It’s been a year since I died.
I expected to become nothing but a pile of bones in the dirt, my body worm food, my soul drifting somewhere between the idea of heaven and a never-ending existence.
Instead, I’m sitting in what is now my favorite cafe, staring out the window and watching the first pristine flurries of ice dance to the song of their demise hundreds of miles away from anyone who ever witnessed my life.
The cherry blossom tree that covered the entire sidewalk in soft pink petals months ago is stripped bare of its life and instead comes alive in twinkling lights, fairy lights, as if their electric bulbs are captured stars in disguise.
Just as I had watched those petals fall, the snow now dances in their place.
My hands are curled around my mug of spiced chai as if its warmth will eventually spread from my fingertips to the chunk of ice where my heart once lived.
The mug is betrayal. It’s the clawing talons of sentimentality that followed me into the afterlife.
I was meant to leave it behind— like everything else.
You were never meant to take things with you when you go, you were meant to become piles of bones and worm food.
The few people that had been wandering about have disappeared, scared away by the white intricacies falling slowly slowly to the ground.
As if each snowflake is an hourglass, the second they touch the concrete slabs, time fractures and spills across the floor in blankets of white sand.
They’re not so slow after all, because in a matter of minutes my mug is cold and the sidewalk is an icy dessert.
“A refill.” The waitresses tongue moves in a way that used to be foreign.
When I first died, and I stepped into this world with the language of my past, the lilts of her voice had felt so sharp, accusatory words that were telling me to return.
“Thank you,” the words slip from my lips as if they always belonged with her.
A language I had never known, a culture I had never witnessed, and a waitress I had never met.
She refills my mug with the same drink I always order.
Betrayal.
By the time I turn back to the sidewalk, it’s no longer there. My fingers are warmed, and the snow is still falling.
The first snow after my death.
I don’t feel like imagining my family. On the other side of this sphere they’re still asleep. I know because I remember.
I would still be snoring in my own bed, and I remember the way they’d pull themselves out from under the covers, only to sigh in protest, with no desire to be awake at six o’clock in the morning.
By six o’clock, I’d already had my breakfast.
Sometimes I find myself wondering what life would be like if I was still in it, if I hadn’t been in that house when it burst into flames, if I hadn’t frantically jumped from my bedroom window at the first sight of snow.
If they hadn’t killed me that night, would I be sitting in my favorite cafe with a deliciously warm mug of betrayal in my hands and the most beautiful snowfall I have ever seen dancing before my eyes?
Would I know that a dead person’s heart can still beat?
The warmth spreading from my fingertips like wildfire, as untamed and all-consuming as the flames that had licked my bedroom walls, blazes a path of searing truth through my veins, thawing the frozen drum in my chest.
It beats with life. It burns with betrayal. It bleeds with truth.
Dying is what gave me life.
A year of half-healed wounds, tearing at the mention of familiar names, stinging at the mouthful of nostalgic tastes, bleeding at the memories of smiling faces.
Allowing myself to bleed so pointlessly is torture I cannot help but put myself through, because without enduring the pain, I cannot relive the pleasure.
The bell sings: the empty cafe is no longer silent.
Thick soled shoes thud a familiar rhythm on the hardwood floor, though they’re less familiar than the people still tucked into their beds.
A small girl is fumbling through the fresh blanket of snow, the tip of her brown boots just barely in sight above the white, the rim of her pink coat is darkened with melted flakes, small puffs of breath bringing the clouds to her level with every exhale.
Her nose is tipped in red, her white fingers ombre pink as she sweeps them through the snow. I hope she takes a warm bath when she gets home.
Cherry blossoms bloom before my eyes, brown stalks laden with the palest pink flowers, delicate petals curling against the smooth wooden countertop, droplets of warmed ice dotting their bodies.
“These ones don’t wait for spring to bloom. They flourish in autumn— just like you.” He slides into his seat beside me, the branch lying between us like a promise, but really, it’s just a gesture of understanding, extended like a hand into a well, ready to pull me out or fall in beside me.
He smiles with sorrow, and as much as it hurts to see his face, I’m glad he died with me.
“It’s the first snow since—” I whisper, wanting him to understand as he always does.
“Since we started living.” He answers, saying the words my treacherous heart longed to hear.
The truth of my death, and the beginning of my life.
There are no piles of bones, no bodies of worm food, no soul drifting somewhere between the idea of hell and a ceasing existence.
And the white hourglasses crash against the concrete in abundances of missed time, caressing me with words of betrayal and truth.
It’s been a year since I began living.
Alisha Umar has a deep thirst for knowledge and a beautiful appreciation for learning. She spends hours pondering over her recent reads, researching for her own stories and scouring every inch of the library. When she’s not engrossed in her books or posting on her social media she can be found spending quality time with her friends and family, engaging in meaningful debates with her loved ones, taking down the next food destination on her bucket list and fantasising about which places she wants to travel to next- whether fictional or real. You can find her on TikTok, Instagram and YouTube @authoralishau.
Featured image by Ozgu Ozden on Unsplash.
