Dust to Dust by Melissa Walker Page B

him.
    My computer dings with an iTunes update. I click to cancel it, and that’s when I remember the song. The one they played at Thatcher’s memorial. I download it and press Play.
    It’s amazing how you can speak right to my heart.
    Without saying a word, you can light up the dark.
    The first verses send my pulse racing as a montage of images runs through my mind. Thatcher, greeting me in the mist of the Prism right after my crash, guiding me on Earth and teaching me patience and restraint in my haunting, standing always out of reach until his walls came down and we . . . what did we do? Fall in love? Me and a ghost?
    A laugh-cry escapes my lips, and I cover my hand with my mouth. Music always does this to me—sends my mind traveling over memories or wishes for what may come. Always reaching into my soul. Just like he did.
    I press Play again when the song is over and I set it on repeat before I go to my bed to lie down. In the hazy place between sleep and waking, where emotions fill your body and dreams seem possible, I call to him. “Thatcher . . . Thatcher.”
    â€œCallie.”
    It’s a whisper, a notion . . . but I hear it. His voice is like velvet—smooth and soft, draping a curtain over my reality. I can’t tell if my eyes are open or closed when I see the outline of his shape, shimmering in front of me. I sit up and search for him with my hands, but they don’t connect with anything. The air feels thicker wherehe is, but he’s not solid. I lean back against my pillow on the bed. “Are you real?”
    â€œI’m here.” His voice is enough. For now.
    â€œThatcher—” I start.
    â€œMy mother loved this song,” he says, and now I know that he is here, in my room and sensing everything around us. Even the music in the background. “It was playing—”
    â€œAt your memorial.” I finish his sentence.
    â€œYes.”
    I feel a plane of warmth around me, like I’m pressed up against a brick wall that’s been baked in the sun. I have so much to say to him, but I have no idea where to begin. My breath quickens as I try to figure it out, but then I remember something else I learned in the Prism that instantly relaxes me.
    All the thoughts and feelings that I’m having—Thatcher is already aware of them. The sense of intuition and perception that spirit guides have is incredible. So in a way, the pressure of saying the perfect thing to him is totally off. And oddly enough, I’ve never had that with anyone in my life. Not even Nick.
    With that last thought, my body tenses up. I wonder if Thatcher has been witness to everything since I awoke from the coma, including private moments that Nick and I shared in this very room.
    â€œAre you with me all the time now?” I ask him.
    â€œNo. I’m here often, to see how you’re doing, but I have to return to the Prism when my energy gets low. And there’s also . . . other business to attend to.”
    â€œRight.” I sigh, a little relieved, yet still feeling a bit foolish forever thinking he would devote all of his time to me.
    â€œI’ve felt your knowing.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou can sense when I’m here, Callie, can’t you?”
    There have been times when I think I’ve felt him near me, as well as a strange coldness that makes it seem like he’s far away, but I wasn’t sure if my impression of him was real or not.
    Until now.
    â€œYes, I think I can.”
    â€œThe way we’re connected, it’s . . . unique,” he says. And I think his voice sounds almost loving, but I’m afraid I’m wishing for that more than hearing it.
    I’m about to ask him why this connection of ours is different from what he has with anyone else. But all of a sudden, something in the room changes. It’s an invisible shift, as if someone opened a door on a bright winter day, letting