Recognition

What can only be felt

 

Cassandra isn't in this story.

Not everything begins with her.

She may find that mildly disappointing.

 

This story belongs to a man.

A journalist.

Sensible. Observant. Trained to

distinguish fact from fiction.

An excellent choice, really.

The gods do have a sense of humour.

 

He once met someone he could never

quite explain.

He tried.

For years, actually.

Some things remained stubbornly

unwilling to become facts.

He remembers her still.

Let's listen.

Twilight of the gods

 

The setting sun painted the sky in a

breathtaking cascade of colors. The

wine in my glass had dwindled,

and I stretched my legs out, savoring

the warmth. Today, someone asked me

about the greatest

milestone in my life. Without much

thought, I mentioned my wedding, my

career.

Cliches that spill out automatically. But

the true milestone was something else

entirely.

Not an article, not an interview with

some dignitary, not even the exposé on

the pharmaceutical scandal that

launched me among top journalists.

No - she changed everything.

 

I couldn’t admit this to myself, let alone

explain it to another. Sometimes, my

mind strains to grasp

the staggering truth. For a fleeting

moment, I glimpse the whole picture,

but the impossible slips

back into the dense fog of my

consciousness.

Only then can I go on, unscathed.

 

Yet now, it all rushes back, vivid as if it

were yesterday. I can almost smell her

scent, feel her skin.

But she was gone, vanishing from my

life as swiftly as she appeared.

Sometimes I wonder if she was ever

truly there.

For a brief second, I hear her voice:

 

“Didn’t you receive something

wonderful?” A smile tugs at my lips.

She gave me so much, lavish in every

way, generous beyond measure.

More than any heart could

comprehend. More than any soul could

bear.

And still, I miss her - every single

moment, I miss her.

 

When it began, no love bound us. She

appeared whenever she wished.

Weeks, even months, could pass

without a trace of her.

A phantom, materializing from nowhere

and fading just as fast.

She never explained her absences or

why she didn’t seek me out more often.

When I asked once, she smiled and

said, “But I’m here now.”

That simple truth left me speechless.

She was here, and that was enough.

 

I knew she didn’t love me - perhaps she

only tolerated me.

But I burned for her, a bright flame,

consumed by longing.

You never knew where you stood with

her. Her mood could shift in minutes.

Often, she was gentle, tender. Her

fingers would brush my face, light as a

feather, soothing like balm. But just as

suddenly, she could turn distant, cold.

Her touches grew stiff, her presence a

mere shell, as if she’d vanished within

herself.

 

I never learned what sparked these

changes. At other times, she was fire,

surrendering to passion without

restraint. No woman I’ve known gave

herself so fully to desire.

Watching her was pure bliss. Her sighs,

her soft moans.

When we made love, her eyes were

usually closed tight.

But in those rare, precious moments

when she looked into mine, I drowned

in her gaze.

Something in her softened, revealing

depths that shook me.

Lust, yes, but behind it lay boundless

tenderness, ancient wisdom, love in its

purest form.


Every moment of my life, every feeling,

was held in that single second, in her

eyes.

I was a mortal, gazing into something

eternal. Her whispers sent shivers

down my spine,

her voice taking on a timbre that

poured all her passion into delicate

murmurs.

That dark, cedarwood voice warmed

me, as if her words alone could thaw

the world.

Sometimes they flowed endlessly,

melting the ice around my heart.

 

One evening, when no ice remained,

she, the mistress of contradictions,

asked, “What does love feel like?” I

stammered, fumbling for words.

That’s when I realized I knew nothing of

love. But I felt it. God, I felt it.

I’m certain she understood the weight

of that moment.

She smiled, knowingly, tapped her

fingers on my chest, and said,

“Here’s the answer you’re searching for.”

Then she kissed me, and I sensed our

days together were slipping away, slow

but relentless.

 

Without her, my life turned gray, lifeless.

She wasn’t a sunny glow that

brightened existence.

No, she was a lens, focusing the sun’s

rays a thousandfold.

That power could burn you to ashes or

raise you, like a phoenix, to impossible

heights.

With her, everything pulsed with life,

and I’d have given anything to hold

onto that feeling.

The thought of losing her tore at my

heart.

A dark heaviness would grip me then.

Yet I couldn’t help but cherish every

second with her, willing time to pause. I

didn’t think of tomorrow; I lived only in

those singular hours.

Hours that held every age of the world.

 

One morning, unexpectedly, she woke

me early and drove us to the edge of a

small forest.

She said little, and I asked no

questions. I followed in silence, sensing

something was different.

We reached a clearing. Morning light

wrapped her perfectly, and she

shimmered, radiant in the truest sense.

Golden beams seemed to pulse

through her, bursting from within.

Her eyes blazed with an intensity I’d

never seen. The forest lived in those

eyes.

For a fleeting moment, I saw her in a

white dress, a woodland nymph or

some ancient deity.

It was unsettling. I blinked, but the

radiance held.

 

A great stag stepped into the clearing.

It strode majestically across the

meadow, its towering antlers catching

the first rays of the rising sun.

An ache stirred in my chest. Then,

cautiously, does and their fawns

slipped from the forest’s edge,

nibbling dew-kissed grass. They didn’t

notice us. I held my breath, unwilling to

disturb them.

A quiet, sacred moment, where the

world faded away. But the stag saw us.

It pawed the ground, ears twitching, its

soft brown eyes locked on us. Her

radiance seemed to deepen.

 

Then, something extraordinary. The

stag lowered its antlers, as if bowing to

her, welcoming her to its realm.

A silent acceptance. Beside me, her

delighted laugh rang out, and she

bowed in return.

“A mutual recognition,” I thought.

The moment was strange, almost

surreal, yet deeply moving. The ache in

my chest grew sharper.

The world turned vivid. I smelled damp

moss clinging to the earth in the cool

shade of distant trees.

I sensed mushrooms and flowers

stretching toward the morning sun.

Far off, a tiny beetle fought through a

forest of grass blades. My blood roared

in my ears, intrusive in the silence.

Every cell in my body hummed, aligned

with it all. I stared at my hands, slender

fingers, fine hairs, veins pulsing

beneath the skin, delicate bones and

tendons beneath. A new kind of

awareness.

As if sensing my thoughts, her fingers

brushed mine, tender. That touch sent

me into ecstasy.

I was alive, truly alive.

I met the stag’s wise eyes, and the ache

became longing, love, gratitude.

My sense of self stretched wide,

embracing the clearing, the animals,

her, almost the entire world.

The moment passed. The deer

vanished into the trees. Still dazed, I

looked at her.

Her face was soft, the radiance gone.

She was the woman I thought I knew.

“I come here sometimes,” she

whispered, each word chosen with care.

“It’s a special place.

My place of joy. What a beautiful

creature, don’t you think?”

Her cedarwood voice grounded me,

and I was grateful. My voice cracked,

trembling.

“What just happened?” I asked, lost.

She frowned, then said lightly, “I hoped

he’d show himself, and he did.

That greeting? Probably just sniffing

the grass.” Her soft laugh pulled me

back to reality.

But she knew that wasn’t what I meant.

The experience shook me.

What had happened? Who was she,

truly? I couldn’t ask. The moment was

too fragile to dissect.

So I held her instead. She felt solid,

real. A part of me, still caught in that

extraordinary state, understood.

She was the key to it all. That morning,

she’d shown me how she saw the world.

Then, softly, she said, “The man I love,

he’s like that stag.” I stared, stunned,

but she said no more.

For the first time, I saw sadness in her

eyes. She’d never shared anything so

personal.

I knew so little of her. Not her home, her

work, her friends. Only her name:

Aurora.

As a journalist, I could’ve dug deeper,

and I tried. God, I tried. But every lead

fizzled out.

She was a ghost, conjured from

nothing. I wondered, more and more,

who she was.

Real, yet not. I didn’t dare ask. There

was a boundary, unspoken, I knew not

to cross.

Maybe our magic would fade.

Maybe I’d lose her forever.

 

One evening, she gazed at me for a

long time. Then she spoke of the man

from the forest.

Just a few details. Someone she’d loved

for ages, but for reasons beyond her,

they could never be together.

“We’re like the moon and sun,” she

sighed. “In the same sky, but fated to

meet only in fleeting moments.”

Each word stabbed me. Yet she was

here, in my arms, kissing me with

devotion.

That night, I loved her more

desperately than ever. She gave me

everything in return.

Words fail me, even now, to describe

what I felt. There’s no word for it.

I’ve never felt so close to the divine,

though I believed in no higher power.

At dawn, her radiance returned, softer

now. I’d grown used to it since the

forest.

I fell asleep. When I woke, she was gone,

irrevocably. A note lay on my bedside

table:

“Louvre, Paris, today in a year -

afternoon, Aurora.”

 

That year devoured me. Her absence

gnawed at my soul. Some days, I

couldn’t leave my bed.

I missed her endlessly. After weeks of

hope and dread, I knew she wasn’t

coming back. It broke me.

I puzzled over her cryptic note, finding

no answers. I swore I wouldn’t go to

Paris.

But as the day neared, I craved closure.

So I went, standing before the Louvre,

heart pounding, torn by fear. Would I

wait? Would she come? Had she

forgotten me?

A small sign caught my eye. In a trance,

I followed it. A special exhibition:

Aurora.

A strange feeling gripped me. Could

this be chance? Everything about her

had always been strange, unreal.

I reached the exhibition and saw the

painting from afar. Aurora. My Aurora.

My heart stopped.

It was impossible. Yet there she was. A

woman, draped in white, her upper

body bare.

Dark hair cascaded down her back.

She held a lily with grace. I stepped

closer, feverish, but the image held.

The averted face, the long hair, the

gentle curve of her belly, it was her.

I stared at the plaque: “William-Adolphe

Bouguereau, L’Aurore, 1881.” I was

unraveling.

 

Tears spilled down my cheeks,

unbidden. All my grief, my love, my

loneliness, my longing, it overwhelmed

me.

I wept, heedless of the world. A gentle

touch on my arm. I looked up, dazed,

into green eyes.

A woman asked if I was okay. For a

moment, I hoped it was Aurora. It

wasn’t. Yet she looked like her,

shorter hair, fuller lips, but the same

expression. Her eyes, though, were

Aurora’s, and I stared, lost.

My thoughts dissolved. She led me to a

bench, brought me water. I was grateful

not to be alone.

 

I tried to breathe, slow and steady.

“1881” echoed in my mind. She spoke,

her voice soothing, cedarwood-rich.

I wondered if losing Aurora had driven

me mad. Then she, Celine, said

something that chilled me:

“This painting shows one of my

ancestors. It’s been in our family for

ages.” I couldn’t process it.

Celine, oblivious to my turmoil,

explained. Her ancestor, the painter’s

secret lover, was painted as Aurora,

the Greek goddess of dawn. She spoke

of Aurora loving the god of twilight,

destined to meet only rarely.

In myths, they were the moon and sun,

seen together only at dawn or dusk.

“A beautiful allegory,”

Celine said, smiling. “The painter’s lover

was truly named Aurora. I hope she

found happiness with her twilight god.”


Nothing made sense. Yet, in a terrifying

way, it all did. Later, at my hotel bar, I

waited for Celine.

We’d agreed to dinner, maybe because

of her kindness, maybe because she

resembled Aurora, or maybe because I

couldn’t bear to be alone. A hotel

employee handed me a note.

Aurora’s flowing script: “Sometimes a

heart must learn to love before it’s

ready to follow its destiny.

With love, Aurora.”

 

I swallowed hard, eyes scanning the

bar. There she was, with a man. I knew

instantly who he was.

Taller, his face half-hidden in the dim

light, but his eyes, proud, majestic, met

mine.

His arm rested on her waist. He turned,

gazing into her eyes.

Only I saw the unearthly light that

flared between them. It stole my breath.

The dawn and the twilight.

 

No doubt remained. Aurora looked at

me, winked, and smiled. He nodded, a

brief acknowledgment, and kissed her

forehead. They walked out, radiant in

the evening’s glow, entwined.

I knew I’d never see her again.

 

I still can’t make sense of it. My mind

recoils from the staggering truth, yet

Aurora lingers in my thoughts.

Celine, now my wife, whom I love, knows

none of this.

Nor that I sometimes think of Aurora,

missing her. She believes chance

brought us together at the Louvre.

 

My wine glass is empty now. My wife’s

voice pulls me from my reverie. She

takes my hands, placing them on her

growing belly. “It’s moving,” she laughs.

“Can you feel it?”

I stroke her belly, and suddenly, she

shimmers, just as Aurora did years ago.

I stare, startled, but she seems

unchanged, unaware of the light. It

radiates from her core.

As if reading my mind, she says, “If it’s a

girl, we’ll name her Aurora.”

 

I nod, speechless, for in my mind, a

cedarwood voice speaks clearly:

“Sometimes our descendants carry

special gifts. They need those who’ve

been loved by the gods.”

Well.

He never understood Aurora.

Not entirely.

He tried.

He was a journalist, after all.

Unfortunately, some truths are

remarkably resistant to research.

But he did understand one thing.

Eventually.

Love.

 

Before Aurora, it was something he

thought he understood.

After her, it was something he was capable of.

There is a difference.

 

She opened something in him.

Then left.

Not particularly kind.

Possibly necessary.

The gods have never been especially

reliable when it comes to explaining

their methods.

 

And now life continues.

A woman he loves.

A child on the way.

A name already waiting.

Aurora.

 

And one rather curious message about

descendants.

Gifts.

Those who have been loved by the

gods.

He doesn't understand that part.

 

Neither do we.

Not yet.

But perhaps you've noticed something

by now.

Cassandra's story contains rather a lot

of things that seem to have begun

before she arrived.

We'll leave it at that.