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First published January 31, 2019
During the days he haunted the empty building. He felt like a hallucination, a collective delusion the people in the other flats were having, a daydream while they sat at their desks or in meetings. That was what he was, he realized in a spate of rapid thoughts, standing in the middle of the room with his head full of Mike's lines, that was his task, to be the dream of other people.
This letter did not strike him as endearing or amusing. It was typical of quite a few he'd read in the past. Unsettling, uncanny, full of private madness and incantation and belonging to a live person who was out there right now, thinking about him, who thought she had met him, scrawling his name on pages, on the sand of a beach somewhere, and feeling a compulsion in the world that was about them, about his fate. It was nonsense and harmless, presumably, but so much better not to know, not to have this inside him. It should never have reached him.
Kristin took hold of Henry's forearm to steady him. He was grateful, relieved, as if she'd saved him from drowning. They stood closer together in a turning column of light. He was so near. Kristin wanted so desperately to kiss him that she strained to close the final distance, pushing her face across the fabric of her pillow, her lips parting, her eyes opening.