Page 67 of Where Light Cannot Follow

"You're infuriating," I tell him.

"So I've been told." He grins, and for a moment—just a moment—hell doesn't feel quite so dark.

We walk on together, toward something I shouldn't show him, away from the path I know I should keep.

But I find I don't regret it. Not yet.

Perhaps not ever.

26

DANTE

Virgil and I wander on through the hell he claims doesn't exist. I'm starting to think our definitions of "exist" differ considerably, because as we traverse this landscape—ash blowing off the river in pale clouds that coat my lungs, the screeching cries of creatures I can't name and don't want to see, the ground itself seeming to pulse beneath my feet like something buried and breathing—it feels distinctly real to me.

Despite that, somehow I feel lighter than I have in years.

Perhaps lighter than I ever have.

There's a strange sensation within me. That Virgil is right and this is all constructed from my own mind and I need only realize it deeply enough so I could cease to be in this wretched place. To simply dissolve into that light, the way the child did in the field.

The problem is, Virgil remains firmly convinced he will never reach that light.

And I cannot abandon him.

So we continue our journey, discussing matters serious—the nature of guilt, whether harm done in ignorance carries the same weight as harm done with intent. Philosophical—whether free will exists if our choices are shaped by wounds we didn't choose to receive. And, occasionally, lighthearted.

"I have a confession," I say as we navigate a ridge overlooking a valley of smoldering stone.

I’m not sure why I offer this. In my life, I would have dismissed the impulse as a waste of conversational energy. But something has shifted in me. The walls I built so meticulously, brick by brick over decades, have developed cracks I no longer feel compelled to repair. And I find myself wanting Virgil to know these small, hidden pieces of me. Not because they matter strategically. Simply because he might find them interesting.

And maybe simply because I want him to know me. The real me. Whoever that is.

"Oh?" Virgil glances at me with that curious tilt of his head.

"I watch films. Watched, I suppose. It was my single indulgence. Every Sunday evening, alone in my apartment, I'd select something, usually old, usually considered a classic by modern standards.” I glance at him. “Though I suppose to you, anything with moving pictures qualifies as shockingly contemporary.”

We share a smile at that.

“Anyway, I’d pour a glass of wine and watch. An hour and a half, sometimes two, with absolutely no intention of productivity. No analysis for professional application. No networking value. Just…” I search for the word. “Enjoyment. Pure indulgence.”

Virgil's smile is slow and genuine. "Why do you say this as though confessing a crime?"

"Lingering guilt, I suppose, from a life I thought I could run with the efficiency of a trading floor."

I smile a bit self-consciously at how foolish this indulgence felt. But that life, that perspective, is behind me now. Its rigid metrics, its relentless productivity, its insistence that every moment justify itself in measurable returns. I walk at Virgil's side instead, through a realm that defies measurement, and I find I don't miss the efficiency at all.

"What was your favorite film?” he asks.

I consider the question. "Casablanca, perhaps. Something about watching people ruin themselves for love or art. I found it—" I pause, searching for honesty. “Bizarre. Comforting, even, maybe. To know that even fictional people made catastrophic choices."

Virgil laughs, and the sound carries across the desolate terrain like something that doesn't belong here. Something alive.

I spend the next hour recounting the entire plot of Casablanca in meticulous detail. Virgil listens with the rapt attention of a scholar discovering a new text, interrupting only to ask clarifying questions about airplanes and Nazis. By the time I reach the ending, he looks genuinely mournful that Rick lets Ilsa go.

With each conversation, I find myself returning to what I told him on the hill. That I don’t fear the light—maybe even long for it—but I wish for more time with him first.

We make our way down toward the river, the path narrowing as we descend into a valley. Virgil grows quiet, that careful mask sliding onto his face like armor being fastened into place.