Page 18 of Grim

ButYouCan’tStayHere

F ree fall. I’m not sure which sensation is more alarming—the disorienting weightlessness of moving through unknown dimensions of time and space or the violent surge of power I feel from Kane’s protective embrace.

One thing I am sure of: transporting sucks.

Not in the mild inconvenience kind of way—like running out of coffee or accidentally liking someone’s social media post from six years ago—but in the full-bodied betrayal of reality kind of way.

It’s an existential violation, a cosmic crime, a deeply intimate experience that I would like to never endure again.

One second, I was standing in the morbid comfort of my family cemetery, literally leaping into my new life. The next—

BAM.

I am somewhere else. Somewhere other . Talk about an out-of-body experience.

The world jerks violently like it’s been yanked out from under me, flipping me in every direction at once in some cosmic blender of suffering.

My stomach performs a full gymnastics routine, settling into what I can only describe as pure, unfiltered terror.

Everything spins, and I cannot latch on to anything.

My heart rate spikes, along with my anxiety.

I don’t think I’m going to make it through whatever this torturous tunnel has left to give me.

“What is this?” I scream into the dizzying void as we continue to descend, ascend, spin, and finally stop from the fuming tornado of disorientation to total stillness.

My body feels like it’s been stretched, frozen, cracked, burned, then reassembled in some haphazard manner. I close my eyes, resist the urge to even think about the growing nausea, and seek solace somewhere.

Immediately, I reach out, my instincts screaming for something stable, something real, something to hold on to before I break into a million fragile pieces.

That something is Kane. He is solid. More than solid.

Kane feels unnervingly real, like something moored deep in the universe itself, an immovable force of cold certainty, wrapped in expensive fabric and disdain.

“Anchor in the infinite,” I whisper in the swirling madness.

My fingers dig into his infuriatingly muscular, very well-structured arm, and for a brief, disorienting second, I feel grounded. That moment of comfort does not last, however, as my OtherWorldly benefactor morphs in front of me.

Gone is the man who held me tight through the madness. Returned is the broody reaper who still appears to be repulsed by me. Kane reacts like I set him on fire. His entire body goes rigid, his muscles tensing so violently that for a split second, I think he might actually turn to stone.

In a dramatic display of physical revulsion, he yanks his arm free so fast and so forcefully that I almost crumble. His disgust is as palpable as it is inexplicable.

What is his problem?

He clears his throat twice, like he needs to physically purge the experience from his body.

I watch, confused, as he takes two deliberate steps away, straightens his impeccable cuffs, and smooths down his lapels, like he’s trying to reassert his dominance. For someone who literally escorts souls to the afterlife, he is unreasonably bad at human interaction.

“Did you say something a moment ago?” he queries with an intense stare .

“No,” I deflect immediately.

His eyes seem to say he doesn’t believe me, but he mercifully moves on.

“You asked for this.” His voice is flat, bored, and barely masking whatever existential crisis he just had over being touched.

I tilt my head, filing this little reaction away for future torment. Because right now, I am busy processing my own reaction.

If I’m being honest—and I loathe being honest with myself—touching him wasn’t terrible.

I mean, sure, I’m dying, so maybe my standards are dangerously low, but Kane is warm, which is the opposite of what I expected.

He isn’t cold or lifeless, as I imagined a reaper would be.

His body isn’t hollow. It isn’t spectral.

It’s strong and not all that terrible to hold on to when your entire sense of self is spiraling through time and space.

I pretend I don’t miss his nearness since he pulled away.

“Where are we?” I pull myself back to the present and become aware that I have no idea where we have emerged. “Is this … someone’s bedroom?”

“Do me a favor, Mayday. Make like a piece of leather and hide. We cannot have the living see you in here.”

I take a deep breath, level my nausea from the trip and his terrible pun, flip him off in slow, deliberate retaliation, and begin to take in my surroundings. I see floor-length window curtains and move behind them. Then I peer around them and continue to survey the room.

We are in a bedroom inside someone’s home.

Dated floral wallpaper peels from the corners and is covered by pictures, showing a couple in a nearly identical pose in each shot.

The only difference is the background, a reminder of a place explored and memories made.

The desk and end tables are cluttered with knickknacks and even more photos.

A life reflected in things, a story told by stuff.

The air smells stale and feels heavy somehow.

My eyes travel to the bed in the center of the room, where tubes and wires connect the body to various machines.

Her eyes are closed. She looks peaceful.

The elderly man holding her hand does not.

He looks devastated, broken. The Greeks would have made a statue of such a scene—painful and powerful in its simplicity and inevitability.

My ears catch up to my eyes as my body settles into this strange yet familiar place, and I hear his quiet, hopeless sobs.

The symphony of his heartbreak pricks a staccato rhythm against my skin.

I can feel—physically feel—his loss. The flatline hums through the room like the final note of a song that was never long enough. And then she separates.

A small cloud pools just above her chest, swirling and grey. The woman’s soul drifts weightlessly like the lingering warmth of a fading candle. The cloud takes a translucent shape above her physical form, mirroring her body.

Kane sighs. I gasp. The man continues to cry.

The dead woman blinks, confused at first, then looks down at herself—at the frail, lifeless version of the body she just left behind.

And then to him, her husband. Still holding her hand, his thumb brushing gently over her knuckles, his body curled toward her like she was still here, like he could keep her close by sheer will alone.

His eyes are wet and unfocused, his breath uneven, like he’s lost in a forest and all the trees look the same.

She exhales deeply, a sound full of both sorrow and love, before turning to Kane.

“I have a little more time, don’t I?” she asks meekly.

Kane nods, expression unreadable.

She moves closer, pressing ghostly fingers to the side of her husband’s face, though he doesn’t react—unable to feel her anymore.

But she touches him anyway, smoothing back the stray silver strands of his hair, like she’s done a thousand times before, as if muscle memory alone could make the world feel normal.

“My love,” she murmurs, kneeling beside him, “you were the greatest gift I was ever given.”

His breath hitches, like some part of him knows she’s still there.

“You were my home,” she continues, her voice tender, steady, even as the weight of finality settles around her. “And I know you think you’ll never be whole without me, but you will be. Not today, not tomorrow … but someday. And I will be so proud of you when you do.”

A single tear slips down his face, and she smiles, attempting to brush it away, but her fingers turn to wisps against his unaltered cheek. He does not move, nor does he stop his soft sobbing.

“Thank you for loving me,” she whispers. “For all the days we were given. For making me laugh when I didn’t think I could. For keeping your promises, even the little ones.”

She exhales weakly, then presses a featherlight kiss to his forehead. Her lips dissipate against his flesh and retake their shape again when she pulls away from him.

His shoulders shake.

She closes her eyes for a moment, committing this last look to memory, then pulls back, looking at Kane.

“I’m ready,” she says, her voice quiet but sure.

Kane nods once, then raises a hand. And just like that, she is gone.

The man at the bedside lets out a shaky breath, one that sounds like loss and love, wrapped into one. His hand remains on hers, though she isn’t there anymore.

I swallow hard, willing myself to feel nothing.