They say you die three times, first when the body dies, second, when your body enters the grave, and third, when your name is spoken for the last time. You were a normal person in life, but hundreds of years later, you still havenβt had your βthirdβ death. You decide to find out why.
Iβve learned that you die at least three times, first when the body dies, second, when your body enters the grave, and third, when your name is spoken for the last time.
But my second death happened over two hundred years ago. At first, I spent my time with my husbandβs spirit, who was waiting for me as I was buried and died the second time.
It was lovely to see his face again, his features still as handsome as the day I last saw him. The glimmer of love and happiness in his eyes as he met me warmed my heart. We spoke endlessly about our memories together, of our simple, unremarkable lives.
We spent our time as spirits close to our daughter and her child. We watched over them as best we could, witnessing their growth from young to old. At times I would lean close to their ears, my voice barely a whisper as I tried to get their attention.
We were there when my daughter experienced her second death and welcomed her to the realm of the spirits. We were there to help my granddaughter cross into her second death as well.
I mourned my husband a second time when he experienced his third death shortly after our granddaughter joined us. And mourned again when my daughter and granddaughter experienced theirs. Iβve been alone ever since., waiting to die a third time so that I may see them again.
For the past few years, I have roamed around the globe. As a spirit, traveling is much more effortless; there's no need for nourishment, rest, or hydration.
I saw the wonders Iβve only read about in books. The Taj Mahal was my favorite. It gleamed like a pearl in the morning sun, its white marble domes and towers rising majestically against the sky. The Great Wall was underwhelming. Its crumbling wall snaked across many mountains but Iβve grown to hate the things that are meant to separate.
Countless other spirits surround me, all lost in their missions to protect and guide their loved ones. They are too engrossed in their tasks to acknowledge me, leaving me isolated. Abandoned.Β
Itβs hard being alone. All I can do is watch, a ghostly observer in a world that had once been my own. And listen.
Which is why Iβm here, in some museum in Paris, to find out why the third death hasnβt found me yet.
I never took a French class during my schooling, so most of the words people speak here are nothing but gibberish to me, but the other day I heard my name for the first time in a long time.
It was so unexpected. I was wandering around the streets, utterly lost, trying to check another wonder off my list, but I could not read the street signs and I found the cityβs layout confusing.
But I heard my name spoken within other French words, by a woman conversing with a small group sitting outside a cafe. I couldnβt understand what she was saying but she repeatedly said my name. As I got closer to her, I noticed a brochure, containing more foreign words, was sitting on her table, and within the paragraphs was my name.
When she closed the brochure I studied the picture of the museum that was depicted, and I scoured Paris looking for it. Today Iβve finally found it.
Itβs full of art and history and artifacts. Itβs beautiful. If I have to spend another two hundred years floating around Earth, I wouldnβt mind spending it here.
But now Iβm staring at a plaque with my name written on it, and next to it, within a long glass case is an open journal along with many trinkets including an army hat and a simple pocket knife. But my gaze fixes on an item I recognize, an item that used to belong to me.Β
Itβs a small silver pendant depicting Saint Michael. I had given it to my first love the last time I saw him. And next to it, displayed in perfect alignment are thirteen letters.Β
All addressed to me.
-----
