I never understood how things came to be this way. Never saw how they could have been thrown way out of course. Kalinka was such a beautiful girl, carefree and wild. Open and laughing. And creative -- her room was a fairy tale of its own. The moment you stepped over its threshold, you were in the middle of a magic forest. And Kalinka was Queen Mab, Titania in her kingdom.

I’m not sad, standing here on a golden and crimson autumn day. It’s beautiful, just like she was. Or is. I still can’t decide. But I’m really not sad. It’s just odd, strange. Knowing things didn’t go the way we thought they would.

Darkness was our meeting place, and it remains so. First is was the dark of the night for rituals. Now it’s the darkness of different realms.

Beauty comes from the inside. That’s what they always say. But I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t really know anything, to be honest. If I did, well, maybe I wouldn’t be standing here. With the wind in my hair and leaves blowing against my coat.

I look out of place in this world of color. Maybe I am. I feel out of place. I only know the autumn leaves turn crimson and gold because other people tell me they do. Maybe they’re brown, or purple, or blue. Not that I could tell anyway, right?

I’m color-blind and acceptant of the fact. Only Kalinka ever made me long to see the world the way others do. When she danced and laughed and sang through my black and white and gray world like no one else.

She was merciless and ruthless, in her own way. She forced me to stand up, led me onto new ways. Not all of them were good, that‘s for sure. But they were to make me come out of my shell. They did, they really did.

Honestly, seven years shouldn’t have that much meaning. People come and go. They just slip past you and away, much like the metaphor for the sands of time. You can’t make them stay if they don’t want to. And usually, they don’t. Not like that’s very surprising, though.

I met her at the place where the beach meets the forest. If you can even call it a beach; it’s rocky and steep, and dangerous when it’s stormy and rainy. One slip and you could fall and hit your head, and then you’d die.

Kalinka was like some light-footed shadow weaving in and out and in between the boulders. A shadow that was probably like the rainbow, but no more than a character from a movie of the 1920s to me. But she was still open and pretty, even at the age of ten.

She didn’t ask for my name, just appeared out of nowhere and took my hand. Didn’t ask any questions. She was just there. Actually, she rarely talked. Even though she had a nice voice -- clear and confident, not too loud and not too soft.

Always the golden path in between the two extremes. But somehow not the epitome of blatant perfection.

My silent rock in the storm. Or perhaps the eye of it. I could never tell. But I know she was always there for me. Whenever I wanted to see her, all I had to do was turn around. And there she’d be. All smiles and light.

Through the course of seven years, a lot happened. People died and faded and went away. They were running away like time. Or maybe, running from it. Sometimes it was hard to tell.

One day, though, things changed. Not abruptly, nor dramatically. It was just a subtle kind of change. Hard to notice, actually . . .

I painted pictures. Big ones, small ones. No matter what shape or size - they all showed some part of me, if you looked close enough. Kalinka said they were colorful; she’d sit next to me and point at the different shades of gray, giving them names like brown or red, blue . . .

To me, they were all black and white and gray. Kalinka said I always used dreary colors. Said it always looked like I never was happy, like I never laughed. Sometimes that’s all that things were . . . . Twisted shapes and bizarre phrases. The Lord is my shepherd . . . claws grasped at the words, clawed at them tore until they dripped with blood.

She asked me how I could stand to look at them, these pictures, as she held a picture before her. Her eyes never left it, but she shuddered. I never figured out what color her eyes were; they looked like a light gray . . .

I shrugged my shoulders. How was I supposed to tell? How was I supposed to keep it all inside of me so no one else would have to look at the pictures? I told her I didn’t know, didn’t care.

But she said I should. She looked at me for a few moments, basking in the silence that snuck between us. She was regal in her quiet way, a cat goddess from ancient Egypt that is appreciative of the offered worship. She told me to promise never to stop painting. No matter what happened.

Signs come and go, and people fail to regard them as what they are. I cannot even say that I was different. I wasn’t. Deaf and blind in a way only humans can be. As winter of the seventh year drew closer, Kalinka turned into herself. She had a subtle way of doing this.

Because I never noticed.

- - -

Walking by the Faerie Hill, as she called it. It was winter already, but no snow dared to drift down upon us. Instead, it rained. Gray, drab skies and cold clammy air. Fog creeping from the ocean, swallowing the rocky beaches and crawling into the hills and village. The kind of weather that drove people to crowd inside their houses and wait anxiously for the sun to return.

The kind of weather that forced me outside, before I would suffocate. Kalinka, too, could not bear confining herself within walls. When it rained, we were outside. When it stormed, when the sun shone, when it snowed. We were out.

There was a place we fled to, a harbor for our wandering hearts. At first it was a fairy ring, little mushrooms that grew in a circle, by the forest stream. But Kalinka was not satisfied. In the end, we always wandered to her Faerie Mound, as her voice would lilt the name. It was a small hill, but still big enough that you couldn’t see over the top if you stood next to instead of on it.

Patches of slippery mud showed between the otherwise smooth carpet of grass stretching across the hill. I had to catch myself often; I was never as surefooted as she was. No matter where she was, she moved with a grace no human could ever have had.

She was sad that day, not having said a word since the moment she stood on my doorstop, soaking wet. No need for words -- she wanted to, had to run.

Her pace was brisk, I could hardly keep up with her. A shape appeared out of nowhere, confusing me even further as I nearly lost sight of Kalinka. Tall, at first no more than a shadow, the shape came closer. Kalinka halted abruptly.

“Seven years,” the figure said, half obscured by mist. A mounted rider in full armor. People didn’t wear armor, even when I was born. It’s only several years back. There were fairs, when it would occur, but this seemed genuine.

I wanted to run, needed to. Something I didn’t understand was happening. But Kalinka gripped my hand and I saw she was afraid, too. The drizzling rain obscured her beautiful face; that didn’t make it harder to discern the sadness in her features.

“Seven years,” she agreed. The first time she had spoken that day. The first, and it was in riddles. Cryptic messages weaving a net around me, so I couldn’t run. Couldn’t hide. But I couldn’t stay, either. Confusion made it hard to breathe.

Without another word she embraced me as if she’d never let me go. I know I didn’t want to let go. She was cold and wet, shivering in her jacket. But she didn’t complain. Never did. When she pulled away, I felt a sense of loss dig itself between my ribs like a knife.

She left me then. Mounted the horse behind the rider, clinging to his waist. I could have sworn she was weeping -- but it was hard to tell in the constant rain. The horse turned; for a moment, the mist and rain lifted like a curtain, the earth rumbled as the Faerie Mound opened. Only for an instant. The fog fell back into place, thicker than before, the rain beat at me mercilessly.

Abandonment. My vision tricking me, making me see things that were impossible.

Frozen in place, I stared at where my best friend, kindred spirit, had vanished. Then I turned and raced home as if the hounds of Hell were snapping at my heels.

- - -

I didn’t notice the envelope she had slipped into my coat pocket until a few days later. Questions floated around the disappearance of the beautiful girl named Kalinka. No one knew what had happened, rumors buzzed like angry bees.

The letter inside the envelope was one that spoke of suicide. Without answering any questions, I handed it in to the local police station. They wanted to know how I had come by it, if I had anything to do with it, if I knew anything at all.

I didn’t.

I still don’t know what transpired back at Kalinka’s fairy hill. And never will. What I saw was not for mortal eyes, and so I can’t believe what my senses told me. There was no quaking of the earth, no curtain of rain. No riders on tall mounts ripping a hole into my being as they carried away what I depended on most.

Autumn breezes tug at my coat and hair, insistent fingers of the elements. Leaves tumble and whirl over the tombstone that is Kalinka’s, yet not.

They never found a body; in their eyes, the sea had swallowed her physical form. The letter spoke of killing herself, taking a leap off the cliffs. No one could survive such a fall. To us, her body was lost. And now there is an empty grave beneath my feet.

No one will ever know what happened. Only I know that she does live. Where, when -- I don’t know. But she does. I can feel the ghost of her heart beating next to mine, as kindred spirits are never far. If she were dead, I would know of it.

Some mysteries can be explained. Some can’t. Some were never even meant to be seen, as they would confuse for they have no rational answer. A sight to behold, but not believe. I will never know if what I saw was real. Maybe it was an illusion -- I woke in my bed, feeling it was all a nightmare. Yet, somehow, it is not.

Mysteries are ever-present. But I know some day I will see her again.