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The graveyard I passed on the way home always seemed somehow…animated. It was ancient; when the still winds blew over it, the dust swirled about, as though in the throes of a dance. A gray angel stood watch over the scattered graves, its arms outstretched in welcome…beckoning…beckoning. The frail flowers stood on a blanket of decaying autumn detritus, fighting still against the eminent frost of frigid winter. Sometimes, when the moon lay low on the horizon casting a halo of faint white, an ebullition of creaking flowed from the cemetery like a fog, threatening to consume me.

It was one of those evenings, when the graveyard called to me, that I first felt something more than that lingering longing. Instead, a felt an infinitesimal pull, gaining in strength. For once the graveyard, always seeming to be promising what it forbade, seemed to be truly calling me – it wanted me – and I wanted to walk right into the graveyard and stand under the looming angel. I wanted to feel the presence of the statue…

But, almost as soon as the pinching pull pervaded my being, it oozed out, leaving only the familiar fantasy. Yet my entire soul seemed lacking – missing – as though I truly had walked into the graveyard, but part of me – an unnecessary piece – remained behind. I knew, within the fabric of my skin, that I belonged in that beckoning graveyard. My body had become less of a fantastic structure but more of a confining cell, something to escape.

As I approached the cemetery the next day, the pull came to me again, this time stronger. I felt the light of day dim until the sky seemed as dark as the nights which the pull manifested itself strongest. The bright buildings around – bright as though deigning to ignore the dead mass between them – dimmed until they too faded into the darkness. The sun seemed incapable of breaking through the atmosphere, locked in a crushing black box. The cemetery, though, maintained its light and drew me towards it. I took a step forward, and another, but something still kept me back. The lights of the world glared in my eyes once again, blinding me with their ersatz beauty. When I left the street, the graveyard behind me, I continued to feel the pull, drawing me back, culling me from the cacophony of the city. I knew I would return to the cemetery.

After the sun set when the moon lay low on the horizon, I found myself passing by the cemetery. I halted as it called to me, almost a physical moaning, drawing me longing towards it. I stepped forward and followed let it take me. Soon, as though I had floated, I found myself under the angel. I felt its wings beating, although the statue held still. The air pulled me in until the angels smooth face loomed over me. I saw a mist gathering around me, descending from the cold world and condensing. The thick mist soon overwhelmed me in a comforting presence, but the moment it moved I felt lost, hopeless. The mist seeped into the stone angel until none of it remained. All I could see was the shape of my feet, dangling in the sky. They looked hardly more than a shadow, and I realized that they were decaying. The angel’s formless wings beat again, drawing my eyes upwards to look at its face.

Instead though of the familiar face, I saw a the white mist, emerging as the face of a woman. I floated upwards as she, a form of dazzling white, emerged from the statue. As I embraced her my body fell to the ground, and at last I was free. At last I was home.