Ch. 9 – Crossing a Threshold

The path to true love never runs smoothly, especially if you’re a powerful empath. I’ve just posted Ch. 9: Crossing a Threshold of my paranormal romance, A Quiet Moment. I hope you enjoy !

Crossing a Threshold:

Chapter 9

It was nearly ten-thirty in the morning and two cups of tea later when she heard the doorbell. Actually, she’d only been up for about an hour. She had pulled on a comfortable and well-worn sweatshirt that had a picture of a streetcar on it from back home, and a pair of blue jeans. Her hair was in a ponytail, and there wasn’t a trace of make-up on her face. Oh well, she thought rather dismissively, when you arrive unannounced you take your chances. She peered through the peephole first, her intense training from living years alone. And then she stepped back. It was Jacob. Her heart suddenly picked up its beat with an onset of nervousness. She hadn’t expected to see him again, well, for a while. She hadn’t begun to sort out last night, the dinner, the fountain, all of it. And here he was on her doorstep, ready to shake up her life yet a bit more.

She took a deep breath and swung open the door. There he was, all smiles. And with hands quite full several small bags, a Styrofoam coffee cup, and a copy of—

“Your review’s out.”

Her stomach dropped a notch. She couldn’t ever remember having the subject of an article be right in her face at its publication. Talk about instant feedback. “That’s right. I forgot it was coming out this morning.”

He bent closer to her and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “I didn’t. It was wonderful, thank you Aimee. And since I was in town, I thought I’d bring you breakfast, so we could celebrate.”

A sigh of relief passed silently through her. She stepped inside a bit to let him enter, and then closed the door behind him. “Where’s your Mom?”

“Sleeping in, I had some errands to run.” He turned back towards her, as though the thought just occurred to him, “Is this okay?”

“Yeah,” she nodded. “I’m just a little out of it. I didn’t sleep well. So, you liked the article?”

He put his packages on her coffee table. “I did. Your approach is very unique. I’d like to read some of your other pieces.”

She looked away, feeling a little uncomfortable. For some reason, her writing was intensely personal to her. And the idea of him perusing it felt, well, a bit intimate. “Should I get some plates?”

He softly grabbed her wrist, sort of gently steering her to the couch. “No, just sit down. Have you eaten?”

“No, everything’s a little off with me this morning. But this is a nice surprise.”

His eyes passed over her with a bit of concern and more curiosity, as he shrugged off his coat and placed it on the back of the couch. She smiled. He was pretty casual too, dressed in a plaid flannel shirt that looked like woodsmen should wear and slightly paint splattered jeans, but then again for him that was probably an occupational hazard. “I got a few different kinds. If you feel very decadent, there’s chocolate filled, and if you want something lighter there’s almond flavored.”

“I’ll take the almond-flavored.” She leaned back and watched as he unwrapped the pastry, handing it to her, and then retrieving a napkin from the bag that he also gave to her. It did feel nice to be taken care of.

“This place didn’t have tea on hand.”

“That’s fine. I just had some.”

He nodded, looking at her rather intently. “So, what kept you up last night?”

She shrugged as she took her first bite of the croissant. It was actually very good. “Bad dreams.”

“Well, I hope it wasn’t something you ate.” He started eating the chocolate one. She’d had a feeling that one was earmarked for him, although he undoubtedly would have surrendered it if she’d asked. She’d noted that he appeared to have a self-indulgent thread in his personality.

She laughed, “I don’t think so. So how did your Mom enjoy last night?”

“Well, she was tepid about the restaurant, but she liked you a lot. She says you’re very elegant, but also very strong.”

“Ah, all that from a first meeting?”

“She puts a lot of stock into first impressions. And she did mention she hopes to see you again before she goes home.”

“That would be nice.” She took another bite. It was really good, soothing to her nervous stomach. She glanced up at him. He was watching her. “This is really good.”

“So, what kind of bad dreams?”

Her eyes widened a bit. He was probing again into delicate territory. “You know, standard bad dreams.”

He nodded, “Standard? What is that monsters or mobsters breaking into the house?”

She sighed sensing that he was not going to be sidetracked, “Okay fine, but it will sound silly to you.”

“I like silly, try me.” He looked so awfully serious that that she wanted to laugh.

“I dreamed I was a slave in Egypt.”

He paused a moment, seeming to contemplate. And he did look a bit amused, although trying to contain it. “Well, I wouldn’t call that standard, definitely unique, not standard. Did something bad happen, other than the being a slave part?”

She shook her head, “No, it just was disturbing. I seemed very sad.”

He put down his croissant and lightly touched her cheek with his fingertips. “Well the good part was that it was just a dream.”

She smiled, vaguely feeling unsettled by something that had begun to filter in at this contact. His touch, it felt the same, just as it had felt in the dream.

He’d awoken early that morning, feeling, though not wishing to be cliché, refreshed, recharged, vitalized in some way. By eight o’clock, he’d already put in several hours of work in his studio. Now he would be able to add a few paintings to the exhibition to replace several that had been sold. It was a good productive time. Early on he’d decided that he would take a ride into town to replace some art supplies that he was low on. In fact, he’d decided quite a few things by the time his mother made her first appearance. “Do you want coffee? I made a pot not long ago.”

“Is that a serious question?” He grinned. His mother was many things, but a morning person was not one of them. When he handed her the steaming cup that he’d doctored well with milk and sugar, she eyed him with a bit of a disgruntled expression. “You are in an awfully good mood? You know I find it very irritating right now. Do you have any aspirin? I’m all aches this morning.”

He went into a cupboard and then handed her a bottle. “I am in a good mood.”

She sat down at the breakfast table that Talia had picked out for their breakfast nook. Strange how many times he’d looked at it and not really seen it. Another thing he might want to consider ridding himself of. “I guess I don’t have to ask why.”

He sat down across from her not wanting to discuss things too much. “I’m heading into town later to run errands.”

“How much later?”

“About an hour.”

She sipped her coffee. Then offhandedly replied, “Too soon, I think I’ll lounge around and soak up all of this country life. Don’t you ever miss living in a city?”

He shrugged, “Sometimes I suppose. I haven’t thought about it much lately.”

“You might want to my darling. That one is definitely a city girl.”

The air felt unusually crisp today, frosty. There was no more forecast of snow, at least not the rest of the week. He was glad of that. It was only late January, but he was restless for the seasons to change. That he knew was a hopeless wish. Sometimes the winters here stretched right into the beginning of April. He’d remembered being a bit astonished at the first snow they’d gotten in April. It had been their first year of marriage, and Talia had thought the snow dazzling. But oddly, back then, he’d found it disconcerting. To him, it was as though it upset the order of things and made him feel that this place was strangely out of sync with the universe. It was a thought that he’d pushed aside, forgotten about completely. Evidently, there were many things he’d forgotten.

As he walked out of the art supply store, he noticed a delivery truck dropping off newspapers to the stand outside the store. And then he remembered what day it was. Patiently he waited, until the man from the truck finished filling all the stands. He then snatched up several copies of The Quest and leaned against his SUV as he began to peruse the article. It was quite an impressive spread, a full page with Joan’s pictures featured prominently. As he began to read Aimee’s words, he was immediately captivated by her smooth and succinct style. He was well into the second paragraph before he began to feel the change.

It wasn’t subtle, instead rather quick and all consuming. At one moment, the words were before his eyes and then in the next, they were blurring into images. They were images of paintings, his paintings that she was writing about but now that he was seeing. The words were there too but not on the page anymore. He heard them in her mind as she was writing, and as she was focusing, he could see what she was seeing. It was a heady, dizzying experience. He felt her thoughts. Then beyond what she wrote, her emotions passed through him as clearly as he felt textures on the canvas as he painted. There was a power now. It was all there for him now, accessible. Everything he wanted to know was well within his reach. He was completely inside.

There were blankets of fear, nervousness. In a swirl of color, they were back in the restaurant last night at the table. But he was seeing purely through her eyes — the colors, the swirling colors, everywhere, and the woman with the black eyes. If he pushed, nothing was barred from him. Nothing he wanted was barred.

Then a loud, screeching noise in the street pulled him back. It was a car hitting the ice and trying to regain control near the parking lot. He looked around. The day seemed brighter now. He rubbed his eyes. They were stinging. He was still staring down at her article. His heart was racing. Impossible, he had no idea what had happened to him.

He opened the car and got in. It was a little after ten. It was then that he decided he had to see Aimee.

He paced the den of Aimee’s apartment sipping his coffee. It was a good idea to come here. It was calming. She was calming to him like a poultice of sorts to something that was festering inside him. She was taking a call in the other room, something about work. For the first half hour they’d spent together, it was as if they were any other couple sharing time together, nothing unusual, just calm, quiet, much needed time alone. And then she’d left, and his mind became active again, jittery and agitated by his recent experience. Five minutes ago, he’d expected to leave here and forget about it. But now, in the enormous silence of the room, that didn’t seem possible.

She walked back into the den quietly. “Everything okay?” he asked.

“Yes, it was Claire, my boss, she wanted to talk to me about an assignment coming up—” her voice sort of trailed off. “You look bothered.”

He grimaced, “Maybe preoccupied.”

She sat back on the couch still looking unconvinced. “Did something happen while I was gone?”

“Not really,” he was across the room near a mantle built into the wall. She had several pictures up there. He picked up one that resembled her, “Is this your mother?”

“Yes, do you want to talk about it?”

He glanced back at her and quietly put the picture back. “I’m not someone who likes secrets, having them kept from me, or keeping them.”

She stared at him quietly. She looked so young with her hair drawn back simply. He liked her this way. “I know that about you Jacob. I mean I feel that.”

“So, I don’t know if I want to even talk about this. It sounds crazy to me.”

“Well you can tell me, and I’ll let you know if it sounds crazy.”

He sat down in the rocking chair across from her, still inwardly debating whether to push forward with this. Making her think he was some kind of crazy nut wasn’t his first choice in this juncture of their relationship. “I know you said that you’re, well, aware of certain things like in the restaurant.”

“Yes,” she didn’t prod him was just listening calmly.

“I had an experience, well I suppose I’ve had a few, but not as intense. It was just this morning, and it was tied to you.”

“How so?” she responded evenly.

He swallowed, trying desperately to find a way not to sound like a loon. “When I was reading your review,” he paused again trying to search for a sensible way to put this, “it seemed as though I could hear or more like feel your thoughts.”

She hadn’t flinched just continued to stare at him. “Could you tell me more specifically?”

He clasped his hands before him, trying to summon the appropriate words. “Well, I was reading, and then I started seeing images, my paintings I guess, and then I felt your thoughts.”

“You mean my thoughts about the paintings.”

He nodded, still feeling foolish. “At first, then I was seeing everything you were seeing, feeling things that,” he stopped worried that he was stammering.

Her face seemed paler to him, but he couldn’t be sure because it was expressionless. “You were feeling my feelings.”

“Yes,” he said again. “And I saw us all in the restaurant last night but through your eyes. It was remarkable really. There were all sorts of colors around everything, waves of light.”

She leaned back on the couch. “That’s energy.”

He leaned in a bit, not sure if he’d heard her correctly. “What?”

“The light, the colors, that’s energy. Everything has an energy.”

“How do you know that?”

Her face was still placid, but he heard her say quite candidly, “Because I see it all the time.”

“I didn’t know I would feel like this.”

“Hmm.” was his only comment. They were taking a long walk in Audubon Park one sunny afternoon, she, and Dominick Trevor. The exact timing of it, she didn’t exactly recall. It was one day mixed into a myriad of other days that she’d spent in his company. It was his company in the early days when he was still of the flesh. What was memorable, particularly now, was the conversation. It came floating back in her memory like an intangible wisp, a wisp of his enduring wisdom for a fleeting instant.

“I guess I thought that being gifted, at least that’s what my grandmother calls it, would make my life better in some way, easier perhaps. That I don’t know I would be happier. But in some ways, it only makes me feel sadder, more alone.”

“And unfortunately, as you grow up, the burden of this gift as you call it will only become greater.”

“That doesn’t make sense to me.”

“My child, the truth can be a heavy burden indeed, a wonder at times, but also a burden. That is why only a selected number are entrusted with it.”

She shook her head, “But what if I just choose to follow a different road, a normal life, and leave the rest behind?”

He shrugged in his very nonchalant manner. “After all, we are all travelers through this life we have chosen. But to veer off course, to choose a path that is not for you, I wonder if that would truly ever bring you any peace. To deny who you really are, can you live with that I wonder?”

“Do you want to repeat that?” She looked into Jacob’s face and wondered vaguely if she was about to lose him forever. It was a real possibility. He was so afraid that his confessions would drive her away. But what she was, what she’d seen, how she lived, how could he ever accept or want a part of that?

She sighed deeply. What was the point in continuing to cover everything up? It was too draining, and she was so very tired. “I think you heard me clearly. Whether you want to accept what you heard is another matter entirely.”

Silence, perhaps that was a bit too strong. His face had an odd expression. Had she hurt him? “No, wait a minute, don’t repeat what you said. Explain to me what you just said.”

She swallowed, feeling a bit like she’d taken a dive off a cliff and was looking casually for a tree branch to catch on the way down to slow her fall. “Well, let’s see. You described a vision of sorts where you saw, through my eyes, a spectrum of colored lights everywhere. What you were seeing was the life force energy of objects, people, perhaps trace energies left over from events. All of that is something I see, well, that I have seen since I was a small child.”

He continued to stare at her as though she were speaking Japanese or some other unintelligible language. “So—” he started haltingly, “that makes you what, some kind of psychic?”

“My grandmother liked the term sensitive, a sensitive, but I guess I could be considered a variant of a type of psychic.”

He laughed shortly, awkwardly, then added, “So you’re telling me you see dead people too.”

Quietly she answered, although feeling as though the question wasn’t serious. “Sometimes yes, that restaurant you brought me to was full of them.”

“You’re not kidding.”

“No unfortunately, I’m not. It’s something I keep very private. I don’t want my life to be a spectacle. Can you understand that?”

He leaned back in the rocking chair rather abruptly, and it almost flipped over had he not caught himself suddenly. She turned her face down so that he couldn’t see the smile that had flickered across her lips. “And you didn’t think it was important to tell me this?”

“I wasn’t looking for a relationship,” her voice sounded a bit icy even to her ears. Maybe she was trying to drive him away. “I told you my life was complicated. These abilities I have, or whatever you want to call them, I do try to use them to help people when I can. But my own life I’ve kept very private. Maybe too much so, I don’t know. And you’ve been, well, so very determined.”

“Don’t you mean pushy?”

“What I mean is that you didn’t let me put you off. And, well frankly, this just isn’t information you drop on someone in a first meeting.”

“Were you planning to tell me at all?”

“I didn’t have a blueprint Jacob. I wasn’t trying to lie to you.”

“Like that first night, the grocery, the medicine, when you became ill?”

Of course, he’d bring that up. “All of this is pretty complicated.”

He stood up and walked across the room looking out the window. She thought to open herself to his emotions but was actually afraid to find out. A big part of her didn’t want him to walk away, although it might simplify matters in most regards. He turned around slowly to face her, “But what I don’t understand is what’s happening to me.” She stared at him blankly for a moment. How did she explain something that she didn’t really understand herself? She opened her mouth to speak, but he interrupted saying, “If you say it’s complicated again, I might break something.”

She couldn’t suppress a slight smile, “Okay, then can I say I’m not sure what’s happening.” She swallowed almost painfully, carefully choosing her words. “I have a sense that our association has set off a sort of chain reaction in motion. From the beginning, the first day in the bookstore, I sensed a tremendous amount of raw, spiritual power within you. Your energies are quite formidable but oddly unfunneled.” She stopped. He was looking at her again like she was speaking Japanese.

He shrugged, “So I’m unfunneled?”

“Look Jacob, I know some things, but I am by no means an expert. This is just what I suspect that certain dormant abilities within you are, well, waking up.”

“You know Aimee, I’m as open-minded as the next guy, but I honestly don’t know if I can accept any of this stuff.”

She eyed him with impatience, “Well, if you can’t accept it, then it must not be true.”

He shook his head. “I don’t mean it that way. Shit, I don’t know what the hell I mean.”

“Well,” she’d crossed her arms in front of her feeling a tiny bit like she’d exposed her heart for the first time and had been promptly rejected. “Maybe, you should take some time to mull things over. While your mother is here, spend time with her and then see how you feel about things later.”

He looked at her with total confusion, and what concerned her more, a slight measure of fear. It was scary walking into a new world, the first step in leaving the old one behind. “Can I ask you something?”

She nodded, saying nothing.

“That day at the bookstore, why were you there? Why did you come out in the bad weather that day?”

She looked at him serenely. “I thought someone needed help. I was mistaken.”

He looked at her seeming to want more, but she knew any more now would be more than he could handle. Everything in stages Dominick had always told her. Steps, learning is acquired in steps. “I have to go.” He scooped up his coat, and she stood up. “I’ll call as soon as I can,” lightly he kissed her on the cheek, and then he was gone, shutting the door quietly behind him. She stood in the center of her den for a few moments before she realized that tears were falling from her eyes. Tears she hadn’t even realized were there at all.

The memories were clipped, insubstantial, like little ragged pieces torn out of a book, not fitting into any sort of coherent pattern or chronological placement. They could so easily be swept aside, marked as intangible snippets possibly from early childhood imagination or the remnants of a forgotten dream. But as it was not her nature to disregard anything, the memory was kept, and taken out rarely, except in such oddly reflective moments as this one.

They were in a church, a big one. Later she guessed one of the larger cathedrals, not as much by the visual memory as by the feeling, the overwhelming magnitude and abundance of energy that hits you once you cross its threshold. A place like this was unique. Something she felt, even before she could identify it. And there was no doubt that she was very, very young. The view of her mother was upward from a low point, and the sensation was tangible of being guided by a much larger hand.

The memory proceeded something like this. Her mother’s shoes tapped rather loudly on the cool floor. The sunlight was shining within, reflected off the walls. And statues were in different colors, being filtered through the stain glass windows. They passed Mary, Lady Mary as her mother referred to her, and the soft features of the marble were cloaked in a cast of light blue. In the memory, it brought a warmth to the statue that impressed her young mind. At the time, she had no idea where they were going or for what reason. If indeed she had been told, she did not remember. Her mother Anna just held her hand tightly. The sadness that came through the contact was powerful that day, more so than usual. She never remembered her mother as a particularly happy person at any time. But that day it was more pronounced.

She was placed on one of the broad, dark wooden pews in the church and told to stay. She watched her mother cross the aisle and sit next to a stranger, a man that she’d never seen before. Her eyes took in more than they were supposed to, she thought. The stranger held her mother’s hand and touched her face. And then, not very long after, he got up and walked away. But it was some time before Anna returned to her. And when she did her eyes were red from crying and the hand that held her felt different. Some spark that was recognizable to even a young child had left, had been extinguished.

The phone rang, and she glanced at it from across the room. There was no voice mail bing after the call, no message. She wiped her face with her hands. She’d been crying. Remembering this always churned up deep emotion inside of her. It was something that she’d puzzled about for many years, and then Iris had confirmed what she’d suspected. The man was incredibly significant to her mother. He was someone that she had come to love deeply but had sent away. And at a cost, Iris had told her grimly. So many take this matter of love too lightly. Who you choose or don’t choose to be with leaves a profound imprint on your spirit for your whole life. Sometimes the repercussions are immeasurable.

She glanced at the phone feeling as though it had been him. It was too soon for them to speak. Nothing had had time to set in. She’d spent the day taking care of things around the apartment, small things that needed attention. And then just before dusk, she’d taken a long walk outside. The snow was beginning to melt. She felt quite clearly that there were those who were available if she wanted to talk. But she didn’t. She didn’t want to talk about it at all. She just drew into her self-protective shell and allowed life to go on around her.

He put his cell phone down, wondering with irritation why he hadn’t said anything, wondering why he’d called. The whole conversation of that morning with Aimee, he’d completely relegated to the realm of undealt with material. He’d pushed it aside and collected his mother and taken a long drive into the mountains. He’d taken a lot of pictures with his digital camera, material he might paint later. Their drive was quiet but enjoyable. Mary was in some ways very sensitive and sensed, he thought, that he didn’t want to talk much. And once they were home, in the early afternoon, he worked and filled as many of the day’s hours with activity. After dinner, she did comment on how much she liked Aimee’s writing style. “She captures your essence,” she noted. He didn’t know exactly what she meant, so that too was relegated to that undefined realm in his mind.

At about eight that evening in a quiet moment, it washed over him how much he simply missed her physical presence. So, without thinking he picked up the phone and called and then said nothing. He imagined his reaction that morning had hurt her. But if it did, she hid it well. Everything she had hid from him exceedingly well.

The rest of the night he poured himself into finishing incomplete projects. He left his mother largely on her own, but it didn’t seem to bother her. A little after ten she came to his studio downstairs and announced she was going to bed.

“Are you going to be up for a while?” she asked. Her eyes were shadowed in the dimness of the hallway, making her expression unreadable.

“Probably, I have a lot to catch up on, and I’m pretty wired.”

And she walked to him and kissed him lightly on the cheek, as she had done often when he was a little boy. “Don’t exhaust yourself.” Then she was gone, with no questions, although he sensed there were some

Sometime in the lateness of the evening, he decided to take a rest on the futon couch in the studio. He was in a strange state, tired but also painfully and acutely aware of everything around him. For the balance of the evening he’d managed to sweep thoughts of her faraway in some other unfathomable place, while he surrounded himself with the familiar, the knowable, perhaps the attainable. But, when he lay down, he didn’t expect to rest at all.

There was a coolness at night that was at odds with the environment. But whether it made sense at all, it was, and he accepted it. So, he left the windows to his room wide open to take advantage of it. Even from across the room at his writing table, he could see the star filled sky through the opening. He was so often called into the capital, being an advisor to the monarch. But if he had his way, he would live far away from all of it, here, in the restfulness of his home where there was a quiet ease to life.

He closed his eyes and allowed his mind to drift through the corridors of his home. All was stillness. He did not even know the hour. Only that activity had died down long ago. The small group of servants that he maintained to run the house and the farm were asleep, all—and then he smiled, almost all. He could see her, the young one with the wide dark eyes, creeping out of her bed. She was headed to the garden. It was so easy to read this one. Her thoughts were as open to him as though she were speaking. And so were her emotions, so deeply profound. He found them disturbing, painful even, and it irritated him in some measure to be so affected by a servant.

He reached over to a ceramic flask and a goblet on his table. Pouring out the wine, he then focused directly on the figure that was now standing outside in the cool night, staring up at the stars. The one word that he directed to her was Come. He could actually tell by her expression that she was frightened by it, but it was received.

And then he waited patiently. Some moments later he heard a door behind him open. He smiled. She hadn’t knocked as was the custom of servants. She stood there silently, making no movement to come closer. So, he stood and turned to face her. Her face was not bowed as was the custom of servants. Evidently, she felt at this hour that decorum was not required. He picked up the goblet of wine and offered it to her. You look as though you need it. Again, he spoke to her mind.

“I am not accustomed to that type of speech.” Her accent sounded as though she were from the deeper Asian countries. She did seem young, but her manner was poised, dignified.

“But you do hear me?”

“Yes,” her voice nearly inaudible, “but I don’t like it.”

He was a bit startled. She was taking chances being so forthright with a man who held her fate in his hands. “Why? Why don’t you like it?”

She shrugged, remaining deliberately expressionless, he thought. “It feels like a violation. My mind, my thoughts should belong to me, even if nothing else does.”

He nodded, grasping the thread of rebelliousness in her personality, “I see. Well unfortunately for you, they do not. Everything that you are is mine now.”

She seemed to pale a bit at his pronouncement. “I was told you were a benevolent man.”

“I am, but I’m not a fool. And when I find something valuable, I don’t just toss it back in with the rubbish.”

Again, he held out the goblet to her and directed her, Take it.

Her hands were trembling, but she did.

Jacob sat up. The lights of the studio were still on around him, but through the windows, he could only see darkness everywhere else.

Copyright © 2019 by Evelyn Klebert

Jacob Wyss is caught in a rut, in fact on the verge of being engulfed by it. After an excruciating and disillusioning divorce, his life as an artist in a sleepy-college town at the foot of the Appalachian mountains has become quiet, routine, and maddening in its predictability. One wintry day, his deep restlessness drives him out in precarious conditions to a largely empty bookstore nearly devoid of another living soul, nearly.

Aimee Marston isn’t like everyone else. On the surface, she lives a sedate life working as a feature writer for a small local newspaper in addition to several other editorial jobs to help make ends meet. But just beneath, her existence is largely not her own. She is a sensitive, an empathetic psychic, guided by her calling to use her gifts to help others. Unfortunately, as a result, her secretiveness has made her defensive, protective of herself, and prevented her from having much of a life of her own.

A psychic call for help sends Aimee out on a freezing January morning where her destiny and Jacob’s collide sending both their lives spiraling onto an unexpected and often disturbing track. Two lonely souls connect, not by accident, but by design. Theirs is the intersection of two spiritual paths, two lovers who must struggle to overcome the phantoms of a past life, as well as the challenges of their own inner demons to carve out an extraordinary future together.


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