Intertwine by Nichole van

and sad and joyful—all the normal emotions of life. And he had loved E. She hoped that E had been worthy of this love, that they had had a good life together.
    Throughout all time. Sometimes Emme hated the familiarity of him, the disorientation that sometimes came before being fully awake, when she almost felt him breathing next to her.
    Jasmine still doggedly insisted that their lives were interconnected. Emme had long ago decided that Jasmine’s well-meaning optimism was at least partially to blame for her own prolonged obsession. Without someone spouting fantasy and keeping these feelings of familiarity and connection alive, would Emme feel so drawn to him? Or was it just the pathetic fact that she couldn’t emotionally connect with someone else that had her pining after a dead guy?
    Seriously. She needed to get a grip. She was 29 years old and going nowhere with her love life. She was going to do her research, attach names and a story to E and F and purge him from her heart. She was going to move on, find some perfectly normal man who could actually speak with her. It was the not-knowing that made F so powerful, that gave him such a hold on her imagination.
    A powerful gust of wind shook the house again, causing a loud crash and bringing Emme back to the present.
    She jumped, looking around for the source of the noise and then realized it was the window, the one opposite the table.
    Moving toward the window, she saw one of the external shutters had finally come loose and was now flapping with the wind, slamming with each gust. Emme debated just leaving the window as is. The storm was so fierce. But she knew given her luck, the shutter would tear free or worse, crack the window. Then she would have an even larger mess. And she had never been one to avoid a problem.
    Gritting her teeth, Emme opened the window and gasped as the storm howled into the room, blasting her skin. Wincing against the pelting rain, she grabbed the errant shutter and, pitting her weight against the roaring wind, pulled it shut. Her drenched fingers slipped twice before she could latch it securely. She was thoroughly wet by the end.
    Emme stood dripping in the kitchen, shaking the water off of her hands, red and stinging from the sharp rain. Sighing, she trudged upstairs to soak in a hot bath, change into dry clothing and cuddle into her warm bed.
    Later, as she shivered under her covers, Emme had to wonder if she had just averted disaster or if this was merely a sign of things to come.
     
    The dream came, soft and vivid. Emme found herself in a large meadow. The heat of summer sun slid along her back, broken occasionally by a fitful breeze twisting through the canopy of the surrounding forest.
    A solitary towering oak spread over the entire meadow, straining to hold up gnarled and twisted branches. Limbs that only a thousand years of life could create.
    It was a relic of ancients, of a time when man worshiped nature instead of forcing his will upon it. Emme continued forward into the cool shade of its beckoning arms. The air was suddenly fresher, lighter, purified by thousands of leaves. The tree seemed to sigh and rustle its branches in welcome.
    It had been waiting for her.
    “Emme! Emme wait!”
    She stopped, surprised. Who had found her here?
    Turning toward the voice, she saw him, half walking, half running out of the forest. Emme felt a jolt.
    She had dreams about him from time to time, but he was usually a phantom presence, a shape known but not really seen, just a hazy suggestion of reality. More of a feeling. A longing.
    But this was different. Here he was vivid and utterly clear. He walked quickly, anxiety on his face. Emme could see every detail with startling clarity: his golden hair, eyes a shocking blue subtly shifting color as he moved. His coat, not the blue-green in the locket, but instead a brown overcoat swinging down to his boots.
    He was so alive, so vibrant. She drank him in. He stopped in front of her, and surprised, Emme