Just as I was losing steam and about to close the page, a painting of a woman alone on a dimly lit, fog cloaked road seized my attention. The brick road was glossed over in places, from what I assumed had been a recent rain. Elusive strands of the woman’s loosely pinned hair streaked like ribbon across her face in the evening storm. She had one arm wrapped securely around her waist while the delicately gloved fingers of her other hand met her lips. Under the soft halo of a near-by lamp-post, a hazy cloud swirled to reveal a masculine silhouette. But it was woman’s expression that drew me closer. She looked how I felt the first time it dawned on me that Alex was more than human. Unequivocally more.
While the woman appeared staggered by the phantom’s emergence, it was evident that she recognized him. She gazed at him with relief and longing, like a mate setting eyes on her beloved for the first time after a prolonged absence. My pulse quickened as I took in the beautiful realism of the painting. I could faintly smell the misty breeze as if I were there with them now. I wanted to reach out to the vaporous figure under the light and help the woman reclaim him. My heart lurched and ached as if it was trying to recall a connection it had to the couple, and I was saddened by the obvious truth that there was none.
Here it was 4 A.M. and I was entertaining the feasibility of ghosts, reincarnation, immortality. I declared that I had officially been awake long enough to exhaust myself stupid and it was now time to go to bed. Frustrated by my insufficient findings, I jabbed my finger in to the power button, not waiting to properly shut anything down and then stormed out of the room, angry with myself for investing any amount of time on such ridiculous notions.

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