I heard her huff.

"Honey, you haven't even seen me when my temper is lost," I grumbled to myself, thrusting my hands into the pockets of me tweed coat.

"Mr. Godfrey, wait. I have a question for you." The clicking of heels grew louder as she quickened her pace. I ignored her, lengthening my own strides.

She raised her voice. "Don't you want to know how I knew you were just like me?"

My feet halted, and I turned to see her standing a few feet away, pale fingers playing with a curl of hair that had fallen from her ornate up-do. A smug smile tugged at her mouth. I looked to her to continue. A sly look from her jumpstarted my heart. "I knew you were like me because of your eyes."

I must have looked confused. "We have the same eyes. No, I don't mean color. You have to look deeper than the surface. Your eyes have seen the fates. Not the Fates from your Greek Mythologies, but the fates of the universe growing and changing with every second that we breathe." 

She only allowed a slight pause for this to register before she continued, "Mr. Godfrey, you see the lights just like I do, but tell me, have you ever seen them around yourself?"

I felt my defensive barriers crumble. I registered her with shock and confusion, removing my hands from within my pockets and folding my arms over my chest. "What are you talking about? Can I—no! Of course not. Why would . . ." My blood went cold for the second time that night. "Don't tell me you can see a blue light around me."

There was a long silence broken only by the melancholic notes of a piano. Then she quickly shook her head, black curls whipping her chin. "Of course not." But the tremor in her voice made me wonder. "I can't see a thing."

"Promise?"

"Cross my heart, hope to die," she swore, marking an invisible X over her heart as she did so.

"What about you?" The words escaped me in a pained whisper before I could stop them. The blue light writhed around her, restless. "Have you ever seen it around you?"

"No." She was firm, and it broke my heart. Because I knew I wouldn't be the one to break her confidence. If she were to ask me, be it now or another day, I would shake my head no while my heart did a nervous jig in the pit of my stomach. Maybe that's what she was doing. If she couldn't see the Aura around her, who was to say I could see it around me? Perhaps she was right. We did have a lot in common if she was unable to tell me the truth either. Could it be that we were both dying, and would never know because the other would not say? 

Another uncomfortable silence. Shaking fingers adjusted my bowtie. I motioned for her to follow me and lead her inside, to a secluded bench along one wall. We sat, and for a moment everything was still. There was no party, no music. Just my eyes searching hers, casting out for leverage to stop the falling. I was falling, or maybe everything was falling around me creating the illusion. My wavering voice broke the spell. "When did you first start to see the Auras?"

"You gave them a name." She was amused.

"I didn't know what else to call them." I shrugged sheepishly. "i figured it was just me, so I could call them whatever I wanted."

"Fair enough," she conceded. "I began seeing these... Auras when I was nine after I almost drowned in a frozen pond. What about you?"

"I was in a car accident," I lied. "Two months ago." The truth was that after my sister committed suicide, all I wanted was to follow her into the unknown that lay beyond death. I had tried and I had failed. I was rewarded with the sight of blue Auras around every turn. I thought I was going mad. Evidently this was not the case.  

"That recent?"

I nodded, suddenly unable to speak around the salty lump in my throat.  

She didn't care as her focus had drifted to something internal. I watched her eyes glaze over as she watched an old memory that I could not see. "When... when it was over, was there an old pocket watch in your possession?"

I regarded her with high suspicion. "Maybe."

She nodded solemnly. "May I see it?"

Reluctantly, I reached inside my coat and removed a dark chain connected to a sleek, black clock edged with an ornate pattern. Her eyes instantly zeroed in on the back.

"What does it say?" she demanded, referring to the strange inscription carved into the otherwise immaculate facade. 

"How should I know?" I snapped. "If you've got one as well, then you must be familiar with it. These symbols mean nothing to me. I can't read it, and I presume you can't either."

She frowned, a sullen face knitting her eyebrows together. "You presume correctly. Do you keep it on your person at all times?"

I nodded. "I think it has something to do with this anomaly we now share."

The hypothesis made her eyes gleam with a strange joy. I concluded that she loved solving enigmas and puzzled and aspired to be a private detective, Later, I would find that this was correct. "It has everything to do with this anomaly. At least, I think so. I could be wrong."

"Do you have one?" I was sure she did and expected her to pull a pocket watch out of her black clutch, but instead she tilted her head back, murmuring to the glass ceiling.

"Why is it that we have this ability, but no one else? Why don't all near-death experienced result in such power. Are we chosen? Destined for greatness or tragedy? It's as if the great gods of death have broken of a tiny fragment of themselves and placed those slivers upon our dying lips, expecting us to eat. Anticipating... what?"

She seemed disarmingly pleased by the idea, so I told her. She blinked at me. "Oh?"

"Well... yeah," I said, ever the witty conversationalist. I tucked my watch back in my pocket. "Not that it's necessarily bad or anything. You just seem to find it all so intriguing."

She turned to face me completely, the tilt of her head accentuated by the twitch of a half-smile. "And you don't?"

"Not really, no."

"And why is that?" She prodded, voice smooth as the silk of her dress.

I inhaled deeply, drawing air through my nose and releasing a rush of carbon dioxide through my slightly parted mouth, a world-weary sigh. I didn't want to share; this wasn't show-and-tell time in elementary school. I knew I didn't have to, but her imploring look seemed to draw it out of me.

"Well, when you see the light, you can't stop it. You can only see it, and you know with every fiber in your body that you can't stop it. You don't know the lifespan of the person. You can't know if the light is a foreign malice slowly drawing away the victim's otherwise predestined fate. All you can do it watch, carrying their agony because you know what is coming. You bear the weight so they can enjoy the rest of what this world has to offer in ignorance. And it kills you just as much as it kills them, maybe even more. Because they only suffer through it once. For us, we go through it over and over. Every day. Every hour. And we can't stop it." My voice has grown so quiet that my companion was forced to lean in close in order to catch the last few sentences. She studied me with a sorrowful compassion, as if she understood the underlying cause of my pain thought I was sure she didn't. The last thing I wanted was for her to continue prying because I knew I would reveal everything to those kind eyes, and it was something I did not wish to do.

I hastily rose to my feet, smoothing out my coat. "I'd better be off," I mumbled to my shoes. "Father is probably livid by now."

I turned to leave, tail between my legs when she reach out and placed her hand on my shoulder once more. "Smile," she said. It wasn't a demand like my father's, but a friendly suggestion. 

I nodded, putting on another face grin for the public. "Of course. Thank you, miss . . ." I trailed off, searching for a name I realized she had never given.

"Collete," she supplied. "Cole for short."

"Cole," I replied, enjoying the sound of it maybe more than i should.

"I hope to see you again, Mr—"

"—Roman." I interrupted. "Mr. Godfrey is my father."

She smiled. "Well then, Roman, I hope you enjoy the remainder of your evening."

I studied her animated gaze for a moment longer before nodding a final farewell, taking the steps two at a time as I re-submerged myself into jovial politicians. Try as I might to clear my mind that night, her image remained as if seared into my retina. I retraced everything about her, from her ebony hair to her knowing smile to the way her fingers were always busy playing with a thread or a strand of hair. And I lingered over my pessimistic theory that we were both dying, and I felt the guilt eating at me. She was dying, and I hadn't the decency to inform her. My head was spinning by the time I found my parents gossiping with another family by the refreshments. The last thing i felt like doing was smiling, but her words rang through my head. Smile. So I did, and it was accepted by my father with a firm hand placed on my shoulder, his equivalent of an affectionate embrace. He asked how my night had been thus far.

"Good," I replied monotonously. 

"Make any new friends?" He implored.

"Yeah." My eyes ascended the length of the room, up to the mezzanine where I had left Cole. My heart whimpered when I found she wasn't there looking back at me.

***

I didn't hear the news until the next morning, long after the gala was over, and my father was reeling from his success. My parents and I left the hotel around midnight, leaving many of the guests to their own devices. Sometime later in the night, a presumably inebriated group made the trip to the hotel's roof "to see the city". Among them were two distinguished accountants, an international entrepreneur, three of the hotel's receptionists (who should not have been participating in the celebrations to begin with), a billionaire from one to those well-known families, and the teenage daughter of Jerri Wellington, chief editor of the Seattle Times. When the party of eight reached the rooftop, it was reported that they quickly crossed the protective barrier and stood on the very edge, smiling ear to ear. Security guards rushed to prevent an accident, but it was in vain. In unison, the eight turned to face the guards then fell in sequential order, waving goodbye as they did so. They were still smiling as if pleased to reach the end of their lives. Reports said that the last one to jump shouted "To the realm of paradise!" as she fell.

The name of the jumper was none other than Colette Wellington. 

Rain fell for days afterward, like in those clichéd stories. The love interest or the friend dies, and suddenly the sky opens up to pelt everything with angry tears. I forced myself to move through each day, pretend I wasn't as sad as I truly was. Realistically, I shouldn't have felt the way I did. We had only been acquainted for half an hour or less. I didn't even know her name until the very end. When I wasn't in class or stumbling my way through cross country practice, I remained in bed. The homework started piling up, the grades started falling. I could not find the motivation to care. I was slowly becoming something of an invalid, obsessed with catching any snippets of memory my mind would provide. Cole's death had been so sudden and so suspicious as to stir an unsettling suspicion within me. Though she had not been off-the-walls gleeful, she had certainly been pleasantly cheerful. What had spurred such a drastic change within hours of our parting? And not just her, but all of them. Eight total, all in unison. It didn't add up. And I had not seen an Aura around any of them but Colette. God, I should have told her. I should have known. She would have understood. I could have been helpful this time. Too late, again.

Remaining in bed for hours at a time allowed the sorrow to spread and penetrate into my very essence. I felt it every time I moved; a sharp prick in my bones. Colette's death was so similar to my brother's that I found myself mourning for the both of them. Peter's Aura had been the first I'd seen. I had no idea the implications that strange blue light held. I was convinced it had been a trick of the light. Big mistake. Peter had died just like Colette, a random suicide I should have somehow seen coming. I still blame myself for his death, and now I blame myself for hers as well. The Auras are a curse. I know that now, and I will never forget it.

Colette's funeral reception and burial were private. I knew I wouldn't be invited, because to the extent of her relatives' knowledge, she had never met me. But I still felt the need to do something, so several days after the funeral I went to visit her gravestone. I woke early as a stain of milky blue was just painting the skyline and everything around me was cloaked in a solemn silence.  I combed my unruly mane of hair for once, pull one of my many cardigans and my well-worn tweed coat which I had also sported that night, and some old boots. I decided to walk with my thoughts rather than alert a taxi or take the bus. i had a lot to sort through still, and walking would give me just enough time to get it all organized. Along the way I stopped at the only florist shop I was familiar with and picked out a single, potted white orchid. I knew it was traditional to lay an entire bouquet of flowers at a grave site, but I didn't care. I thought she would appreciate this more than something traditional. With the vase in frigid hands, I made good time and reached the cemetery within twenty minutes, then wandered for an hour in search of her plot. I found it as the sun broke over the barrier of skyscrapers, tendrils of icy light reaching for the damp grass:

Colette Jodelle Wellington. 1990-2009

Mountains of wilting, frost-bitten flowers surrounded the upturned earth. Perhaps illustrating our sorrow, but most likely standing to illustrate nothing but the fact that plants struggle to survive without sufficient nutrients like water and warmer temperatures. I crouched down, placed my little white orchid by a vase of once-impressive red roses, stepped back. Stared at the name embedded in granite, a confirmation that she was, indeed, dead. Buried six feet under with no possibility of escape or resurrection. This was absolution. 

"I'm sorry," I whispered to the silence, my breath ghosting around my chapped lips. "I should have done something. I should have told you. I could have given you more time."

Then do so.

The voice could have been in my head, but I turn in surprise anyway. Nothing. Just headstones and the occasional sad tree. Still, I had to ask, "Hello?"

Give her more time. Give them all more time.

A shiver ran up my spine, not entirely unpleasant. This voice, though ominous, presented to me the chance to change fate itself. "How?" I demanded.

That watch in your pocket is not simply a time piece. Take it in your hands and picture the face. Living or dead, you control their fate. Wind it forward and you will draw their death date as close as you wish. Wind it backward and you may raise the dead or keep death at bay. But, such great power always comes with a price.

The enticement was palpable. I could hardly contain my desire for such a thing to exist. "What is it?"

Your soul.