Page 88 of Where Light Cannot Follow

"I cannot."

Dante shoves his hands into his pockets. It's only then that I notice he's changed clothing again. Now he wears a dark wool cardigan over a charcoal button-down, the clothes of a man no longer trying to impress anyone.

"I'm telling you," he says, “this is your loop. Believing you can't leave."

How I wish he were right. How I wish escape had any purchase for me. I would take it. I would take it without hesitation.

"Is it the people you help?" Dante presses, his voice growing urgent, words tumbling out in a manner unusual for him. "I know you do important work here, but you've done it for thousands of years. It's your turn to leave. I want you to consider⁠—"

As he speaks, we turn a corner, and light envelops us.

It's so bright it makes Dante glow, bringing out subtle auburn highlights in his dark hair, the faintest constellation of freckles across his nose, the warm amber depths in his eyes. He leans toward it instinctively, drawn like a flower toward the sun.

He turns to face me.

It's time.

Our goodbye.

For eternity.

This is better than having him in Satan's grip. I'll pay for his escape—I know this with certainty—but I would pay it a hundred times over to know that he, like Musa, is safe from the horrors and pain of this place.

"I want you to try," Dante says, his words forced, as though he's struggling to maintain focus on me rather than the beckoning radiance behind him. I'm surprised he can resist its pull at all. Of the thousands I've led up this path, at least half run toward the light before we even reach it, never once looking back at the guide they leave behind. Most of the other half offer brief thanks, a shed tear or two, a farewell—then walk into it without hesitation.

And I watch them absorbed into that brilliance. Their expressions losing all traces of pain, of misery, of sorrow. Their entire countenance growing as bright and peaceful as the light itself before they vanish into it.

"All right," I say. "I'll try. But you go first."

He scoffs. "I'm no fool, Virgil."

"No." I smile at him softly. "I suppose not."

I've grown so fond of him—more than fond, truly—and something is slowly shattering within me in this moment. Something I'm holding together through thousands of years of emotional discipline and nothing else.

"Virgil, you have done good work. You've helped countless souls, and perhaps it's selfish to ask you to give that up." He steps closer, his eyes bright with unshed tears. "But I want you to come. I want you to be free of this place. What if this truly is all your loop? What if your lost soul is merely a trial you haven't yet passed?"

I consider this. His words carry merit. I've never examined it from this angle, but there's logic in his reasoning. Perhaps there is a way out. And I'm not certain I wish to continue on once he's gone. I've been fortunate enough to meet two souls that have touched mine deeply. Musa. And now Dante. I doubt I shall encounter a third. Having tasted companionship again after so long, losing him might be the thing that finally sinks me.

Dante nods, seeing he's swaying me. "Try. Try to believe that this is all in your mind, as you've taught me. Try to walk into the light."

"All right." I surprise myself with the admission. "I'm willing to try."

Dante exhales so deeply that his shoulders drop several inches, tension flooding out of him. His eyes glisten, and he holds out a hand, palm up. I smile and rest the image of my hand over his.

"I will find you," he whispers. "In the light."

"I don't believe we exist in that realm as we do here."

He curls his fingers slightly tighter around the space where my hand should be, then lifts his other hand and brushes his thumb across my cheek. I cannot feel it, of course.

But I shiver nonetheless.

"I don't care," he whispers. "I will find you regardless."

"Thank you, Dante. For walking alongside me.”

He smiles, though sorrow lives in it. Then he gestures toward the light.