The Unfinished Story

“Weird,” I stared at my hands, then back at the newly formed path. “Did I just… make that?”

No one answered. Nothing existed except me and the path and the void, if it could be called a void. It reminded me more of a blank page in a book. I started walking along the path, closing my eyes the further out I went. The white space started to hurt my brain. It was too empty, too full of nothing.

Too lonely.

A twig snapped under my feet on the path. My eyes flew open to find a beautiful forest and leaves falling around me. Sunlight trickled down through the autumn-colored canopy, the swirl of oranges, reds, and yellows almost glowing as they landed on the roof of a stone cottage. Despite not being made of wood, it seemed to grow out of the herculean redwood behind it. Smoke drifted from the chimney, disappearing as quickly as it came. Smooth tiles slanted down in a perfect roof, and the windows glinted in the available light. The most vibrant part of the cottage, however, was the dark burgundy door and the fox sitting in front of it.

I took a slight step back only to find the path gone. My bare feet hit leaf litter, and where it should’ve felt irritating or lifeless, like the grainy sand of the beach, it felt… comforting. For whatever reason, my mind created this place. The fox cocked its head at me as if asking why I was just standing there. If I could do anything, why was I afraid? Still, I couldn’t convince myself to move.

The fox, sensing my nervousness, approached me. It moved like a ghost, its footsteps whispering as it walked. It gently nudged my hand with its nose, another touch of warmth in an already warm world. Carefully, cautiously, I brushed my fingers through its soft, orange fur. It should’ve been rough, spiky, wild just like the fox was, yet like the leaves, it felt like home. I followed it this time, going up the steps and opening the door to the cottage.

If the outside was a fantasy, inside was a dream. Tree branches spiraled high above on the ceiling, rooting the cottage to the land. A small iron stove and oven found their places on the wall next to shelves of grain, spices, herbs, tea. A wooden table and two chairs were right in the middle, inviting anyone to sit down and relax. At the other end, thick tree branches that had curled around the ceiling now hugged the walls, holding an array of books, thick and thin, old and new. Just below the natural bookshelves lay a bed, soft and cozy and just as inviting as the table.

I quietly closed the door behind me and approached the bed, suddenly feeling light-headed and exhausted. The autumn-colored quilt was even softer than it looked, and I climbed in, savoring the warmth, the safety. The fox stood to the side, watching me for a moment before leaving out of a smaller door near the chimney area, back outside. Alone once again, I decided to sleep. I did not dream.

I woke up the next day to the smell of freshly baked bread and coffee. Stretching, I walked over to the table to find the fox standing there again, watching me as I sat down. A mug of warm coffee cooled on the side, and next to it, fresh coffee beans. The plate in front of me had two slices of whole wheat sourdough, baked and buttered to perfection. I couldn’t remember the last time I ate anything. Picking up a slice, I bit into it, closing my eyes as the flavors took over. It was such a simple combination, and yet simple things are often the most comforting.

Who taught me that?

I stopped chewing. A million questions ran through my head, blocking everything else. How long had I been wandering in the void before I created this? Had there been anything before the beach, before the blank canvas that was now my reality? How did I know this would be the perfect meal for me? Why couldn’t I remember anyone’s face from my past? Did I even have a past?

The fox was staring again when I glanced up at it.

“Why did I make you?” I asked, hoping that I could get some sort of sign, an answer in a sea of questions. It tilted its head to the side, unable to say anything.

“If this is my reality, why won’t you talk?” I put my slice down. “Everything has been exactly as I imagined except for you. You aren’t supposed to be here.”

Still, it did not answer. I took a step toward it, and as I did, the fox finally broke its stance. Suddenly nervous, it hopped onto the table, tipping over the coffee beans -in the process. Something in my expression must have scared it even more because, after a final glance up at me, the fox ran out its door again, leaving me alone with a mess to clean up.

Sighing, I got to my knees and started to pick up the grounds, the smell of coffee wafting around me. Stains spread on my hands and got under my nails. A few of the beans got stuck between the floorboards. I dug my fingers in, trying to get one out when the floorboard moved. The bean dropped down and I heard a hollow sound as if there was a compartment below. Curious, I tugged at the floorboard until it gave way, the nails ripping out and the wood splintering. There was a compartment, and the bean had landed right on top of a book. I reached down and took it in my hands. After blowing the dust off the cover, I read the title:

The Girl and the Vixen.

The picture below was of me and… a red-haired girl. Not just any girl; one I knew. One whose curls I’d brushed, one whose freckles I’d counted like stars, one whose eyes – green eyes – I’d stare into for hours. I knew her name, had it on the tip of my tongue, had it in the deep crevices of my mind full of memories that I hadn’t been able to conjure since I got here. Why couldn’t I remember her name? I knew everything else, even Vesper’s love of coffee –

Vesper.

I flipped through the pages, desperate for more, craving my story, the memories I lost. Every word brought up another piece, and as I kept reading, the whole picture built itself in my mind.

I found her in a gallery, surrounded by portraits and sculptures and paintings, staring at a larger-than-life ocean. Every brushstroke and every color culminated in the illustration of a turbulent and angry sea, witnessed only by the moon and two stars by its side. She wore a sweater the same blue as the ocean, and a lighter blue scarf hung on her neck. Her hair was like fire on water – untamed and beautiful – a cascade that only just covered a face full of freckles. I’d gone up to her to ask for her name, her number, and the type of coffee she held in her right hand. Smiling, she gave me all three, and that taste of coffee would linger until we met again.

Dinner, candlelit and classy. This time she wore a black dress and I wore a green one. Both of us had chosen gold hoop earrings and a necklace to match. I learned she was an artist herself as we sipped red wine and ate pasta smothered in pesto and parmesan and topped with grilled chicken. I told her I was an aspiring writer, working a day job while I worked on my manuscript. She asked if I could show her some time. Only if you show me your work, I’d said.

I went to her home; she came to mine. Back and forth, a pattern emerged, a new rhythm. Lunch meant going to my run-down place after. Dinner meant going over to her studio apartment and falling asleep. Slowly, my toothbrush, my clothes, my journal moved with me. Her kitchen became our kitchen. Her room became our room. Her place became our place.

Vesper breathed life into me. I went out with her to art shows and picnics and coffee dates. I spoke my mind and listened to her voice as she listened to mine. My writing blossomed, words flowing in my mind and out onto the page. Countless poems detailing that hair, those freckles, those green eyes filled the journal. Short, everyday stories reflected the kindness, the intelligence, the confidence she embodied so effortlessly. As I wrote about her, she made art about me. She hid it from me, locking her creative space away, telling me it wasn’t ready. All I got were clues: orange and red paint and canvases stacked against the walls.

One day, she made me wear a blindfold and took my hands to guide me. I kept asking when I could look, only hearing soft laughs and whispered no’s until she shut the door behind us. Vesper untied the blindfold.

A forest, orange and red and yellow, was laid out on the canvas. A single redwood sat in the center, and just in front of it, a stone cottage. If I looked closely, I saw the two figures in the window, sharing a kiss, hidden away in a beautiful fantasy, a wonderland.

“Vesper, it’s breathtaking,” I could hardly speak, overwhelmed. “What did you name it?”

“‘Our Future,’” She smiled at me. “It’s our future, Farah.”

The memories after that could not be pieced together. Something had gone wrong. Something had taken Vesper away and trapped me here. All I remembered was a twisted shadow rising, swallowing her in darkness, and leaving me stranded on a beach. With no memory and no purpose, I had walked aimlessly for who knows how long.

I only woke up when that man tried to hand me that cup of coffee.

The fox had returned and was staring again. Instead of a wild spirit, I only found sadness. There were no pages left in the book, nothing to tell me what happened next, only what happened before. But I didn’t need that to know why the fox was here now, the vixen.

When I blinked, she was there, beautiful as the day I’d met her. She wore that same blue sweater, the same scarf, but a new smile, a grateful one. I reached out to her, this ethereal figment of my imagination that I could bring to life if I wanted. I could kiss her, hold her, be with her in the future we always wanted.

But it wouldn’t be real.

At that thought, Vesper, the coffee, the cottage, and the forest all fell away, revealing the white void underneath. I was alone in a prison with no idea who put me there and no idea how to get out and no idea how to get to Vesper. All that remained was me, the book, and a pen. The book was still opened to the blank page, the unfinished story.

Unfinished…

This wasn’t over, was it? I had power here – a power I only realized when coffee woke me up again. If I could create worlds in here, where was the limit?

After hesitating, I took the pen and wrote my name, Farah, in the book. The ink stuck for a second just before sinking into the pages. I kept writing, words flowing as I once again remembered Vesper, knowing that nothing would take her from my mind again. All the words sunk. They had to have power, I knew they did. I knew I had power, more than I ever could've imagined if I succeeded now.

After a few moments, words appeared on the page, ones I’d heard before when I came back to myself.

"Show us, then."

Taking a deep breath, I stood up and stared at the empty space in front of me. I reached out and touched the edge of the void, feeling it between my fingers. Rather than air, it was now paper, soft and delicate as a newly made book. My book. My story. Our story.

I took a deep breath and ripped my world open.