The Beggar’s Bargain: Part Three

I stayed beside her until the rain stopped.

She never knew.

She walked home alone beneath the streetlights, pulling her coat tighter around herself.

I followed.

Not because I wanted to.

Because I couldn’t do anything else.

Every step she took pulled me with her.

Every doorway she entered became mine.

Every room she walked into became a room I could never leave.

I was bound to her.

The beggar had kept his promise.

I just hadn’t understood what the promise would feel like.

She opened the door to her apartment.

I followed her inside.

She turned on the lights.

I stood behind her.

Watching.

Waiting.

Hoping.

She dropped her keys onto the counter.

I stared at them.

I remembered those keys.

I remembered the first apartment we shared.

The nights we’d stay awake talking until sunrise.

The way she’d steal the blankets.

The way she’d pretend to be asleep whenever I complained.

I smiled.

Then I remembered.

She didn’t remember me.

The smile disappeared.

She walked into the kitchen.

I followed.

She opened the refrigerator.

I watched her grab a bottle of water.

Something inside me broke.

Not because she was drinking water.

Because I remembered buying that exact brand for her.

She used to tell me it tasted better than the cheap stuff.

I wanted to laugh.

I wanted to tell her.

I wanted to say,

You still drink it.

But my voice never came.

I tried anyway.

“Do you remember?”

Nothing.

“Please.”

Nothing.

I stepped closer.

“It’s me.”

She shivered.

Her hand stopped.

She looked around.

My heart would’ve stopped if I still had one.

“Hello?”

I stood directly in front of her.

She couldn’t see me.

She looked toward the hallway.

Then the kitchen.

Nothing.

She rubbed her arms.

“Why is it so cold in here?”

I closed my eyes.

I was standing inches away from the woman I loved.

And she was afraid of me.

That was the first night.

It didn’t get easier.

It got worse.

Every day I watched her live.

Every day she forgot me.

And every day I remembered everything.

That was the punishment.

I remembered every kiss.

Every argument.

Every laugh.

Every stupid little thing I thought I’d forgotten.

The sound of her footsteps.

The way she said my name.

The look on her face when she was trying not to laugh.

The first time she told me she loved me.

The last time she told me she loved me.

I remembered all of it.

She remembered none of it.

Sometimes I screamed.

Sometimes I begged.

Sometimes I followed her from room to room just hoping she’d somehow feel something.

Anything.

But all I ever got was a shiver.

A glance over her shoulder.

A whisper of,

“Who’s there?”

I was there.

I was always there.

And she was always alone.

At least…

That’s what she thought.

Then the dreams started.

The first time, she woke up screaming.

I was sitting beside her bed.

She had tears running down her face.

She pressed a hand against her chest.

“Who was that?”

I stared at her.

She looked around the room.

Then she whispered,

“I know you.”

My entire body went still.

She looked directly at me.

For one impossible second, I thought she could see me.

Then her eyes moved past me.

She didn’t know I was there.

But she knew someone was.

She closed her eyes again.

I watched her fall back asleep.

And then I saw it.

Her face changed.

She was dreaming.

I couldn’t hear everything.

But I could see myself.

Standing beside her.

Alive.

Smiling.

Holding her hand.

She smiled back.

A tear rolled down her cheek.

“No,” she whispered in her sleep.

I moved closer.

“Please,” she said.

My chest tightened.

“Don’t go.”

I reached toward her.

My hand passed through hers.

She suddenly opened her eyes.

She gasped.

The dream was gone.

But she was still crying.

She looked around the room.

“Why do I keep dreaming about you?”

I couldn’t answer.

She wiped her face.

“I don’t even know who you are.”

I whispered,

“Yes, you do.”

She couldn’t hear me.

But something had changed.

The dreams continued.

Night after night.

Sometimes she dreamed about places.

A restaurant.

A park.

A rainy street.

A little apartment with yellow walls.

Places I remembered.

Places we had been.

Sometimes she dreamed about conversations.

Things I’d said to her.

Things she couldn’t possibly know.

And sometimes…

She dreamed about me dying.

Those were the worst.

She would watch me disappear.

Watch me walk away.

Watch me stand in the rain.

Watch me drink the black liquid.

And every time she woke up crying.

Every time she would say the same thing.

“I don’t know him.”

But she always remembered my face.

Not during the day.

Never during the day.

But when she slept…

Something inside her refused to let me disappear completely.

And that gave me hope.

Hope was cruel.

I began waiting for nighttime.

The only time I could be near her without feeling completely invisible.

I watched her sleep.

I listened to her breathing.

Sometimes she smiled in her dreams.

Sometimes she cried.

Sometimes she reached toward the empty side of the bed.

Toward me.

One night, she whispered,

“Stay.”

I froze.

She reached out.

Her hand moved through the space where I was standing.

“Please.”

I moved closer.

“I’m here.”

Her fingers curled around nothing.

But she smiled.

For the first time since I died…

She smiled at me.

Even though she couldn’t see me.

Even though she didn’t know why.

Then she whispered something that made the darkness inside me disappear.

“I miss you.”

I couldn’t breathe.

I fell to my knees beside her bed.

She didn’t know who she missed.

She didn’t know my name.

She didn’t know our memories.

But somewhere inside her…

Something missed me.

I reached toward her face.

My fingers stopped just before touching her skin.

I couldn’t feel her warmth.

But I could see her.

And somehow that hurt more.

Because she was right there.

And I had never felt farther away.

Then her eyes opened.

She stared directly at me.

Not past me.

Not through me.

At me.

I couldn’t move.

Neither could she.

Her eyes filled with tears.

She whispered,

“It’s you.”

I almost screamed.

“What?”

She sat up slowly.

Her breathing became shallow.

“I’ve seen you before.”

I moved closer.

“Where?”

Her face twisted with confusion.

“In my dreams.”

My voice broke.

“You remember me?”

She shook her head.

“No.”

The hope disappeared.

“But I remember how I feel when I see you.”

I stared at her.

She reached toward me.

Her hand passed through my chest.

She pulled it back quickly.

Her face went pale.

“You’re cold.”

I looked down at myself.

I could see the streetlight through my chest.

“I know.”

She stared at me.

“Are you dead?”

I nodded.

She swallowed.

“Were you someone I loved?”

I couldn’t speak.

She started crying.

“Why can’t I remember you?”

I wanted to tell her everything.

I wanted to tell her how much I loved her.

How much I had sacrificed.

How I had given up everything just to bring her back.

Instead, I whispered the only thing I could.

“You did.”

She closed her eyes.

A tear slipped down her cheek.

Then she whispered,

“Then why does remembering you hurt so much?”

I didn’t have an answer.

But somewhere outside the apartment…

I heard laughter.

That same laugh.

Deep.

Old.

Familiar.

The beggar.

I turned toward the window.

He was standing across the street.

Watching us.

Smiling.

I ran toward the door.

But before I reached it, his voice filled the room.

“You wanted her back.”

I froze.

His voice came from everywhere.

“You never asked what remembering would cost.”

I turned around.

He was gone.

She was still sitting on the bed.

Crying.

Confused.

And then she looked at me again.

“I know you,” she whispered.

This time…

I wasn’t sure if that was a blessing.

Or the beginning of something much worse.

Because if she could remember me…

Maybe the bargain wasn’t over.

Maybe it had only just begun.