Part One: X. Evocative power

The mind is a treasure box; to Neil, it had always been like that.

Filled with pictures, words, images, fantasies. Stories washed ashore and deposited like sediment on his mental coast by untiring tidal waves.

All was new, all was his.

From the moment he could talk, he told stories, hovering around him like a sweet perfume. Every flower, tree, and rock told a story. Every word evoked an image. He felt rich and happy.

His parents loved this little vivid, cheerful boy, but they both died in a car crash when he was six. His aunt and uncle took over, with just as much love, but it felt different.

By the time he was fifteen, he had grown into a somewhat shy, insecure boy. He was smaller than other boys of his age, and his childlike appearance caused him to be laughed at and teased.

But the stories, they had always been there, embedded silently in his mind.

*

Of course, the battery was dead, but that was easily remedied.

When Neil opened the small laptop, there was a welcoming tinkle when it lit up. Even when he was prompted for a password, he did not lose much time. The third attempt was successful: Jennifer.

Alicia’s computer was organized in just a few folders. All appeared to be empty, as if someone, probably Alicia herself, had made an effort to clean up. But one folder, ironically named Deleted, had not been emptied.

When Neil opened it, he saw it was divided into a dozen or so subfolders, all numbered and titled. Neil opened the first one, 01 Sibye. It contained just one short poem.

But when he read it, the few words translated into images of an unexpected vividness.

*

“Your daughter was a remarkable person,” Neil said.

They sat at Jennifer’s small living room table. Neil placed a small laptop computer in front of them. Jennifer looked down, almost timidly.

“And she must have loved you very much. Her computer password was your name…” He laid his hand on hers.

*

“All I found in her computer was a dozen or so poems, some quite short, some longer.

That doesn’t seem much, but they’re very powerful. I believe they tell a story and I think I have it in me to, sort of, reconstruct the story. I’ve had that since I was a child…”

His hand was still on hers. “Thank you,” Jennifer whispered.

“I believe there was an ache in her that grew stronger and stronger,” Neil continued, “whether there have ever been real images or videos, I can’t know. I don’t see how Ricky Galsworthy can be blamed for anything. Alicia’s story is here.”

Jennifer looked up at him with teary eyes.

“Please, let’s go”, she said. “Show me.”