The medium was clear. She set the meeting for today at this time in this place—this beat-up, old train station where no train arrives or departs. An arched doorway off to the side of the hulking building reflects the wear of the years and the recent neglect—weeds grow out of the cracks between the wall and sidewalk, and bricks show through the plaster facade. Reluctant to go into a place so derelict with the danger of falling debris or worse, the idea of a meeting seems ridiculous. How absurd for an unbeliever to pay a medium and then follow her advice to come to this forsaken place! Best to leave now.
But, you can’t leave. You tell yourself it’s curiosity, but you’re driven by fear and hope. Unwillingly pressed forward, you step onto the threshold—a stone worn by a century of footsteps—heavy footsteps carrying luggage, packages, travel trunks. You notice that there once was a set of outer doors, now removed, the lintel paint pealed away. The entrance is too seedy to be inviting but you try the inner doors and find them bolted. Yet, the unused building’s mustiness has drifted out through the cracks—animal droppings, insects in rotted wood, the dirty chill of a world below ground.
Being here has no point. You turn back toward the street to leave without understanding why the medium sent you here. As you step onto the sidewalk and walk away, you feel something brush against your shoulder. You turn and look up into the sad eyes of a young naval officer in full dress uniform. Your existence is consumed by a rush of joy, fear, confusion.
His voice is soft. “You don’t remember me?”
You consider your response hoping to avoid making him uncomfortable in case he’s real and not just imagined. Still, you say, “but . . . you died in 1964.”
“I live in your thoughts. You left me a rose.”
How could he know that you laid a yellow rose on his grave in that lonely, wind-swept, Texas burial ground? Could he have seen? Does he know that you wept. Everything tells you he’s real and alive. You touch his sleeve and feel the fibers of his uniform’s fine gabardine. He removes his elegant, academician’s pipe from his pocket, places it in his mouth, and draws. A cloud of white smoke surrounds him, and you breathe in the sweet, pungent scent—his well-remembered tobacco. He smiles—slight, almost imperceptible—as if he knows the question that’s haunted you for twenty years.
“Did you get my letter?” you ask tentatively.
“I understood. The time wasn’t right. You had another life to live?”
He turns toward the ached doorway, and you hear his faint words. “Will you come with me now?”
You want to follow him desperately. You want to be with him—by his side. You take a step toward him, but then the sign above the door stops your step—‘Terminal Hotel.’ As his foot meets the cold threshold, you whisper, “I can’t. Not now.”
You watch as he fades into the black shadow of the archway.