Novel - ILLUSION

ILLUSION

A Novel

 

 

 

 Then to the Heaven itself, I cried,

Asking, “What lamp had destiny to guide

Her little children stumbling in the dark?

And- “A blind understanding!” Heaven replied.

Omar Khayyam

 

                                                                                               

 

 


Chapter 1

10 Years Later

 

On an autumn afternoon when the sun hides earlier than the days prior, a cold breeze shivers visitors of the park. Jake and Adam watch their sons play. The two kids run after other kids, climb the monkey bar, get dizzy riding the merry-go-round, balance the beam, and jump up and down on the elastic playground.

 

"It's good for them to have physical activity for a change," Adam says.

 

"You bet; when I was their age, my parents had a tough time getting me off the television, and now it's almost impossible for us to get him off the damn electronic games and smartphones," Jake says.

 

"I hear you; the minute he sets foot in the house after school and before doing his homework, he runs upstairs to play on his Xbox," Adam says.

 

"Is everything alright, Adam?" Jake asks.

 

"Why? Do I not look alright?" Adam responds.

 

"Actually, no; you seem preoccupied these days. Your birthday is coming up; cheer up, buddy."

The sky grows darker as the sun sinks deeper behind the poison oak trees, the wind picks up, and raindrops prick more painfully on cold skins.

 

"C'mon guys. It's time to head back home." Jake hollers and waves to signal the two boys.

 

"Kids must be hungry; I know I'm starving," Adam says.

 

Adam, Jake, and the two boys sit in the car.

 

"Buckle up, guys," Jake says, looking at the backseat passengers in the mirror.

 

"Are we having pizza for dinner?" Both kids voiced their favorite food in unison.

 

"How often do you eat pizza a week? Don't you get enough of that at school? You probably had pizza for lunch today, didn't you?" Jake asks the kids.

 

"School pizza tastes like cardboard with sauce," his son replies.

 

It tastes like cardboard because that's what they're feeding you at school, " Adam chuckles.

 

"No Pizza; tonight, we'll have real food for dinner," Jake says.

 

A few hours later, after dinner, the kids run upstairs to get ready for bed, and their parents relax in the living room after a heavy dinner.

 

"Are kids sleeping, honey?" Shiva asks her husband.

 

"I hope so; I put them both in bed and read them a horror story to give them nightmares, too," Jake grins.

 

"They must be exhausted after the park activity," Kate says.

 

"You know we're lucky our kids get along; that makes our lives much easier," Jake comments. Others nod.

The lightheaded Kate, Jake, and Adam have their glasses of wine in their hands, cozying by the fire.

 

"As you guys know, Shiva is the main performer of the night," Adam announces.

 

"Yes, we know. What's the feature presentation for the birthday boy?" Jake asks his wife.

 

"Buckle up for this one, guys," Shiva methodically utters the words.

"Believe me, sweetie, knowing you, nothing you do freak us out," Kate chuckles.

 

"Just wait, guys; she has the real treat tonight. Go ahead, Shiva, unravel the mystery already; anxiety is killing us," Adam shouts.

 

Shiva walks to the back of the room and stands next to the large television screen.

 

Adam clicks off the Television on the remote control.

Shiva gingerly walks to the corner of the living room and stands as far as she can from her spectators, takes a deep breath, and peers into the eyes of the audience.

 

"C.G. Jung says: 'Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life, and you will call it fate.'" Shiva remarks, "I would like to read a narrative you never thought you'd hear in your lifetime. I truly hope these pages shed light on the darkest days of our lives; perhaps a story we all need to hear once and for all," she continues.

 

She then carefully removes an envelope from underneath the sofa cushion and, under the gaze of her anxious audience, pulls out a stack of paper from a yellow, worn-out manila envelope.

 

Jake and Kate suddenly freeze, seeing the ragged envelope in Shiva's hand.

 

"Is this…" Adam is unable to bring himself to finish his question.

 

"Oh! My God," Kate sighs in disbelief.

 

"Is this what I think it is?” Jake asks.

 

"You… Shiva; you didn't…" Kate's voice rattles.

 

No one expects ever to see this envelope again. They have the faintest idea of how to react to what is about to happen.

 

"I wouldn't read these pages or even open the envelope if Adam doesn't want me to," Shiva says.

 

"I think we should all see what's in these pages. How could we go on with our lives without knowing what happened to me, to all of us? What better time than now, tonight?" Adam gives his blessing after composing himself.

 

"I know what you're thinking now, seeing this envelope in my hand. More than Adam, I share your reservations. Maybe we should leave this chapter of our life unread and suppress it in the darkest labyrinth of our psyche, and maybe not. I've debated myself for years, and I could no longer have it on my conscience to keep this a secret, so I decided to bring this specter into the open, and I'm glad Adam is on board. My only  hope is we finally comprehend what we all went through for so long." Shiva's words reverberate in the room.


 

Chapter 2

Present Time

 

Every employee in the building senses the muffled wrath of the tornado. The hissing noise penetrates through the window cracks. Lights flicker, power goes out, and computers shut down. Adam takes his fingers off the keyboard and peers out the window. A humongous cedar not far from his office window shivers as its leaves fly away and branches crush down to the ground. As the sky suddenly grows darker, he fears the fury of nature. A massive dumpster in the parking lot is magically lifted a few inches off the ground and violently crushed back into place with an explosive noise. A few minutes later, the large-sized hails strike the window panes with a haunting beat.

 

"A thunderstorm is in our area! Everyone, leave your offices immediately and go to the basement, please," the area manager warns on the PA system.

 

All employees quickly leave their offices and cubicles toward the exit door. Adam pushes a button on his cell phone as he rushes out.

 

"Are you alright, honey?"

 

"Yes, how about you?" his wife responds.

 

"I'm fine. The power is out in the office. I leave early today as soon as it calms down."

 

"It's not as bad in our area," Kate says.

 

"I'll call you as soon as it's over," Adam says.

 

"Bye, love you."

 

Adam clicks an app on his phone and watches the local weather channel.

 

"200 homes are severely damaged in the Puget Sound area, and thousands more lost power. The wind gust is estimated to reach as high as 80 miles per hour in the western Washington state counties."

 

Ten minutes later, the power is restored in the building. Lights are back on, and computers are rebooting. Employees return to their work areas.

 

April walks by Adam's office and stops in the door frame. Adam is sitting behind his desk, staring at the monitor.

 

"I wonder how much data I've lost," he comments.

 

"We just dodged the bullet, didn't we?" April says.

 

"Tell me about it. I saw how powerful it was, and it lifted the dumpster off the ground; it weighed hundreds of pounds. I thought it would sweep the entire building off the foundation," Adam comments.

 

"It scared the hell out of me too; thank God, it's over," an employee's voice is heard.

 

"I just heard on the news that a storm has already passed through the Seattle area," April, the office receptionist, says.

 

"Not one second too soon. I cannot believe such violent weather here in Seattle; I've never seen anything like this." Adam takes a deep breath.

 

"The weather pattern in the entire world has altered. We had a record heat this past summer, then brush fire, and now this shit. I feel like I'm still in Texas," Michael from the cubicle across Adam's office comments.

 

"Climate change is a bitch, and we better get used to it. It looks like we're in this mess for the long haul," Adam says.

 

"Stupid humans finally managed to screw the planet," another employee remarks.

 

"Hey, you have a birthday coming up, right?" April asks Adam.

 

"In a few weeks."

 

"Is wife planning another trip this year?"

 

"Hopefully, not like the one we took last year." Adam chuckles. "Gambling is a Lose-Lose proposition, especially for me," he continues.

 

"Why don't you two visit the Bahamas this year? There're lots of cruise packages online."

 

"Not a bad idea. The final price tag would be less than a trip to the sin city," Michael grins.

 

"Casinos know how to shake the disposable income off you," Adam chuckles.

 

April shows a picture on her phone to Adam, "Look at this, guys."

 

"Isn't this one of the Escher's works?" Adam says as he squints at the image of two hands drawing one another. Michael stretches his neck to see the artwork.

 

"Yes, it is the same concept as Escher's work, but this one was drawn hundreds of years before Escher was even born," April says.

        

"Oh, that's interesting," Adam says.

 

"We draw ourselves in life," Michael comments.

 

"Believe it or not, this photo showed up on my phone right after the storm. It popped up on the screen by itself," April says.

 

"If it's not Escher's work, whose is it?" Michael asks.

 

"An unknown artist did it. The caption says it was taken from a collection of artworks done by ancient, obscure artists," April says.

 

"Kate would be interested to see this; she's into stuff like that. I'll look up the artist on the net," Adam says.

 

"I already did search online sources, I found nothing on the art, the artwork is not signed, and there is no information on the artist either," April says.

 

"Infinite loops; what an enigmatic concept," Adam pensively comments.

 

"Circular logic; that's what this is. A logic that its premises are rational but not necessarily its conclusions or vice versa," Michael says.

 

"Hmm, I'll stop by the bookstore and get the book; this is an intriguing subject to explore with friends tonight," Adam says.

 

He dials home. Kate picks up.

 

"I'll be home a little late."

 

"How late is late? Remember, we have guests tonight. Salad and entertainment are your responsibilities."

 

"Yes, I know."

 

Adam leaves the office and exits the building while talking on his cell phone. It's still pouring when he gets to his car, now covered with leaves and brush. The parking lot is trashed with the contents of ruptured trash bags, leaves, and fallen branches.

 

"Storm has messed up everything here," Adam says over the phone.

 

"Is the car damaged?" Kate asks.

 

"It doesn't seem to be. I'll be home in half an hour."

 

"You didn't say why?"

 

"Today, our receptionist showed me an interesting photo." Adam is on the speaker while driving.

 

"What picture?"

 

"Have you seen the artwork from Escher that two hands are drawing one another?"

 

"Yes, I have."

 

"This artwork has a similar concept, but the artist drew it hundreds of years before Escher was even born,"

 

"What did you say the artist's name was?"

 

"The artwork is not signed, and there is no information on the artist, but I swear I could make out some characters on this picture?"

 

"Text me the picture," Kate says.

 

"I'm not in the office now, and I don't know how to look it up anyway. I'll stop by the bookstore on the way and get the book. April says the book has lots of similar artworks. This artwork will be a great subject for our conversation tonight."

 

"Who is April?" The question does not strike Adam as innocuous. A wife's question like that is never benign, and Adam knows that.

 

"Our receptionist," He's flustered.

 

"What letters?" Kate asks.

 

"What do you mean what letters? I didn't say anything about letters," Adam startles.

 

"You said something about letters on the artwork." Kate clarifies.

 

"Oh, you mean the characters on the drawing. I'll show you when you see this drawing tonight. Shiva may have a better idea of what they are."

 

"Adam, you're so excited. Save your passion for the weekend. You need to take care of me…"

 

I promise you a superior performance tonight."

 

"A lasting performance, I hope," Kate says.

 

"For sure, longer than five minutes; that's my vow to you. Seriously, Kate, the fact that someone thought of such a concept in the Middle Ages is quite impressive."

 

"Alright, Mister; just don't be too late. Shiva and Jake will be here at seven. And speaking of mysticism, remember the perplexed lettuce, enchanted green onions, enigmatic mushrooms, and bewitched cherry tomatoes are waiting for you to make sense of their murky destiny by the touch of your exotic salad dressing tonight."

 

"Ha, ha, very funny," Adam says.

 

"You need to make more of your magical dressing; we don't have enough," Kate says.

 

"Oh shoot, I forgot all about that. Do we have enough garlic, peanut butter, and cilantro?"

 

"Let me see."

 

Kate walks to the pantry and inspects the refrigerator.

 

"Yeah, yeah, and yeah, see you soon," she responds.

 

"Love you. I won't be late, half-hour max."

 

Adam touches the end call bottom on the phone and slips it inside his shirt's pocket. A few minutes later, he pulls into the strip mall, parks the car, enters the bookstore, and walks to the counter where a young woman stands.

 

"May I help you?"

 

 explains the picture he'd seen in the office.

 

"Hum. Let me look it up in our database."

 

The search doesn't yield results.

 

"Sorry, sir. I cannot find any titles containing artworks from unknown artists, but let's walk to the art section at the back of the store. Some books on sale may have pictures of ancient art."

 

"No worries. I will go on my own and look; thanks for the help."

 

"You welcome, sir. I hope you find what you're looking for."

 

Adam walks to the back isles of the store. He picks a few books and fans through the pages and finally comes across "Undiscovered Arts." As he glances through the pages, he finds a little picture of the same artwork he saw today, and the caption reveals that it was drawn in the Middle Ages. The work had no description, title, or the creator's name. Adam picks up the book, and as he heads back to the front counter, he notices a large-sized book titled "Crime Scene Photographs of the New York City Police Department from 1950 to 2000".

 

The unusual nature of the book and its title capture his attention, so he pauses for a few seconds and gazes at that book's cover photo. As he glances through the book's pages, he realizes he has no time to look at the images, so he grabs this book and walks to the register to pay.

 

"Did you find what you were looking for?" The same young woman behind the counter asks.

 

"I did, and I'll take this one too."

 

"This Crime Photo Book is actually on clearance, 75% off of the already discounted price; it must be the last one in stock; it's practically free," the bookseller says with a smile, "how would you like to pay?" she continues.

 

Adam opens his wallet and pays cash for the books.

 

The clerk rings up the items.

 

"Would you like a bag for your books?"

 

"No thanks."

 

"The receipt?"

 

"No thanks; I don't think I'll return them." He smiles.

 

"Have a great weekend, sir."

 

"You too."

 

Adam leaves the bookstore, gets in his car, tosses the book on the passenger side seat, and heads home. Kate is in the kitchen when her husband walks in.

 

"This is the aroma of heaven," Adam shouts as he walks into the house.

 

“It's Chateaubriand," Kate hollers back.

 

Adam walks into the kitchen as his wife pours wine into her glass. She then grabs a beer out of the refrigerator, hands it to her husband, and receives a passionate kiss in return.

 

"Did you find the book you're looking for?" Kate asks.

 

"Yeah, as a matter of fact, I did, but now let's go upstairs; I have a surprise for you." He utters these salacious words after a gulp of beer while groping her body.

 

"I have a lot of work to do here."

 

"C'mon baby, I'm in a bit of a jam."

 

"Dinner's in the oven; I've got to pull it out in ten minutes."

 

“I pull it out in long before, you know that…"

 

"Didn't you promise a superior performance?"

 

"You know I never last that long. The average is three to seven minutes, and if you don't believe me, look it up; please, please, please." He begs.

 

"You have no shame, do you?"

 

"Why should I be ashamed of wanting my wife?"

 

"Performing in one-act play is what you should be ashamed of. Next time you go to the bookstore, buy a popup book on Kamasutra; maybe you will learn a thing or two on how to please your wife in bed…" Kate wags her index finger at her husband.

 

"Ten minutes is longer than average," Adam pleads in agony.

 

"Yeah, for squirrels."

 

"This is your final warning, woman; satisfy my miserable urges right now, or I have no choice but to violate myself watching you right here and right now."

 

"Don't ruin your appetite; save for tonight, honey."

 

She loses the argument and walks upstairs. Adam tussles to undress her as she barely gets a chance to step into the bedroom.

 

"I told them to be here at seven," Kate says.

 

Adam looks at his watch.

 

"It's only six thirty."

 

"They're on their way… Oh! Hmm! What about dressing…" She utters the words with her legs up in the air.

 

The entire whimsical affair lasts less than five minutes.

 

"Adam, you broke another record," the wife says as she composes herself and returns to the kitchen.

 

When the doorbell sounds, Kate is in the kitchen, and Adam is collapsed on the sofa.

 

"Would you open the door?" Kate shouts.

 

"Yeah, I got it."

 

Adam leaps off the sofa, tucks in his shirt, and fists his fingers through his hair.

 

"Do I look decent?" he asks his wife.

 

"Zip up!" Kate screams, stretching her neck to inspect her husband.

 

Adam zips up his pants and staggers to open the door.

 

"Hey, guys. Come on in," he greets the guests.

 

"Excuse me for a second; my hands are not clean, working on dressing…"

 

Adam then runs to the bathroom and, a few moments later, comes back, shakes hands with Jake, and kisses Shiva. Guests walk into the living room.

 

"What are you cooking, girl? The aroma is heavenly!" Jake hollers.

 

"I'm starving," Shiva says.

 

Kate walks out of the kitchen and hugs her friends. Adam sprints into the kitchen. "I need a few minutes to make the dressing, guys. I'll be right out," he shouts from the kitchen.

 

"You should either give us a bottle of your exotic dressing tonight or reveal your secret recipe," Shiva shouts back. "I tried to make it a couple of times based on Kate's version of your recipe, and the result was not satisfactory; well… how do I articulate it without being rude…" she grinned.

 

"Being politically correct is not your strong suit, dear," Jake tells his wife.

 

"Well, Kate doesn't exactly know all the secrets, though," Adams shouts from the kitchen.

 

"She sure acted like she knew what the hell she was talking about, and I wasted a lot of fresh ingredients as a result, not once but twice," Shiva grumbles.

 

"Do you see, guys, how my husband behaves? After years of being a beautiful and faithful wife, he still has secrets. God only knows what else he's hiding from me," Kate grins as she sets up the table with Shiva's help.

 

"Adam's recipes are artistic creations wrapped in mystery. It takes time and effort for the laymen to discover them," Shiva sarcastically comments.

 

A few minutes later, the table is set, and all four are seated. Adam pours wine into glasses. Kate serves the salad.

 

"Shiva will be rewarded for her sycophantic compliment by a bottle of my exotic dressing," Adam declares.

 

"Why don't you give her your recipe?" Kate asks.

 

"Oh no, my dear; my secrets go to the grave with me."

 

"Hmm, Chateaubriand; I love this dish," Shiva says.

 

"Did you guys know that Chateaubriand was an author and a diplomat who worked for Napoleon?" Jake asks.

 

"Was he a chef, too?" Shiva asks.

 

"No, but this dish was prepared for him by his chef. That's where the name comes from."

 

After dinner, four friends sit in the living room.

 

"Oh boy! I overstuffed myself tonight," Jake says.

 

"Me too; I have to do an extra cardio tomorrow," Shiva says. "It was perfect, thank you guys," she continues.

 

“Coffee, anyone?" Kate asks.

 

Shiva reaches inside her purse and fishes out a small bottle of Irish Cream.

 

"I almost forgot. Jake brought this tonight to enhance our coffee experience.

 

"Thanks, Jake, but we have some Bailey's Irish Cream," Kate says.

 

"But this is not Bailey's, my dear. This is authentic coffee liquor from Costa Rica. I found it in the World's Market," Jake says.

 

"Thanks, Jake," Adam says.

 

“Kate said you have a surprise for us tonight, Adam. We're so excited," Shiva says.

 

Adam picks up the art book off the shelf, flips through the pages, and shows the image he'd seen in the office to his guests.

 

"Two hands of the same man, each drawing the other, I've seen similar concepts in Escher's work," Shiva comments.

 

"Yes, I have Escher's rendition of this concept too, but this obscured artist did this more than five hundred years ago," Adam says.

 

"Really? That's interesting to know," Shiva pensively remarks.

 

"And he must have been from your part of the world, too," Adam says.

 

"Hmm. Let me see." Shiva scoots over closer to Adam and carefully examines the picture.

 

"Why would you say that?" Shiva asks Adam.

 

"Adam's right; the artist scribbled something next to these two hands," Kate says while pointing at the characters written between the two hands of the drawing.

 

"Maybe he signed his work," Jake says.

 

"I cannot make out what it is," Adams says.

 

"Look, look carefully!" Shiva says.

 

"Look at what?"

 

"These look like Persian alphabets in cursive," Shiva says.

 

"Can you make out what they are?" Adam asks.

 

"I can see three characters," Jake says.

 

"Don't these characters look like Arabic alphabets?" Jake asks his wife.

 

"Arabic and Persian languages share the same alphabets except four extra ones in Persian. Shouldn't you know that by now? How many years have we been married?" Shiva gripes.

 

"Oh! Sorry, honey."

 

Shiva focuses on the engraved curves of characters on the drawing.

 

"The straight line on the right must be an A," Kate says as she has the Persian alphabet on her laptop, trying to match any of those characters with the ones on the artwork.

 

"Now look at the middle character," Shiva says.

        

"Doesn't it look like the "greater than" symbol on the keyboard?" Jake says.

 

"Yes, it does. It's a D in the Persian alphabet." Shiva continues.

 

"And the last letter on the left is an M," Kate says.

 

"The artwork is signed MDA in Persian? What does that mean?" Jake asks.

 

"These characters form the name Adam in Persian," Kate says.

 

"But Adam has four letters," Adam says.

 

"We write it with only three. The D character has an accent we don't use, so in Persian, Adam is written with three letters."

 

"And the letters are backward," Jake says.

 

"We write from right to left," Shiva says.

 

"The artist signed his name Adam." And she writes in Persian below the picture to make her point.

 

"Do you think the artist signed his name? Was his name Adam?" Adam asks.

 

"Isn't that a nice coincidence?" Jake says.

 

"Adam in Farsi means human, but it has another meaning," Shiva says.

 

"What else does it mean?" Adam asks.

 

"In addition to the name of the infamous jerk Adam who ruined Eve's life, of course, Adam means man or human," Shiva chuckles.

 

"This is so fascinating," Kate says.

 

"People write their destinies," Shiva says.

 

"That's what my coworker said this morning when he showed this artwork to us, too," Adam says.

 

"Here you go again. My wife is shifting into her eerie mode," Jake says.

        

"You're right, Shiva; perhaps things happen for a reason unknown to us," Kate confirms Shiva's point.

 

Adam is quiet. He looks a little pale. "Isn't it a little strange that this artwork suddenly appeared on a coworker's phone after the power outage today?" he asks.

 

"I believe we are here on earth for a reason, and there is a purpose to our lives," Shiva remarks.

 

"Didn't you come home with two books in your hand, Adam?" Kate asks her husband to change the subject.

 

"Yes, but the other book is depressing. I don't want to ruin the night."

 

"We're already in the Twilight Zone tonight. Bring it on, my friend," Jake says.

 

"Are you all sure?"

 

"Hell yeah, let's see what you've got," Shiva says.

 

Adam grabs the other book he bought today.

 

"This is a book of dead people. Are you guys still interested?"

 

"Corpses always go well with liquored coffee. Long live death!" Shiva raises her glass and toasts.

 

All raise their glasses. "Long live death!" They chant before bursting into laughter.

 

"What possessed you to buy this book, Adam?" Jake asks.

 

"The title caught my eye. Besides, it was shelved right next to the art book I was looking for. It must have been misplaced because I found the other one in the clearance section, but this one wasn't on sale. I paid full price for it."

 

"Destiny, my dear, destiny. Maybe you meant to buy this book," Kate is tipsy.

 

Adam sits down and opens the large book titled: "Crime Scene Photographs of the New York City Police Department from 1950 to 2000". He reads the title out loud.

 

Shiva is stunned seeing the book in Adam's hand.

 

"These vintage black and white snapshots of the victims seem more like paintings than photos. Don't you think so, Shiva?" Kate asks.

 

"Yeah, they're all mystical renditions of ended lives," Shiva responds while trying to avoid looking at the book.

 

"Dear, you haven't looked at the victims yet, and you're already spooked out?" Jake asks his wife.

 

"I have a bad feeling about this," Shiva says.

 

Adam flips through pages showing crime victims of each year and stops at the crime scene photo of the year 1963.

 

"Why did you stop at the year 1963 victim?" Shiva asks Adam.

 

"This is the year he was born," Kate says.

 

"Maybe we should do this later, not tonight," Shiva's voice rattles.

 

"What about exploring the unknown? Walking in the dark side? Don't these things interest you anymore?" Jake asks his wife.

 

"Shut up, Jake. This is not the time to joke," Shiva shrieks in an intimidating tone.

 

Adam's gaze is fixated on the body of the victim on the floor. The crime victim is facing down with his right hand stretched out. The caption reads: "This picture was taken from the second floor of an apartment building from where he plummeted to his demise."

        

"Look!" Adam shouts with a trembling voice.

 

"Look at what?" Jake asks.

 

"Look at the date of the murder. It's on April 12, 1963, my exact birthday."

 

"What a weird coincidence, a perfect spoiler for a lovely evening." Shiva tries to lighten up the mood as she attempts to grab the book off Adam's hands.

 

"It's weird, alright. Well, enough deaths and coincidences for one night. Let's watch a funny movie," Kate says while snatching the book off her husband's hand and slamming it shut.

 

"Funny movie? Who cares about funny movies? I'm just warmed up to see more dead people," Jake says.

 

"Jacob! Shut the hell up." Shiva screams at her husband.

 

"Why?"

 

"Just shut up. Excuse me, everyone. I have to go to the bathroom."

 

Shiva limps out of her chair and sprints out of the room to the bathroom. She splashes water on her face and watches herself in the mirror.

 

"Oh! God, what have I done?" She weeps in agony. "What have I done," she cries out the rasping words.

 

Others in the room are silent. Jake and Kate watch Adam melting in their presence.

 

Shiva wipes her tears and mops her nose. Her makeup is ruined; black tears are running down her cheeks as terror has captured her entire being.

 

"Is Shiva alright, Jake?" Adam asks.

 

"I don't know what came over her so suddenly," Jake answers.

 

Kate walks to the bathroom and knocks on the door.

 

"Shiva, are you OK?"

 

"Just give me a minute. I'll be out." She utters the rasping words, not knowing how to face Adam.

 

"Let me know if you need anything?" Kate asks.

 


 

Chapter 3

5 Years Earlier

 

"Honey, remember to keep your mouth shut while you're in his office; behave, you hear me?" Jake says.

        

"I solemnly swear to keep my mouth shut…" Shiva takes a vow of silence with her right hand in the air.

 

"I'm not kidding; control your temper; otherwise, you'll blow it," Jake cautions his wife.

 

"You know how difficult it is for me to keep my mouth shut when I should?" Shiva grins.

 

"Once and for all, get it into your thick skull. Publishers don't give a rat's ass about your idealism. You're going there to sign a lucrative book deal not to preach and certainly not to pick a fight with the publisher,"

 

"You're an idiot. I don't know why I love you," Shiva kisses her husband.

 

"You love me because I have everything you lack; I'm the personification of your deficiencies."

 

"And what are those deficiencies?"

 

"Reason and sanity, especially when they're needed the most. Honey, I don't want you to lose this chance; remember, a well-known publisher is flying you in and winning and dining you because they're interested in your writing craft, not your idealism. Your altruism is irrelevant if no one reads your writing, right? It would help if you got published first," Jake reasons.

 

"What a predicament; I should believe in something and write another; otherwise, I can't make a living in this damn world," Shiva gripes.

 

"You're a good writer, and you should do everything you can to get published; that should be your priority. You're not going to New York City to make a point; you're going to that meeting to close a deal and sign a contract, that's all. When you go to that meeting, stay calm and try not to insult the publisher. Is that too much to ask?"

 

"I'll do my best." Shiva sighs.

 

"If you exercise discretion, we will enjoy a supplement to our income," Jake comments.

 

"I said I would do my best not to offend anyone; what else do you want me to say?"

 

"Do you want me to go with you to that meeting? You can introduce me to the publisher as your emotional support animal.

 

"Don't be ridiculous, Jake."

 

"Random House is one of the largest and most prestigious publishers in the world, and they're showing interest in your work; that's a great opportunity. Most writers kill to get to the point you're in now."

 

"I get the point. I have no intention to mess up this opportunity."

 

"I'll keep my fingers crossed," Jake's apprehension is returned by a smirk from his wife.

 

"Oh! I'm not too fond of this smirk on your face. It means you disagree with a word I just said."

 

Shiva's wider smirk affirms her previous one.

 

"I know you will do whatever you want to do. I don't know why I bother to talk to you."

 

Shiva gives a passionate kiss to her husband before getting out of the car at the airport gate.

 

The flight to New York City is, and Shiva is prepared to alleviate the boredom. She watches a movie on her iPad, listens to music for an hour, and spends a few hours reading C G Jung's writing on collective consciousness, archetypes, Personality type INFJ's shadow, and the existence of God. When the plane finally lands late afternoon, she takes a cab to the hotel and checks in. When she changes her time on her watch, she realizes it's too late to go out for a walk. After settling in the room, she walks down to the hotel restaurant for dinner and goes to bed early that night.

 

The following day, she takes a hot shower and dresses up more formally than usual. She takes the elevator to the lobby, where the complimentary breakfast table is set up, pours a cup of coffee, and sits in the secluded section. She then opens her purse and removes a small container filled with her homemade sour cherry jam; she methodically spreads cream cheese on one half of the fresh New York-style bagel and smothers the other half with cherry jam, then carefully mates the two halves with a delicate force fantasizing of her lovemaking of the night before and takes a lustful bite. After breakfast, she walks outside and hails a cab in the sea of yellow cabs in the streets of Manhattan. One stops at her feet; she hops in and gives the address to the driver. The bustling streets of New York and the active life of people in this city always fascinate her.

 

She arrives at the destination and waits for half an hour, checking her email and reading the news on her phone, and reviews her email exchanges with the publisher she was about to meet. The time passes faster than expected, and she attributes that to the new electronic gadgets. She's called into the office. Shiva walks in, shakes Mr. Shuster's hand, and anxiously waits for the publisher's gambit.

 

The well-dressed publisher in his sixties has a copy of her manuscript printed on his desk. It seems to the writer that every other file, manila envelope, and a pile of papers is intentionally stacked up on the two sides of the desk to showcase her manuscript in the middle. There is nothing between the two but her writing.

 

"Did you have a good flight? How was your hotel room?"

 

"It was a wonderful trip, and I had a great time last night, thank you."

 

"Is this your first trip to this wonderful city?"

 

"I've been here once before as a young girl, but it was a long time ago. I don't remember much."

 

"This city has a lot to offer if one can find a decent place to live at a reasonable price and parking spot, of course," he chuckles.

 

Shiva returns a faint smile.

 

"I am sorry I couldn't get you approved for a two-night stay…"

 

"No worries, I prefer to come back in the future with my husband and stay a week or two."

 

"Hopefully, you'll come back soon for a book signing," he smiles.

 

"Let's hope so. That would make my husband a happy camper."

 

"I liked your novel, and I think it has great potential. It's well written. I'm especially intrigued by the way you see the world. Your vision is bizarre and twisted yet fascinating; it keeps readers enthralled. Your ghostly characters have unique perspectives on life…"

 

"Then why do I get this vibe that there is "but" coming up next?" Shiva interjects.

 

"You're intelligent enough to see what I'm getting at."

 

"It wouldn't sell the way it is. Is that what you are trying to say?"

 

"Don't jump to conclusions, my dear; I didn't say that."

 

"Then I don't know what you're getting at."

 

"We're in the publishing business; it's a business after all. We have to protect our interest, too."

 

"Mr. Shuster, would you get to the point, please?"

 

"I need to hook you up with a good editor,"

 

"What for?"

 

"To guarantee your commercial success."

 

"Mr. Shuster, I appreciate your interest in my work, but I'm afraid I don't understand where you're going with this, and I have a flight to catch in a few hours. So, would you please tell me exactly what the problem is?"

 

"There is a delicate balance I have to maintain between the originality and marketability of a novel. We flew you in because I liked your writing, and we're willing to invest in your work. You need to work with us so we can polish it a little."

 

"How polished would you like to see it, Mr. Shuster?" Shiva snarls.

 

"Enough to get a good return on our investment and get you thousands of readers, tens or even hundreds of thousands."

 

"I cannot make drastic modifications to my novel without compromising the integrity of the novel. I made this point clear to you in my emails."

 

"Don't get me wrong, I don't see anything wrong with the structure; I loved it. But I'm not an average reader. We must have the average readers in mind in publishing. Readers are the ones who pay for books. People are not into reading open-ended stories. Your novel doesn't offer a full resolution. It's a little too vague, too abstract to appease mainstream readers."

 

"I have no problem with making some modifications as long as the essence of what I wrote stays intact."

 

"I don't think you need to butcher your work, but a little makeover doesn't hurt."

 

"My novel is not a melodrama, and I will not turn it into one."

 

"Melodrama has a negative connotation. I want to make it more publishable. We will all get what we want; we all benefit, you, us, and readers."

 

"Would you be clearer about what you plan to do with my book?" Shiva is losing her temper.

 

"Well, I'll assign a very talented editor to work on your novel, but before investing time in this project, we need to have a contract signed so you give us full authority…"

 

"So I wouldn't have a say in what is published under my name?"

 

"We're the publisher. We make necessary adjustments to make the project successful."

 

"I am willing to work with your editor, but I should approve what the final draft would look like."

 

"But that's not how we operate. The only time you get to publish what you write just the way you wrote it is when you're a renowned author."

 

"And to become a renowned author, I must go with the flow and write whatever sells?"

 

"Well, that's one way of looking at it, but we don't see it that way. We both need to work together to guarantee a favorable outcome for all parties involved, " Mr. Shuster shrugs.

 

"Maybe I'm better off writing a damn book on spiritual healing or a quick guide on how to please a bed partner?"

 

"Plenty of those on bookstore shelves, and they sell, but we have our niche in that market. We're looking for powerful novels that sell. Look at it this way: you're emotionally and intellectually attached to your work, and we're financially interested in it. That's why we need to work together; it's that simple."

 

"I just can't change the structure of my novel to fit the market's needs; it won't be my novel."

 

"Mainstream readers are the bread and butter of our business."

 

"With all due respect and discretion, screw your bread and butter, I don't write what an audience wants me to write, that's all there's to it."

 

"Well, I shared our perspective with you, and I hope you reconsider. The offer is still on the table, but not for a long time."

 

"I don't think I can let you do whatever you want with my writing in exchange for money; I'm sorry."

 

Shiva furiously snatches her manuscript off the desk and storms out of the office, slamming the door behind her.

 

She leaves the building, cursing the publisher, and aimlessly wanders in busy streets. When she calms down and stops talking to herself, she walks into a crowded bakery shop and orders a cup of coffee and an Almond Danish. She pays for her order and sips her coffee; then, she walks outside to the patio and sits at the only available table. She lights up a cigarette and inhales deeply to clear her head.

 

A few minutes later, an older man dressed in shabby clothes appears by her table.

 

"May I sit here; all other chairs are taken?" the man asks.

 

"Certainly," Shiva responds while scanning the tables on the patio to verify his claim.

 

The man sits.

 

"I appreciate it. I won't bother you," the man says.

 

Shiva smiles.

 

"And I won't say a word unless you initiate a conversation," he grins.

 

"It's too late for that," Shiva remarks as the man takes a bite of his sandwich.

 

"Forgive me for being rude. I'm not having a good day," Shiva says.

 

"It's too early to call it a bad day, don't you think?"

 

"I just screwed up a great opportunity; my husband was right; I have a knack for screwing things up."

 

"What did you mess up today, if you don't mind telling me?"

 

"I just blew a sure contract on publishing my book with a prestigious publishing house."

 

"Dealing with publishers is a daunting task."

 

"Do you work with them too?"

 

"Yeah, you could say that."

 

"Are you a writer?"

 

"No, not exactly."

 

"So, how are you involved with these bastards?"

 

"I used to be a crime scene investigator, and years later, I became a detective."

 

"That's an interesting line of work."

 

"Yes, it was. You get to see bizarre things in this business."

 

"People like you should write. You never run out of stories to tell."

 

"That's true, but not all stories should be told," the man pensively comments.

 

"So, how are you associated with publishers then?"

 

"Well, for a long time, I had a large collection of photographs of crime scenes that caught the attention of a publisher. He offered to publish some of them in a book, and since I had experience in the field, he asked me to select the photos for publication."

        

"What kind of book is it?

 

"It's a book of Crime Scene Photographs of the New York City Police Department. I'm supposed to select only one murder victim each year and write a short caption."

 

"Pictures of crime victims?"

 

"Well... They are not necessarily crime victims. Police investigators categorized them as such because some were mysteries."

 

"What's your selection criteria?" Shiva enthusiastically asks. "There must have been tons of victims to choose from, especially in this city," she chuckles.

 

"You're right about that. I was personally involved in many of those investigations and knew about so many others. Most of these photos are now in the public domain. I know the details of some cases because of my job."

 

"Do you investigate these cases further before making recommendations to the publisher?"

 

"For most of them, yes, I already have. I cannot disclose any details of murder investigations if they're not on public record, even though I'd love to. I prefer to choose more intriguing ones because I know the tragic circumstances of those cases."

 

"This is so cool. You have all the qualifications to become a true crime writer."

 

"This publisher is more interested in the victims of mysterious cases for obvious reasons."

 

"Yeah, I know all about that; they sell better. I bet that was what the publisher told you, right?"

 

"That's exactly what he said."

 

"You're making money off dead people; that's a good gig," Shiva grins.

 

"To me, sometimes the simplest cases were the most mysterious ones and vice versa."

 

"How so?"

 

"Death is so mystifying to me, but I admit some deaths were more puzzling than others. I couldn't wrap my head around them."

 

"I have a confession to make: I make money off dead people too, at least I try," she grins. "The damn publisher says my novel lacks full resolution. Isn't that absurd? What could be more final than death? How can death be open-ended? I have no clue," she drones.

 

"A tale of an ambiguous death or death after an ambiguous life, these two lack final resolutions, in my opinion. These two are mysteriously intertwined, you see; that makes them open-ended allegories, I believe."

 

"It's ironic. Most writers write without having a real story to tell, and you're sitting on a trove of untold tales, and you don't write."

 

"It's a bizarre sentiment to have, but sometimes I feel I was in a way involved or how should I say instrumental or even in a way responsible for some of those deaths I investigated," the man says.

 

"That's nonsense. You always met your victims after the fact; they were already flat-lined. I, on the other hand, am very responsible for the demise of my victims. I write devious plots to murder innocent people. If one of us should have a guilty conscience, I'm the one, not you."

 

"I know it's absurd to feel how I feel, but weirdly, I may have helped…"

 

"Oh! That's not the case; you're not responsible for anyone's death; take my word for it."

 

"And today, I'm ambivalent about selecting a photo."

 

"Pick the victim of the most puzzling case. Isn't that what the publisher prefers?"

 

"That's what I'm trying to do, but I'm stumbling over the victim of one particular year."

 

"What's so special about that year?"

 

"I feel weird picking out a victim for 1963."

 

"If you were choosing a victim in Dallas, I would suggest the JFK's murder. No one's death was more mysterious than his."

 

"Unfortunately, he was not assassinated in New York City," the man chuckles.

 

"JFK's death is publicized to death anyway, pun intended. Besides, JFK's photo in the book takes all the attention away from other victims. That wouldn't be fair to others, would it?" Shiva grins.

 

"That's true, too."

 

"If you, Sir, have reservations about selecting a victim, let me assist you. I have a knack in this field of expertise as I've taken so many lives in my novels with no remorse. Let me do the dirty work for you."

 

The man opens a huge portfolio packed with photographs of murder victims in 1963 and scatters them on the table. One photo instantly catches Shiva's eyes: the victim, who had a small object beside his body slightly outside the chalk outline. She swiftly plucks that one and hands it to the man.

 

"Here it is your lucky victim."

 

"Why this one?" the man asks.

 

"This picture is somehow different than others. I bet the little object by the body is somehow significant; it has some history behind it and probably unravels a mystery of his death."

 

"I hoped that little spot in the photo would've helped me investigate his death, but it didn't. Anyway, you've been a great help, young lady; thank you so much. His death is now on your conscience." The man has a morbid smile on his face.

 

"No sweat. I take the responsibility with pleasure. This fascinating conversation with you was the highlight of my day. You alleviated my anger and frustration. Here is my contact information. Please stay in touch. We can help one another in the future. I can use your insight."

 

"For a nominal fee, I hope," the man slyly adds while giving her his contact information.

 

"Of course; I have a flight to catch. I better go back to my hotel room and pack."

 

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Shiva," the man reads her name off the business card.


 

Chapter 4

30 Years Earlier

 

The Battery Park on Saturday afternoon is inundated with tourists and visitors. A tour guide with a colorful megaphone walks into the park and authoritatively guides a large group of foreign tourists.

 

"Originally called Oyster Island, Ellis Island acquired its name from Samuel Ellis, a colonial New Yorker. At the mouth of the Hudson River, Ellis Island was once the main port of entry for immigrants entering the United States.

 

"How many immigrants come here every year?" A Japanese tourist asks.

 

"The peak year for immigration at Ellis Island was 1907, with more than a million immigrants processed," the tour guide explains.

 

A peddler carries a suitcase filled with watches, cuff links, sunglasses, and lighters. He also has a camera hanging around his neck and shoulder. An African tourist approaches him.

 

“Shiny watch," the African picks out one and comments in a thick accent.

 

"This is a fine timepiece, sir, a genuine replica of the original article."

 

The man shakes the watch violently close to his ears, "I want to make sure the hands don't fall off; the minute hand is a little wobbly," the tourist grins.

 

"If you shake me like that, my hands fall off too, sir," The peddler grumbles.

 

"I pay five dollars."

 

"No sir, the price tag says 30 dollars, you see here." He points to the tag of his haggling customer.

 

"Ten dollars, I buy two."

 

"Two for forty-five, that's the lowest I go."

 

The man pays twenty dollars, "Good?" he asks.

 

The vendor shakes his head in disbelief, "All right, it's a deal."

 

Another man separates from the tourists' pack and approaches the same vendor.

 

"These watches are fuck," he points to the watches in the showcase.

 

"Excuse me?" The park vendor responds.

 

A young girl quickly approaches the two men.

 

"No, Baba. Don't say this word in America; the word is fake. Excuse my father; he knows a few English words."

 

"And he's not using them in the right context either," the vendor chuckles.

 

"Are these watches fakes?" The young girl asks.

 

"Fake is an ugly word, young lady. They are genuine reproductions. A Rolex costs thousands of dollars, and this beauty is yours for only 30."

 

"If you think my father pays 30 dollars for this, you have another thing coming. My father used to paint frogs and sold them as Volkswagen beetles in Persian bazaars. The eight-year-old girl says with a smile on her face.

 

The buyer says something in Persian to Shiva.

"My dad is willing to pay ten dollars each, and he buys ten watches," the young girl offers.

 

"If you take ten, I let them go at a wholesale price of 12 dollars each."

 

"One hundred dollars for ten, and that's the final offer," Shiva counters.

 

"But you didn't ask your dad before making the offer?"

 

"I know my dad. $100 for ten, do we have a deal?"

 

The vendor points at the pile of watches and says: "Which ones do you like?"

 

Shiva's father selects ten of the shiniest ones and concludes the transaction.

"Haggling is in our blood," the young girl grins.

 

"He must love these watches. Does he collect them?" the vendor asks.

 

"Oh! No, He's not buying them for himself. He would never wear a fake watch. He's taking them back to our country as souvenirs for his employees."

 

The park vendor grabs his camera and takes a few snapshots of the tourists in the park.

 

"Do you mind if I take a picture of you and your father?"

 

"Not at all," Shiva responds, holding her father's hand and posing for the camera.

 

"Those with visible health problems or diseases were sent home. All immigrants were asked about their occupation and the amount of money they carried with them. Some unskilled workers were rejected outright because they were considered likely to become a public charge. About two percent of all immigrants who arrived at Ellis Island were denied admission to the U.S. The Island was sometimes known as The Island of Tears because of those who were not admitted after the long transatlantic voyage." The tour guide's voice echoes in his megaphone.

 

"Only two percent were rejected? Only two percent of immigrants is what we should've admitted if you ask me," the vendor whispers to himself while lighting a cigarette. He sits beside a water fountain and opens his small suitcase, still filled with souvenirs. He looks at his competitors, who are closing deals quicker than he could ever have. As he sets up his camera to take more snapshots, a young man walks by his suitcase and, after taking a glance at the merchandise, suddenly stops.

 

"How much is this lighter?" he points at the lighter with AA engraved on its case.

 

"This is an original Zippo, ten bucks. They don't make this style anymore, a vintage souvenir to last a lifetime."

 

"I'm interested because of the initials. My kid brother has no middle name. His initials are AA. I don't know if he smokes, though," the buyer chuckles.

 

"This should get him started," the vendor grins. "10% off regular price because you have a unique brother," he offers.

 

A customer reaches for his pocket.

 

It's getting darker. The park has lost its affinity, and most tourists have already disappeared.

 

The vendor slams his suitcase shut and leaves the park after a good business day.


 

Chapter 5

Present Day

 

Shiva hastily dabs makeup on her face and nudges the bathroom door ajar.

 

"Jake! I don't feel well, would you please come here?" she hollers.

 

"Coming, honey."

 

Jake rushes to the bathroom.

 

"Come in," Shiva whispers to her husband.

 

"What's going on?"

 

"Get in."

 

Jake gets inside the bathroom, and she locks the door.

 

"Let's go home," she says.

 

"Now?"

 

"Right now, Jake now."

 

"What is it with you tonight? You look like you've seen a ghost."

 

"I think I have." She wipes her tears.

 

"What the hell is wrong?"

 

"I'm sick." Shiva gasps for air.

 

"Why are you sobbing?"

 

"I can't... I can't tell you, not now and not here."

 

"OK, calm down." Jake takes a deep breath.

 

"Just hold me tight and help me out of here, please. Don't say a word."

 

"I don't know anything; what will I say?"

 

"Just take me home."

 

"You're scaring us."

 

Jake holds Shiva's arm, and they return to the living room.

 

"Sorry guys, but we have to leave. She doesn't feel well,"

 

Adam looks pale. He is holding his head with one hand, leaning over the sofa, and holding the coffee table with the other.

 

Shiva looks down to avert Adam's gaze.

 

"Wait. Jake, please take this damn book out of here. We had enough drama for one night," Kate says.

 

"Yeah, sure. I don't know what is happening tonight," Jake says.

 

"I don't know either. Sorry guys," Kate says as she slams the crime photo book shut and hands it over to Jake as they leave.

 

"Your husband and my wife are going cuckoo tonight. It must be the damn coffee liquor," Jake says, and Kate smiles.

 

"I'll find out what the hell just happened here. Sorry again for this freak show," Jake says as they leave.

 

"Yeah, call me when you feel better, Shiva," Kate says.

 

Jake and Shiva walk to their car parked in the driveway. Jake helps his wife sit in. He gets in, throws the book in the back seat, and drives.

 

"Would you fill me in, please?" Jake asks.

 

"Just drive out of here."

 

"You want to go home?"

 

"No, just drive for a while. I don't know what I want to do."

 

"What the hell happened back there?"

 

"You won't believe it even I told you. I can't believe it myself."

 

"Believe what? Tell me something, anything. Does it have anything to do with this book?"

 

"I'm not sure, honey."

 

"Did you see anything in the book?"

 

"Yeah. No, nothing like that."

 

"Why are you so freaked out? Anything I need to know?"

 

"I was involved."

 

"Involved in what?"

 

"I picked out that photo for the victim of 1963, the one in the book.

 

"How, where, why, when?"

 

"On my trip to New York. The trip I took to meet with the publisher five years ago."

 

"Why Adam was freaked out like that? What did that photo have anything to do with Adam?"

"I have a headache; my head's exploding."

 

"You're driving me crazy. Talk, woman, say something."

 

"The picture of the victim of the year 1963 who died on the same year Adam was born..."

 

"Yeah, then what?"

 

"I was the one who picked it out for the book five years ago. Isn't that strange?"

 

"Yes, it is a weird coincidence, but what does it have anything to do with Adam?"

 

"Adam's birthday is April 24, 1963; the exact date that victim died."

 

"You're nuts," Jake says.

 

"What do you mean I'm nuts? Don't you find it extremely bizarre?"

 

"There are a few nuts named after people like Filbert and Hazel. The nut association of America should name a nut after you, Shiva, the Persian nut."

 

"But the pistachio is the Persian nut."

 

"Believe me, you deserve the title, you're more qualified than the damn pistachio."

 

"Didn't you see how Adam was fixated on that photo?"

 

"Yes, I saw how he went berserk. I don't blame him for getting thrown off a little about all this, but you did not kill anybody, and Adam is not dead, and that's all there is to it. The whole thing is a series of weird coincidences, but we shouldn't let it ruin our night."

 

"A series of coincidences never happen by coincidence."

 

"Alright, let's go home and forget all about this charade already. We need to get some sleep." Jake drives back home.

 

The following day, Kate calls Shiva and puts her on speaker while searching on the net.

 

"Are you OK, Shiva?"

 

"Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry about last night," Shiva says.

 

"The damn book and the artwork ruined our evening," Kate says.

 

"Jake says the whole thing is a series of bizarre coincidences," Shiva says.

 

"What else could it be?"

 

"I… Is Adam OK?" Shiva cautiously asks.

 

"Whatever it was, it hit Adam hard. No, he's not OK. Something happened to him last night that I cannot understand."

 

"Let me come over to talk; we will sort it out."

 

"What's going on?" Kate's voice rattles, "Is there anything else I need to know?

 

"Whatever it is, we'll figure it out. I'll be there shortly."

 

Shiva grabs the car key and darts out of the house.

 

"Where're you going?" Jake asks.

 

"To Kate's"

 

"I'll go with you."

 

"Ok, Harry up."

 

Shiva drives.

 

"I don't think you should tell them about your involvement with the photo selection," Jake suggests in the car.

 

"They're our friends. They need to know."

 

"They need to know what? That you picked out a picture five years ago in New York? What does that piece of information have to do with anything anyway?"

 

"We need to get to the bottom of this?"

 

"Get to the bottom of what?"

 

They arrive at their destination.

 

"Jake, bring the book with you," Shiva orders her husband.

 

Kate, watching the street through the window, rushes to the door and opens it before they knock.

 

"What is going on, Shiva? Why did you bring this damn book back?"

 

"Where is Adam?" Jake asks.

 

"He left the house early in the morning without telling me. He couldn't sleep a wink last night. I've never seen him act like this. Shiva, do you have something to tell me?"

 

"Did he call?" Shiva asks.

 

"He left his phone here on the coffee table; he never forgets to take his phone with him. I'm so worried."

 

Adam aimlessly drives around town. His mind is racing; an endless series of images strikes his mind. Two hands drawing one another, crime scene photos, the dead man on the floor, purchasing the crime scene book, his birth date, and so many other thoughts rush through his mind in a flash; he cannot make sense of anything anymore. He falls into a catatonic state, an eerie trance, and loses control of the car. He runs a red light and barely misses the car entering the intersection. The incoming vehicle swirls to prevent the accident. Honking horns and gyration of the automobile bring him back to his senses; he slams on the brakes, and the car comes to a screeching halt. Adam's hands uncontrollably shake, glued to the steering wheel.

 

A police car with flashing lights and a loud siren stops behind him. The officer exits his patrol car and approaches the reckless driver's automobile. Adam is petrified. The officer walks to his vehicle and signals the driver to roll the window down. Adam nervously presses the button, and the window rolls down.

 

"License and registration, please," the Police officer asks.

 

Adam opens the glove compartment and pulls out the insurance card; his hand is visibly shaking, making it impossible to get his wallet out of his back pocket. The officer notices his unusual condition as he examines the document.

 

"That's OK, sir; I don't need to see your driver's license now. Are you alright, sir?"

 

"Yes, officer."

 

"You just ran the red light."

 

"I'm so sorry. I don't know what happened."

 

"Have you been drinking, sir?"

 

"It's ten in the morning, officer; of course not."

 

"Where're you going?

 

"Home."

 

"You were not driving safely. You almost caused a fatal accident back there. You could've killed yourself and others."

 

"I understand."

 

The police Officer writes the citation.

 

"Are you sure you're OK?"

 

"I'm fine, officer."

 

"Can you drive home safely, or do you need to call someone to come and get you?"

 

"I don't live far from here, officer."

 

"Please give your driver's license."

 

Adam reaches into his back pocket, pulls his license, and hands it over.

 

The police officer looks at the address on Adam's driver's license.

 

"This is what I'm going to do. I'm going to write you a citation, and then I escort you to your residence to make sure you get home without incident. OK?"

 

"Thank you."

 

The officer writes the ticket and gives back Adam's documents. Adam slowly drives home, followed by a police car. He pulls into his driveway and walks to the door. The officer gets out and follows him. Kate opens the door. Shiva and Jake rush out the door.

 

"What happened?" Kate asks the officer.

 

"Ma'am, I don't think your husband is feeling well. He just ran the red light in a busy intersection."

 

"Adam, are you OK?" Jake asks.

 

"I'm fine."

 

"Make sure he doesn't drive anywhere today; otherwise, he ends up in jail," the officer orders.

 

"Yes. He'll stay home. I appreciate your help, officer."

 

The police officer leaves the premises. Adam walks in and sees the book in Jake's hand. He seizes the book off Jake's hand and frantically pages through the book, and stops at the victim of the year 1963.

 

"Tell me, Shiva; tell me what is going on with this book and my husband; whatever it is, tell me." Kate wipes her tears.

 

Shiva doesn't dare to speak.

 

"Last night after you guys left, I searched this book on the net. I found nothing, not even one reference," Adam says.

 

"Did you check on Amazon too?" Shiva asks.

 

"Yes, and found nothing, as if this book was never published. I went to the bookstore and talked to them, too," Adam says.

 

"What did they say?" Shiva asks.

 

"They had no record of a book by this title," Adam says.

 

Kate looks at the back cover of the book.

 

"Look, there is no ISBN and no barcode on this book!" Shiva utters these words as she is hallucinating.

 

"I went to the Barnes & Noble this morning and talked to the bookseller who sold this book to me…"

 

"Then?" Jake asks.

 

"She remembered me, but she said I bought only one book yesterday, not two."

 

Kate notices the corner of a piece of paper sticking out of the pages and pulls it out.

 

"This is the receipt. One book was sold yesterday afternoon, and that was the compilation of arts of unknown artists," she says as she examines the receipt.

 

Shiva and Jake examine the receipt, too.

 

"But I bought this book yesterday afternoon from the same bookstore. I bought two books, I swear." Adam holds his head between his two hands. Moments later, he opens the Crime Scene book to the page showing the victim for the year 1963 and stares at the body of the victim lying face down.

 

"What is so extraordinary about this photo anyway? This guy died the same year as you were born." Shiva says.

 

"It's not only the same year; he died on the day I was born," Adam says.

 

"I bet there are thousands who died on the exact day you were born; what's the big deal? Our birth dates are not reserved for us only. I bet so many died the minute I was born," Jake argues.

 

"Jake has a point; we're all born and die someday, and there are only 365 days a year." Shiva downplays the coincidence while deep inside, she cannot forgive herself for her role in this sordid affair.

 

"How come only this victim has the exact date of his death and not others, which happens to be my birth date? Is that another coincidence ?" Adam says by pointing at the victim in the book. "Surely all these cannot be sheer coincidences," he continues.

 

"Now it's your turn, Shiva. What do you have to do with this picture?" Kate's stern words are threatening.

 

"Do you guys remember five years ago; I went to New York to meet a publisher about publishing my novel?"

 

"Yeah, what about it?" Kate asks.

 

"After I left the publisher's office, I met an old man in a coffee shop, a retired police officer who was working on a book."

 

"What book?" Kate asks.

 

"This book."

 

"What do you mean working on this book?" Adam asks.

 

"What did he have to do with anything?"

        

"He had many pictures to select from for this book…"

 

"And?" Kate asks.

 

"He wasn't sure which photo to choose for 1963."

 

"Then what?"

 

"And I..."

 

"You what?"

 

"I picked this one for him."

 

The room plunges into an eerie silence.

 

"Did the man tell you anything about this photo?" Adam asks.

 

"Not really."

 

"Oh! My God!" Kate sighs.

 

"Look at this photograph," pointing at the victim's photo, Adam shrieks. "Look at him, look at the victim."

 

Jake, Kate, and Shiva get closer to take a better look at the picture.

 

 

"What are you saying? We can't see his face." Jake says.

 

"It's me, damn it. I am the man in the picture," horror reverberates in Adam's voice.

 

"Are you out of your freaking mind? How could that be?" Jake asks.

 

"Adam, you're scaring us," Shiva says.

 

"None of these events are coincidences, don't you see?"

 

"What do you mean, the victim is you, Adam?" Kate asks.

 

"Adam points at the little blurry spot by the victim's body."

 

Everyone peers closely at the photo.

 

"Do you see that? Do you know what that is?"

 

"No, what is it?" Kate asks.

 

"That's my lighter on the floor next to the body. The one Ethan brought me from his New York trip when I was eight."

 

"How the hell do you know that?" Shiva asks.

 

"Be reasonable, Adam. The date of this man's murder and your birth date being the same is a weird coincidence. Shiva picking out this photo for this book is another weird coincidence, but don't make up more bizarre tales for us." Jake says.

 

"I warn you, sir, leave making up this mumbo jumbo to me. I'm the mystery writer, and even I can't concoct such an absurd story," Shiva rambles without believing what she's saying.

 

Adam points his trembling finger at the photo.

 

"I can even make out the 'AA' initials on the lighter's case."

 

"I still have this very lighter somewhere in the house."

 

"Do you have a magnifier?" Shiva asks Kate.

 

"Yes, let me get it."

 

"No, let's do it this way," Jake takes a snapshot of the picture with his phone and zooms on the spot by the body. They all focus on the spot.

 

"It looks like AA," Kate says.

 

"I will prove it to you all; this is the photo of my dead body."

 

Adam rushes out of the room and goes to the attic and frantically empties every box filled with old photos, knickknacks, odds, and ends, and finally finds the lighter his brother brought him from New York when he was very young. The lighter was still filled with fluid, as smoking never interested Adam. He remembered showing it off to his friends at school but never used it for what it was intended. He sprints back to the living room and parades the lighter before his skeptical audience first and then places the lighter next to the spot on the picture.

 

"This is my Zippo by the body," he assertively declares.

 

"If you have the lighter after all these years, how could it be with the dead guy?" Shiva asks.

 

"I can't explain it, I don't know. I cannot explain this, but I know one thing for sure."

 

"What?" Kate asks.

 

"I died the day I was born."

 

Kate collapses on the sofa.

 

"Now, do you all believe me?" Adam asks.

 

"These are not sheer coincidences; they can't be," Shiva says.

 

"Are you saying all these events are somehow linked?

How could they be; by whom and why, for what purpose?" Jake asks.

 

"How do you explain all these? I have no clue, but you're not dead. You did not die that day, and the victim in this book is not you," Kate says.

 

"I know someone who might be able to help us figure this thing out," Shiva suggests.

 

"Who's he? How do you know him? How can he help us with something like this?" Jake asks.

 

"Who's this guy?" Kate asks.

 

"Let me make some phone calls and arrange a meeting; if anyone can help, it would be him," Shiva says.

 

A week later, Adam and Shiva go to a used bookstore to meet Angel; they find him in the corner at the end of an

isle reading.

 

"Sorry for being late; you know how bad the traffic is in Seattle," Shiva says after kissing Angel on the cheek. Then, she introduces Adam.

 

"I understand you're going through many puzzling experiences," Angel tells Adam.

 

"It's been three weeks that I haven't gone to work. I cannot concentrate. Something is happening to me beyond logic. Shiva is a great admirer of you. She said you're not a typical psychologist," Adam says.

 

"She's right. I want you to know I'm not a psychologist per se. Although I have a PhD in psychology, I don't practice it as a profession."

 

"Believe me, I'm not interested in therapy; that's not what I need anyway."

 

"Yes, Shiva told me about the art book, the victim's picture, and the rest. You're right; therapy is not what you need. But sometimes there's a logic, if you can call it that, behind the most inexplicable occurrences. "

 

"I think what's happening to me are realizations of my bizarre dreams. In the past few years, I had recurring dreams that I could not decipher."

 

"Dreams are never harmless; they're portals to our psyche. The more you bring them into the light of consciousness, the more you know who you are and why you perceive the world and react to it the way you do," Angel says.

 

"What do you think of all these peculiar events? I'm not delusional; I didn't make them up. Others have seen the book, the artwork, the initials on the lighter of a victim who died on my exact birthday; they're all real. I still have the lighter my brother brought me from his trip. A book with no ISBN, no barcode, a book I bought from Barnes & Noble, and the bookseller denies selling it to me. The book I was not even looking for to begin with. I was looking for a book that contained the artwork that showed up on my coworker's phone that morning; that was why I went to the bookstore. Shiva's involvement in this charade, our best friend, whom I have known for many years, is the same person who happened to be in New York City five years ago running into a retired police investigator, who asked her to choose a victim. She picked out that particular photo out of hundreds. How could all these be by chance?"

 

"No, I don't think all these are coincidental, and they're not fantasies. These events are real occurrences and outside your imagination and beyond your control per se."

 

"What do you mean by per se? Are you saying he can somehow alter these events?" Shiva asks.

 

"Contrary to popular belief, dream and reality are not separate and distinct concepts; they're the same phenomenon. They are inherently intertwined and constantly morph into one another. People subconsciously separate the two to make their lives more manageable and comprehensible, like any other socially acceptable norm. Social norms and laws define what is real and not, as it defines sanity. Dream and what we call reality are two manifestations of the same concept; they're of the same material, and their boundaries are merely arbitrary," Angel says.

 

"I think so too. I don't believe we truly understand the true dimensions of our existence; there is more to it than meets the eye." Shiva adds.

 

"And that's why so many turn to religions, to put their mind at ease about unfathomable experiences. That's the pillar of faith in God," Shiva says.

 

"Religions' perspective is an oversimplification of the same concept. The fact of the matter is that we live our dreams, and dreams are living us regardless of whether we're aware of it or not. The more we decipher our dreams, the more we challenge the reality of our material existence. That is our Kismet," Angel says.

 

"Kismet? What does that mean?" Adam asks.

 

"This word came from Arabic into the English language. Kismet in English means destiny, but it means share. Your share in life is what you deserve and receive, but it doesn't mean you have no control over your Kismet. You get what you ask for; that's your share, your destiny. Let me tell you the story of a wealthy investor banker and his so-called Lucky Night.

 

"Congratulations, Mr. Grand! We heard of your success on the stock, the one you purchased a million shares just a week ago and almost doubled today." The security guard sneered and held the heavy glass door open for the investor banker.

 

Grand called over his shoulder, "Thank you, Roger. Remember, nothing is random. Everything happens for a reason." He adjusted the lapels on his pricey suit and went down the dimly-lit alley to his Mercedes Benz. He heard a gunshot, ducked his head, dived to the ground, and took refuge behind his car. He heard another shot fired.

 

"My brand-new car is being ruined with bullet holes." The thought struck Grand as intolerable. Without thinking, he stuck his head out and waved his arms in the air, "Don't. Don't shoot!"

 

Another shot pierced the darkness and echoed in his ears. He looked at the dazzling shine of his recently detailed car and didn't have the heart to use it as his shelter. Frantically, he ran toward an approaching cab, flinging his hands in the air and ordering it to stop. The taxi lurched to a screeching halt with a horrific squeak.

 

The cab driver stuck his head out the window, "Are you out of your freaking mind, sir?" he screamed in a heavy Indian accent. Then he exited his cab, leaving the door open, and rushed toward the millionaire. They heard another shot. Both men leaped to the front of the cab and took shelter.

"Why the hell did you stop me? Don't you see you are being shot at? Are you looking for a companion in death?" the driver raved.

 

"A maniac is shooting this way for no reason." Grand almost screamed. "Take off your shirt," he ordered.

"This is no time for hanky-panky, sir! I don't care about your weird sexual fantasies. We are in the middle of a crisis!"

"I need a white shirt right now, and I'm willing to pay you $100 for it."

 

"Wonderful sir, I am flattered. How much will you pay for my pants? I've heard a lot about the rich people's erotic games." The cabbie smiled knowingly.

 

"I'm not interested in you, God damn it! I need a white shirt." The banker peeled a crisp $100 bill from his money clip as the driver tussled to remove his shirt.

 

"I am not planning to die tonight. At least not this way," Mr. Grand declared.

 

The millionaire waved the white shirt and hollered, "What the hell do you want?"

 

Another shot came his way, and the bullet pierced the white shirt, causing it to flail like a wounded bird. A voice reverberated in the alley, "Nothing, sir. This is just a random shooting, nothing personal."

 

"Random shooting?" The banker shrieked. "This is not random. If you were driving and passed me by and shot me willy-nilly, that would qualify as random!"

 

The shirtless cabbie cautioned, "Sir! I don't think it's wise to argue with a man who has a gun and is shooting your way."

Grand ignored the immigrant advisor.

 

"What do you want? If you don't have anything against me, let's resolve the issue amicably. Would a crisp $100 bill be satisfactory?"

 

Grand snatched the money from the driver's grip and threw his shirt back at him. "The deal is off," he said.

 

In response, the driver seized the corner of his coat. "My shirt had no bullet holes at the time of transaction. All sales are final. No refund. You took my shirt; now I'll take your coat."

 

"Are you out of your mind, an $800 cashmere coat for a lousy stinky shirt? Where did you get your business administration degree from, you damn foreigner?"

The two men were fighting over a coat when the shooter's voice intervened, "What the hell is going on over there? We're in a shoot-out, and you two are fighting over a coat?"

 

The cabbie called back at the shooter, "It's all this man's fault. First, he got me involved in a life-and-death crisis, and now he's ripping me off." By now, the cab driver had the cashmere coat halfway off Mr. Grand.

 

"Who are you?" The shooter inquired.

 

"Krishna Swami, at your service. I'm the best driver of the Sunshine Cab Company."

 

Grand shrugged off the coat, emerged from the shelter of the cab, and shouted down the alley, "You shot over and over and missed me every single time. Do you know why? Because I am not supposed to die this way tonight?"

 

Mr. Grand then confidently walked toward his car on the other side. As he approached the middle of the street, a truck suddenly turned into the dark alley and struck him.

 

Mr. Grand flung through the air and landed on the pavement, still clutching his hundred-dollar bill. Blood slid from the corner of his mouth. He barely opened his eyes for the last time, gazing into the gentle eyes of Krishna sitting next to him. The cab driver covered the millionaire with his cashmere coat and said, "You were right, sir. This was not your destiny to die from those bullets tonight."

 

The cabby returned to his cab, sat in, and opened the passenger door. The shooter emerged from the darkness and sat in the passenger seat.

 

"It's amazing how he knew he wasn't going to die from my bullets," the shooter remarked.

 

"Yes, it was; not many people are lucky enough to know how they go. But he would have been alive if he wasn't that lucky tonight!" Krishna says.

 

The cab with two men sped off and vanished into the black alley.

***

"Just like what happened in this story, the vast majority of people unknowingly play a significant role in carrying out their destiny, to get their share, and that's their kismet, very much like Mr. Grand of our story," Angel says.

 

A few days later, Kate goes to Shiva's place.                                                               

"After talking to your friend Angel, Adam becomes even more obsessed with figuring out what is happening; he now believes he's the victim of a divine conspiracy. He keeps talking about his fate," Kate says.

"At least he's improving his foreign languages," Shiva grins.

 

"Is Angel a psychologist?" Kate asks.                                                           

 

"Yes, he was by training and a very accomplished one; he was his class valedictorian when he received his Ph.D. from Harvard. He practiced as a clinical psychologist for a few years," Shiva explains.

 

"Why do you keep saying he was?"

 

"Well, something happened to him," Shiva says.

 

"What happened to him?"

 

"I don't know all the details, and he never talked about it, but years ago, he suddenly quit his practice. I heard one night he was involved in a random shooting."

 

"Was he the victim?"

 

"No, he was the shooter, in a way," Shiva pensively responds.

 

"And you thought someone like him could help Adam?" Kate asks.

"I don't think he shot someone; maybe it was a dream. Whatever it was, he was a changed man afterward. He called it an epiphany. All I know is that he never practiced psychology after that life-changing experience. Some of his friends and family think he had a nervous breakdown, and some believe he was possessed that night. He's not the same person anymore, that's for sure, but he's not crazy. He now sees everything from a very different perspective, incomprehensible to others, and I assure you he's not a criminal eighter," Shiva says.

 

"Whoever he is, he has made quite an impression on Adam," Kate says.

 

"I've known him a long time, and most of the time, I don't grasp what he's talking about, but considering the peculiar nature of what we're all going through, if anyone can help, that's him. He has unique insights into events, unlike others. He believes that people inadvertently are instrumental in realizing their destiny, and I believe him." Shiva says.

 

"What about the retired investigator you met in New York, the one who asked you to select the photo for the book? Do you remember anything else he told you?" Kate asks.

 

"He didn't ask me or in any way insinuate that he wanted me to select the photo for that year; that makes the whole encounter eerie as hell; I volunteered."

 

"Do you remember him talking about anything else?"

 

"Well, he talked about many things that didn't make much sense to me at the time, but now…"

 

"Like what?"

 

"He said death was not the end but a new beginning; I don't think he was talking about the afterlife. And when I said what could be more final than death, he said: 'Ambiguous death and ambiguous life are too intertwined to tell them apart; neither one has final resolution, one morphs into the other,'"

 

"This is basically what Angel told you, isn't it?" Kate asks.

 

"Yeah, now I feel like the two hands writing one another is an interpretation of life and death; they write one another," Kate said.

 

"The more I think of our meeting that day and the subjects we talked about, the more I'm convinced what we're going through is on some level related to our past," Shiva pensively said.

 

"Are you saying there is, in a weird way, some logic to what Adam says about being the victim in the photo? Is it possible?" Kate says.

 

"I don't know anything anymore, but I don't feel good about the whole thing."

 

"Well, was there anything else the man talked about, anything that could help us decipher this damn riddle?"

 

"He made another comment that stuck with me…"

 

"What was that?

 

"He said some stories are better left untold."

 

"Did he give you his contact information?" Adam asks.

 

"I didn't ask for it, but I gave him mine," Shiva says.

 

"We should track him down. He's the key in all of this," Kate says.

 

"I think so too; with his help, we might be able to find answers to some of our questions," Shiva says.

Chapter 6

 

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome onboard Flight 222 nonstop service from Seattle to New York City." The stewardess overcame the chatter in the plane.

 

"Please fasten your seat belts and secure all baggage underneath your seat or in the overhead compartments. Please turn off all personal electronic devices, including laptops and cell phones. Smoking is prohibited for the duration of the flight. Thank you for choosing American Airlines. Enjoy your flight."

 

"Kate sits next to Shiva. Adam and Jake sit across the aisle.

 

"How long do you think we must stay in New York?" Kate asks Shiva.

 

"As long as we need to," She responds.

 

"Thank you so much for helping us. I don't think I could deal with this whole mess alone," Kate says.

 

“Don't thank me. I'm already a huge part of this bizarre affair. This Goddamn destiny is screwing with all of us, and that ticks me off," Shiva says.

 

"None of these make any sense. I don't blame Adam for losing it," Kate says.

 

"And Adam may not be the only victim of this elaborate scheme; I think we all are," Shiva says.

 

"The day after tomorrow is Adam's birthday," Kate says.

 

"We'll celebrate it in the Big Apple."

 

"I haven't been in New York for ages," Jake tells Adam.

 

The flight attendant stops her cart at their row.

 

"What would you like to drink, sir?"

 

"A diet coke, please," Adam says.

 

"And you, sir?"

 

"A beer?" Jake says.

 

"Domestic or import?"

 

"Whatever you have in your cart,

 

"I have both, and beer is not complimentary,"

 

"Oh, I didn't know that."

 

"Domestic is five, and import is seven dollars,"

 

"In that case, domestic, please."

 

After serving the two men, the flight attendant turns to Shiva and Kate on the other side of the aisle.

 

"What would you like to drink, Ma'am?"

 

"We need a vacation too. Believe me, Shiva is going nuts on this as much as you do," Jake says.

 

"The other night, I read a short piece Shiva wrote called "I ."Have you read it?" Adam asks Jake.

 

"Yes, this is one of her early writings. Honestly, I didn't get it," Jake responds.

 

Adam takes the two pages of the writing out of his pocket and shows it to Jake.

 

"I read it a few nights ago, and I think I should talk to Shiva about this. I need to change seats with Kate and sit with your wife," Adam says.

 

"Be my guest, buddy. In that case, I sit next to your wife for the rest of the flight and let you two knuckleheads figure out what the hell is going on; sure as hell, I don't get any of this," Jake says.

 

Adam changes seats with Kate and sits next to Shiva.

 

"What is this?" Shiva asks Adam, pointing to the papers in his hand.

 

"This is what you wrote a while back' it's one of your short fiction. Let me read it aloud, and let's talk about it."

 

"Which one is it?" Shiva asks.

 

"It's called 'I.' Do you remember exactly what you wrote," Adam utters.

 

"Not every word of it, but I remember the gist of what I wrote in there. You know, of course, what I write is mainly a product of my subconscious. I genuinely have no control over what transpires. Sometimes, I wonder if I was the one who wrote the piece. Most of my short stories are like that."

 

"Let me read it, then we talk about it," Adam says.

 

"I'm all ears."

"It's a daunting task to reveal the true identity of "I ."As absurd and perplexing as it may seem, it is an imperative task I'm compelled to do. How to keep a safe distance to expose the true identity of "I" is my dilemma. I owe my mere existence to writing, and when I do, "I" is in the forefront and behind the scenes. "I" is the author and the text, and when I am at the pinnacle of my creativity, I articulate "I" and inevitably incriminate myself every time I do. This is the self-destructive nature of my mission and the crux of my existence.

 

I cannot confront the reality of "I" when I'm conscious and awake, so at night, after hours of agonizing insomnia when I plunge into a trance, I fathom "I" in my dreams. Only under that delirious state of mind does "I" appear. When fiction and reality morph, it might be possible to reveal the secrets of "I" as it controls my most intimate desires and dictates every act of mine. The only way to accomplish such a peculiar task is to seize bits and pieces of mundane reality and delicately hone them with the mystic elixir of fantasy. In that misty haze, I might be able to portray "I ."Even then, "I" might be shaping my thoughts, forming my imagination, and writing my dreams.

 

"I" materializes in reverie to shelter me from the adversarial world of reality. "I" knows how vulnerable and defenseless I genuinely am. I don't! The more uninhibitedly I write, the faster I converge with "I ."The deeper I plummet in fantasy, the easier it is for "I" to become me. Oh! All lines are blurred. I am still determining who is writing whom.

 

Last night, I woke in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, wishing not ever to fall asleep again; I opened my eyes only to peer into the depth of darkness, embraced my pillow as if it was my only savior, and wiped the sweat, the beads of death formed on my forehead. I wrapped myself in the soaked sheets, and the moment I sighed in relief and thanked heaven for being blessed to wake, I sensed its presence by my side. Feverishly, I escaped my haunted dream and took refuge in a tight corner of awakening, and there, too, was "I." To anywhere I ran, the mirage followed me as swiftly as I could imagine my demise.

 

Desperately, I raced into the night streets, lost in the maze of bewilderment, and ironically found myself following "I."

Finally, I came to a halt in a dead-end alley, gasped for air, mustered all my courage, gazed into its piercing eyes, and pleaded in agony:

 

"How can I drift away from perdition? How can I survive the excruciating self-destruction tonight?"

 

" By writing your nightmare tomorrow," "I" replied.

 

"What you wrote about experiencing a different dimension in sleep is similar to what I have experienced," Adam comments after reading the text.

 

"We all have a shadow to our persona, a different personality in our subconscious we are unaware of. Our shadow possesses enhanced traits of our persona. The shadow stretches our core traits, every one of our vices and virtues, to the extremes. We're capable of being angelic or demonic under various circumstances. It all depends on the circumstances of our lives and our state of mind. Sometimes, we are not capable of resolving the conflict between the good and the evil internally," Shiva says.

 

"Do you truly understand your own shadow?" Adam asks.

 

"I'm trying to learn as much as possible about the darkness of my being, and that's the perpetual quest to reach serenity. That's my only path to salvation. I'm going to let you in on a secret, something I didn't tell my husband," Shiva says.

 

"Your secret is safe with me," Adam says.

 

Shiva turns on her tablet and opens one of her short stories.

 

"Have you read this story of mine yet?"

 

Adam looks at the title "Premonition" and says: "Hmm, I don't think so."

 

"Read this story now, and I want to tell you something about it. Something that bothered me ever since I wrote it." She slides the tablet on his lap.

 

"Would you like another one?" The man sitting at the bar offered a drink to the beautiful woman beside him.

 

"Ah. I don't think so; I'm getting tipsy," The woman said.

 

"That's what Friday night is for," he chuckled.

 

"Are you trying to get me drunk?" The strange beauty said seductively while playing with the empty glass in her hand.

 

"I enjoy your company, and I do anything to prolong its pleasure."

 

"Hum. Why am I so skeptical of your intentions then?" she sneered.

 

"That's because you're so cynical. I like that in a woman."

 

"What else do you like in a woman?"

 

"Intelligence is my favorite virtue. It may sound cliché' but it's true." He then signaled the bartender and ordered two more of the same drinks.

"Let me see if I understand it correctly. You're half drunk in a bar on a Friday night and interested only in my intelligence? Obviously, my damn cleavage is not doing the trick."

 

He grinned.

 

"What do you do?" She asked.

 

"I'm a businessman."

 

"What else do you do besides making money and picking up intelligent women?"

 

"I read sometimes."

 

"Hum. What do you read?"

 

"True crime stories, I'm fascinated by criminal minds."

 

"How interesting; I write crime stories."

 

"You write fiction. You have a criminal mind, which is adorable in a woman, but there is a big difference between true crimes and fictional stories."

 

"But I'm good; I can make readers believe they're reading true crimes."

"It's not the same, my dear. Fiction never replicates reality."

 

"Define real," she carped.

 

"What's happened is reality, and what's happening is also real." The man reasoned.

 

"My crimes happen in my imagination first, so they're real. Reality is a matter of perception and not timing. I visualize how a crime may happen, and victims willingly conspire with me to carry out my plots. In the end, every piece of the puzzle magically falls into place. Past, present or future tense has no bearing on reality." She defended her craft.

 

"Hum. You are passionate about writing, aren't you?" He whispered his slurred words in her ear. He could almost taste her earlobe.

 

"Life without passion is not life." When she twirled the half-empty glass in her hand, she gently caressed his face with a wisp of her hair.

 

"You inspire me; I feel like writing too." Her scent was driving him insane.

 

"It must be the alcohol talking."

"I can write; I have stories to tell."

 

"Remember, when you visualize an event, you've already made it happen. The line between reality and fiction is murky; most people don't realize or appreciate that. The true crime plot I write is only discovered when it's read.

"Maybe I start by writing romantic poetry."

 

"Are you a romantic man or just trying to win me over?

 

"Do I not look like romantic?"

 

"I can't make a sound judgment by your words now; in a setting like this, all men become romantic, but most don't have a romantic bone in their bodies. For them, romance is a useful tool to serve their bone." She smirks knowingly.

 

"Alright, alright, I give up. You're misinterpreting my intentions; not everything is about monkey business, my dear, you know.

 

"But writing poetry is wonderful; it's a great start," she said.

 

"Too late, I give up on poetry. I tried to express my feelings with delicate words, but you killed the idea. Since you have a devious mind, I will express my darker side instead. How about writing an ominous note; would such a writing woo you?"

 

"Are you going to that length only to woo me? I'm already wooed."

 

"I'm going to write a suicide note, the final words of a man who has hit rock bottom."

 

"Have you ever thought of ending your life?"

 

"No, not really. I'm a successful man by any standard, and I don't have regrets."

 

"Then why would you start your literary endeavor from the end?"

 

"Because death is so final, to me, the mystery of death is alluring."

 

"That's exactly how I conquer the fear of death, by writing it to death." She grinned.

 

"And we all have our sorrows in life. Writing a letter of such nature is a venue to express my despair. Don't you think so?"

 

"Write from your heart, and it eventually touches your reader's heart."

 

"Would you critique my writing?"

 

"You're not tricking me into a date, are you?" She was now gazing into his lustful eyes.

 

"We're connecting on an intellectual level?" he raised his glass and toasted.

 

"How about I give you one week to pour your heart on the paper? I'll be back here next Friday night. Let's call it our literary rendezvous."

 

She grabbed her purse, swirled a half circle, fixing to leave, "we can go somewhere with a little more privacy to discuss your literary piece," she suggested.

 

"And thank you for the drinks." She left the dazzled man at the bar.

 

The following Friday night, rain was viciously pouring. When she walked to the bar, he was sitting in his parked car waiting for her. She sat in the car, and he drove in drenched dark streets without exchanging words. Then, he entered a deserted parking lot and stopped.

 

"I still don't know your name." his words tangled with the wild melody of rain lashing on the hood.

 

"How was your first writing experience?" she smiled.

 

"Exotic. I never dared to express my true feelings the way I did here. I feel like all my life I've been trapped in a self-made prison with no way out." He showed her the letter.

"You just didn't know how to free yourself. I'm so glad I was inspirational and to show you a way out of a predicament you never knew you were in." she tenderly touched his hand.

 

"This is a final testament, a desperate attempt to tell a story to ones who never cared to listen. It's a pity that sometimes we must pay such a hefty price to receive a little attention." He confessed.

 

He then opened the glove compartment and pulled out a handgun. "I even have my loaded gun with me tonight to truly capture the mind frame of a desperate soul."

 

As she was listening to him while reading his final words, he gently put the revolver on his temple and said," Do you think this is how he would've ended his life?"

 

She paused reading for a moment, placed her finger on top of his, and pulled the trigger.

 

"Yes, I think so. And this is how I write a crime story."

She then wiped her fingerprints, got out of the car, and fled the crime scene.

 

"You made up the whole thing, didn't you?" Adam asks Shiva.

 

"Sometimes I don't think I did, but I have no evidence to believe otherwise," she responds.

 

"Many references you made in this story are familiar to me. Jake told me about your interest in the personality shadow and how it takes over sometimes and acts as the persona. Is it possible you may write true crimes, the ones you've committed yourself?" Adam asks.

 

"As I said, I found no evidence of that. Usually, there are no names or identifying references in my stories. Sometimes, I feel like I'm experiencing my dreams. What you're going through now seems like another one of my episodes, but this time, everything is very much real, and we're all experiencing it; none of that is in your head; none of it is a figment of my imagination. We can corroborate events, and we have tangible evidence, yet we cannot find logical links between these events. I feel like we're all collaborating in a conspiracy; we're somehow complicit in realizing your destiny," Shiva says.

 

 

"We need to get to the end of this nightmare," Adam says.

"How could we track down the guy I met?" Shiva is thinking aloud.

 

 

"Maybe we can find the photographer who took the picture," Kate says.

 

***

 

A few hours later, Jake stands at the counter of the rental car company, puts his credit card on the counter, signs the papers, and picks up the key. They drive to the hotel, and the two couples enter their rooms. After settling in their room, Jake and Shiva walk to Adam and Kate's room, and Jake knocks on the door.

 

"Door is open, come in." Kate hollers.

 

Jake and Shiva go in and sit on the couch. Adam sits on the bed.

 

"Where do we start?" Adam asks.

 

"It's too late to do anything today. Let's go out and have fun," Kate suggests.

 

"We'll talk about our next move over dinner," Jake says.

 

"Sounds like a good idea to me," Shiva says.

 

"You guys go ahead and go; have fun. I'd rather stay here," Adam says.

 

"No, you're not. You'll go out with us, and you'll have a wonderful time! That's how it will be, Mister!" his wife orders.

 

"Come on, let's take a bite of the big apple," Jake grins.

 

"Did you get that off a T-shirt?" Shiva smirks.

 

"No, from a bumper sticker of a taxi on the way to the hotel, dear," he responds.

 

"Oh, this one was not all too bad. Come on, guys; let's go. I'm starving." Shiva says.

 

The hostess in the restaurant ushers the party of four to their table after thirty minutes of waiting, and a few minutes later, the waiter shows up at their table to take orders.

"I tried to track down the ex-cop I met here in New York five years ago," Shiva says.

 

"The publisher didn't know how to find him?" Adam asks.

 

"No, they didn't know who the photographer was. They had one of their staff search the public records," Shiva says.

 

"The man you met lied to you?" Kate asks.

 

"I don't think so; he had no reason to lie. The staffer from the publishing company must have contacted him," Shiva responds.

 

Adam doesn't touch his plate.

 

"Come on honey, eat something. We have a big day ahead of us tomorrow," Kate says.

 

"The psychologist friend of yours, Angel; how do you know him?" Adam asks Shiva.

 

A friend of mine introduced him to me a long time ago. He plays several musical instruments; he's an artist, a prolific writer, a poet, and speaks several languages. His knowledge surpasses his formal education. You were lucky to get him to talk to you. He doesn't get along with people, but after I told him about what you were going through, he showed interest in talking to you. Was he helpful?" Shiva asks.

 

"He said people collaborate with their conspirator to play out their destiny," Adam says.

 

"None of these make any sense. Maybe you need to seek professional help, a real one, I mean," Jake says.

 

"And tell him what? Tell him that he saw his own dead body in a book. That he died the day he was born," Kate says.

 

"What kind of professional help does he need? An exorcist, perhaps." Shiva grins.

 

"Besides, Shiva's involvement is not in Adam's head. It happened five years ago; Adam did not imagine that," Jake says.

 

"What bothers me the most is the chain of events that led us all to this point. Maybe all these clues and signs are leading us in a certain direction for a reason," Shiva comments.

 

"That's what Angel suggested. He gave me a story that had the same conclusion," Adam says.

 

"But that's your life we're talking about. What if you get hurt by wandering in this maze?" Kate says.

 

"The damage is already done, and you know it. Adam will never be normal again unless…" Shiva comments.

"Unless what?" Jake asks his wife.

 

"Listen! We're all part of this now; we're being played. We're all pieces of a sophisticated puzzle, I mean all of us," Shiva says. "We must somehow unravel this riddle; that's all I know," she continues.

 

***

 

The following day, Shiva, Kate, and Adam sit around the table in the hotel room. Jake picks up the phone and dials.

 

"Hello," the voice on the other end of the line says.

 

"Alex, this is Jake."

 

"Jake? Jake Pittman from Clark High School?"

 

"That's the one."

 

"Good to hear from you, buddy. Are you still married to that Persian hottie?"

 

"For the last eight years and counting. Alex, I'm putting you on speaker, so watch what you say."

 

"How could you manage to keep her that long is a dilemma; she's too smart for you."

 

"She can hear you too dumbass. A friend of mine and his wife are listening to you, too."

 

"Hello, guys," Alex greets everyone.

 

"Hey, Alex. Are you still single?" Shiva shouts.

 

"What woman in her right mind marries a guy like me?" Alex chuckles.

 

"You're right about that, you insensitive jerk," Jake says.

 

"So, when did you guys come to New York?" Alex asks.

 

"Yesterday afternoon. Listen, I didn't call to hear you complimenting my wife, you Nincompoop. Are you still with the Police Department?"

.

"I'm a lieutenant now."

 

"I have a huge favor to ask you."

 

"Shoot," Alex says.

 

"I can't explain it over the phone; how about meeting tomorrow morning," Jake says.

 

"Sure, you know where I am at, don't you?"

        

"No, how do I know?"

 

"The first precinct."

 

"We'll look you up online and meet you tomorrow."

"Come at 10 a.m. and text me when you're in the main lobby; I'll come down to meet you guys."

 

Inside the New York City Polic Department in the main lobby, Kate, Adam, Jake, and Shiva sit in the waiting area. The light on a door blinks green, and it loudly clicks.

Alex walks in, greets all four, and escorts them inside a room.

 

"This is the Forensic Imaging Unit. This unit handles all digital, audio, and video evidence turned in by Crime Scene Investigators," Alex explains.

 

Alex sits behind a computer and searches all crime scene investigations of 1963. Adam opens the book and shows it to Alex.

 

"Here are the archived photos of 1963 in New York City," Alex says.

 

"Can you search for a specific date?" Kate asks.

 

"Sure, that narrows the scope, too."

 

"Try April 12, 1963."

 

Alex scrolls through hundreds of pictures on the screen while looking at the picture in the book.

 

"I don't see any crime scene photo like what you have here. Did you guys contact the publisher?" He asks.

 

"Yes, they have no information of how they got this picture or who gave it to them," Shiva says.

 

"Maybe his death was not classified as a crime," Alex comments.

 

"Now I remember. The man I met said something about some photos not being crime-related," Shiva says.

 

"Well, I just went through hundreds of murder investigations for April 1963 and found no evidence of such crime ever being committed, at least as shown in this book. Do you happen to have an address, a name, or any other identifier? I can look it up," Alex comments.

 

"So far, we know nothing more than what this picture tells us," Shiva says.

 

"As far as the New York City police department is concerned, this photo was not registered as evidence of any criminal investigation, and if his death was not crime-related, there is no reason for this picture to be in our database," Jake says.

 

"Just to be sure, I checked all five boroughs' local subfolders, too; nothing that resembles this particular picture, not even close."

 

"Is there anywhere else we can search for photos?" Jake asks.

 

"There's one more possibility we may explore," Alex says.

 

"What's that?"

 

"What I can check here on this system is the official records of murder investigations only."

 

"What do you mean?" Kate asks.

 

"Well. These are only criminal cases, the ones that are concluded."

 

"Do you keep a record of non-crime-related deaths too?" Shiva asks.

 

"Yeah, as a matter of fact, we do. Sometimes, we call them obsolete cases."

 

"What are those?" Adam asks.

 

"The police department keeps its investigation knickknacks for a long time. Those are pieces of evidence the investigators could not link to any specific crime investigation, and the department head decided not to waste our resources to digitize them, but we still archive them. Believe it or not, we still have thousands of boxes full of those junks in our basement."

 

"Can we search these files?" Shiva asks.

 

"Why not? That's why we don't throw them away. Come with me." Alex chuckles.

 

Alex ushers the four guests through long corridors, and they take the elevator downstairs and enter an old, dimly lit, musty basement filled with boxes, mostly on shelves, and some piled up on the ground.

 

"I can't stay with you guys, but be my guest and spend as much time as you need. Remember, you cannot take anything with you. When you're done, text me, and I'll escort you out. Let's see, it is 11 O'clock now. How many hours do you guys need?"

 

"A few hours. We'll call you by two for sure. Thank you so much." Adam shakes Alex's hand.

 

"You bet, buddy. I hope you find what you're looking for. This case must be so important to get you all so excited. You never know; maybe you can unravel a mystery for us, too."

 

"Believe me, we are trying to decipher a mystery," Kate says.

 

For hours, Adam, Jake, Kate, and Shiva searched through boxes of old reports and files marked April 1963. Kate finally opens a folder and finds the same picture as the book's.

 

"Look, guys. I found the same photo. There are more pictures of the same victim," she says.

 

They are more clear pictures of the lighter by the body, but the victim is facing down in all photos.

 

"Damn, this guy is hiding his face in all these photos just to tick us off," Shiva says.

 

"Look! This picture has a name and address on the back." Jake shouts as he examines one of the pictures.

 

"This is either the victim's name or the photographer's name," Shiva says.

 

"And that's the only lead we have so far," Jake says.

 

As they go through the files in other manila folders, Jake finds a photo of a man and a young girl posing in front of the Statue of Liberty.

 

"Shiva, look, this girl looks like you," Jake excitedly shouts.

 

The other three turn to the photo Jake has in his hand.

 

"Oh, my God..." Shiva screams.

 

"What happened, honey?"

 

Kate, Adam, and Jake look at the picture in Shiva's hand.

 

"What is it, Shiva? Do you recognize this picture?" Adam asks.

 

"The little girl in the picture is me. This is a picture of me and my dad when we visited New York City the first time; I was eight then," Shiva says.

 

"Yeah, it is you and your dad; I've never seen this picture before," Jake hardly utters these words.

"Do you remember taking this picture?" Kate asks.

 

"Now that I see this picture, yes, I remember. There was a park vendor with a camera. Dad bought a bunch of watches from him, and he took the picture." Shiva responds.

 

"Why? Was he a photographer? Did he sell the picture to you?" Jake asks.

 

"No, I don't know exactly why he took the picture. My dad surely didn't ask him to take the picture."

Shiva takes a snapshot of the picture with her phone.

 

"Is it the first time you've seen this photo?" Adam asks Shiva.

 

"Yes. The vendor was not a photographer. He said photography was his hobby. He kept the photo, but why is it in this pile?"

 

All four exchange eerie looks, not knowing what to say.

 

"I cannot believe these things are happening to us," Shiva says.

 

Kate is pensively biting her lips. Adam is slouched over boxes.

 

"We've got to track this guy down, whoever he is," Jake says.

        

"How? After all these years?" Kate asks.

 

"Alex might be able to help," Adam suggests.

 

Kate takes a snapshot of the writing on the back of the picture with her cell phone. Jake calls Alex and asks him for help to locate a man named Charles Cunningham.

 

The four friends rummage through a few more boxes and find nothing more related to what they sought. They go back to Alex's office, and after a few minutes, they leave the building and return to their car. Jake drives.

 

"It's called Mountain View; it's a state-run nursing home upstate," Jake says.

 

"I looked it up; it's about a two-hour drive," Kate says.

 

The Mountain View Retired Living's lobby is decorated with old furnishings. Jake and Shiva walk to the counter.

 

"We're here to visit Mr. Charles Cunningham," Jake tells the receptionist.

 

"Is he expecting you?"

 

"No, Ma'am."

 

"He's in room 209. But I need to call him first. Would you please have a seat?"

 

"Certainly."

 

The receptionist picks up the phone and calls.

 

"You have visitors, Mr. Cunningham."

 

"Visitors?" Jake and Shiva can hear the man in room 209.

 

"Four of them, sir."

 

"Are you sure, Susan?"

 

"They're all here to see you, sir, yes, I'm sure."

 

"Who the hell are they?"

 

"Are you related to Mr. Cunningham?" The receptionist asks the visitors.

 

"Not really, but it's imperative to see him; it's a matter of life and death," Kate says while walking to the counter.

 

"They look like nice people to me. Would you like to meet them in the

lobby?" The receptionist says over the phone.

 

"No, send them in."

 

A staff member escorts the guests. Four visitors follow her through the long corridors.

 

"Mr. Cunningham lived here for fifteen years, and you're his first visitors," the staff says.

 

"No family or friends?"

 

"I haven't seen any."

 

"They reach room 209, the door is ajar. They enter a small room with a bed in the corner, a small round table with two chairs, and a locked cabinet on the side of the bed. A man in his seventies sits on his squeaky armchair and peers out the window. The employee leaves the room.

 

"Fried liver, mashed potatoes, and boiled green beans. That's what we had for dinner last night. Can dinner ever get lousier than that?" Cunningham grumbles.

 

"I don't care for fried liver either," Jake says.

 

"Who are you people?" The older man asks.

 

"It's a long story, sir," Kate says.

 

Shiva introduces everyone to Cunningham without saying a word about the reason for their visit.

 

"We know you have a lousy food service here. What would you like for lunch?" Jakes asks.

 

"Your treat?"

        

"You got it, sir. We're all starving." Shiva says.

 

"Anything in particular you care for, sir?" Jake asks Cunningham.

 

"Any decent meal would do."

 

"Adam and I will go get the lunch. I saw a Barbecue place down the road." Jake says.

 

"Oh, their food is perfect."

        

"Can we trust you with our wives, Mr. Cunningham?" Jakes grins.

 

"I give you forty-five minutes max, and if you don't come back with barbecue ribs, I eat these two ladies for lunch instead; I'm starving." The host chuckles.

 

Jake and Adam leave. Shiva sits on the bed, and Kate sits behind the table.

 

"A few weeks ago, my husband purchased a book in Seattle that had a picture of a dead man, and all hell broke loose since then. I spare you the detail of how we found you, but long story short, we are all here to find out the story behind this photo, sir," Kate says.

 

"What does this photo have to do with me though?"

 

"We searched the New York City police department files this morning and found a few more pictures of that scene. Your name was written on the back of one of the pictures." Shiva says.

 

Shiva shows the pictures of the scene on her iPhone to Cunningham.

 

"Oh! My God! I knew that was not the end of it. How the hell this photo ended up in that book?" Cunningham gasps for air.

 

"Believe me, the more you know about this sordid affair, the more perplexing this puzzle becomes," Shiva says.

 

"Mr. Cunningham, we're completely baffled about this situation and don't know how to help my husband."

 

"You're truly our only hope," Shiva says.

 

Jake and Adam returned with boxes full of barbecue, fried onions, and steaming bread rolls in one hand and big cups of Coca-Cola in the other.

 

"Thank God you're back. I thought you abandoned your wives and left them for me," Cunningham grins.

 

"You thought we would fly from Seattle just to bring you two gorgeous ladies?" Jakes chuckles.

 

"Sorry it took so long; the place was swamped," Adam says.

 

"Yeah, it's lunchtime. Usually, visitors buy food from that place for their parents and grandparents who live here. Today is the first for me."

 

They all have lunch without exchanging any words. After lunch, Adam opens the book to the page with a victim of the year 1963.

 

"Do you recognize this photo, sir?"

 

"She just showed me this picture. I have no idea how this picture ended up in this book?"

 

"Did you take this picture?" Adam asks.

 

"What can you tell us about this picture?" Shiva asks.

 

"Would you pull the suitcase from under the bed, please?" Cunningham asks Jake.

 

 pulls an old dusty suitcase from under the bed. Cunningham opens the briefcase and pulls a manila envelope out.

 

"This envelope's been collecting dust for decades now. I never thought I would ever get a chance to tell its story to anyone, but I knew I'd have to someday."

 

"And that day is today; tell us, please. I need to know," Adam asks.

 

"To me, how I got this folder is more enigmatic than its content."

 

"Is this envelope somehow related to the picture in the book?" Shiva asks.

 

"I don't know, I don't know."

 

Four guests look at one another. Adam tries to touch the envelope. Cunningham pulls his hand back.

 

"May I see this envelope?" Adam asks.

 

"No."

 

"We came to New York searching for something we don't know exists. We have no clue what it is we're looking for. You're our last hope." Kate pleads.

 

"I tell you how I got this folder, and I tell you upfront, it's cursed."

 

The four visitors sit, women on the bed and men in the chairs. The room plunges into silence.

 

"I have always been a drifter per se, a man with no home, no steady job, no family, no woman, and no prospect of any kind.

As a young man, I moved from city to city and lived anywhere I could find a job that paid enough to get by. I've done every low-paying job in so many parts of the county. I worked in restaurants as a dishwasher, busboy, or waiter; I have done yard work, maintenance, moving, and repair; you name it, I've done it. Although I always kept my head above water, I never managed to keep a job for more than a year or two. I wasn't precisely a drifter, never asked for a handout, and have never been on the wrong side of the law, although I was sometimes tempted. Well, maybe I wasn't brave enough to break the law."


 

Chapter 7

30 years ago

 

Charles Cunningham carries a bag of groceries as he follows an older woman into the building and to the second floor. The landlady opens an apartment door and walks in. Cunningham follows her inside and looks around the dwelling. The wooden base has squeaked since he set foot in the building, and it sounds like the floor is breaking down as they walk into the kitchen. He opens the stove door and turns on the range and the fan, then walks into the bathroom, flushes the toilet, and turns on the shower faucet; everything seems to be in working order.

 

"One bedroom with all amenities. One hundred dollars per month, first and last month's rent, and one-month security deposit due in advance," she says.

 

"Utilities?"

 

"Ten dollars per month. Rents are due by the fifth. One day later than that, you must pay the five-dollar penalty, and if you're one week late, consider yourself evicted. You forfeit your security deposit and the last month's rent."

                      

"You run a tight ship, don't you?" Charles smirks.

 

"Do you have a problem with that?" The landlady snarls.

 

Cunningham looks inside his grocery bag and tilts the bag for the landlady to see.

 

"What do you want me to see in there?" The older woman asks.

 

"As you see, here I have more than five bucks worth of groceries. You know what that demonstrates?"

 

"Not really."

 

"It demonstrates my financial stability, Ma'am."

 

"Now I'm impressed," the woman says.

 

"I believe we're getting off on the wrong foot…"

"I see you have an unsettling sense of humor, which I don't care for." the landlady says, "well, do you want the place or not?"

 

"I have no problem meeting my financial obligations."

 

"Only if I had a nickel every time I heard that from a tenant. You look like a joker to me and not a good one. Don't try to entertain me; pay your rent on time. I don't want trouble, and I don't like delinquencies, period."

 

"I will take the place."

 

"When are you planning to move in?"

 

"I already have."

 

Cunningham puts the groceries on the table, reaches for his back pocket, pulls out a wad of small bills, and starts counting.

 

"Well, you pay the prorated rent money now and full last month's rent plus security deposit."

 

"I don't want trouble, Mister, I mean it."

        

Yes, Ma'am."

 

She gives two keys to the new tenant.

 

"Welcome to Dream Apartments, Mr. Cunningham," she says before leaving the premises.

 

Battery Park

30 years ago

 

The day the young man purchases a Zippo lighter with "AA" initials engraved on its case for his kid brother, Cunningham goes home early and, the same night, goes to bed earlier than usual; the clock shows 10.25. When he wakes the following day and peers out the window, he notices rain is pouring down. He makes a pot of coffee and, unlike other days when he goes to work, stays home and drinks several cups. Two hours later, he finishes the entire pot.

 

He hears a knock, gets up, walks to the door, and opens it to face a Well-dressed man.

 

"Sorry to bother you, sir. Do you know where your next-door Neighbor is," the man asks.

 

"I lived here for a few years and never seen anyone in that apartment."

 

"Hum, that's queer. I have a package for your Neighbor. It's important to deliver it to him."

 

"Be honest with you, I don't think anyone lives there."

 

"May I come in?"

 

"Sure. But as I said, I didn't know I had a neighbor. I guess you're out of luck."

 

The man walks in, sits in the kitchen, and notices the camera.

 

"Are you a photographer?"

 

"Not really, photography is my hobby. I'm a street vendor."

 

"I bet you're not in favor of rain, are you?" the stranger chuckles.

 

"Affirmative, rain means no business."

 

"I believe I can turn your luck today and make your day a profitable one?"

 

"Hum, you do?"

 

The stranger opens a leather briefcase, pulls out a folder, and puts it on the table.

 

"Would you like to make some cash?"

 

"I don't believe in quick cash, especially if it comes from a stranger."

 

"I don't blame you, but there's nothing illegal about this business proposition."

 

The man peels five crisp one hundred dollar bills from his money clip and spreads them on the folder.

 

"All you have to do is to give this package to your Neighbor whenever he comes back. That's all I want you to do."

 

This is more than what I can make in two months."

"Just deliver this package to its rightful owner, the one who's intended to receive it and no one else."

 

Cunningham is speechless by receiving such a generous offer; he asks no questions to ruin such a lucrative deal. The stranger leaves Cunningham's apartment without saying another word.

 

"What the hell just happened here?" Cunningham talks to himself loudly.

 

First, he swiftly rolls the bills and hides the money inside the metallic bedpost. He then picks up the package and methodically examines it. The envelope is not sealed correctly, and touching it assures him that it contains nothing but a bunch of papers. Rain is pouring.


 

Chapter 8

Present Day

 

Adam takes out the lighter from his pocket and shows it to Cunningham.

 

"Is this the lighter you sold to that tourist?"

 

"Yes, it looks the same one I sold. I'll be darned. When these two ladies told me about your story, I was shocked, but this freaks me out."

 

"Did you ever look inside this folder?" Shiva asks.

 

"Not at first. I was paid a large sum of money in advance to do the simplest job I'd ever had. Five hundred dollars could go a long way back then; remember, we are talking about the sixties when you could buy a brand new car for about $4,000 and a gallon of gas was a quarter."

 

"Do you remember the date the man came to visit you? Adam asks.

 

"No, I don't remember the exact date."

 

"Was it 1963?" Shiva asks.

 

"Yes, yes, the same year Kennedy was assassinated."

 

"Was it April 12?" Adam asks.

 

"No, no, I never forget; it wasn't that day. It was a week or so before that."

 

"What about April 12? What happened on that day?" Shiva asks.

 

"After that lucrative transaction, I didn't go to the park; I took a break for a week not only to do the delivery but also to treat myself to luxuries I could not usually afford. After all, I was paid to do exactly that. On April 12, early morning, I heard footsteps on the wooden hallway floor. I rushed to the door and opened it hoping to see my Neighbor, stuck my head out the door to see what was going on, and all I saw was a man turning the key in the lock to my next-door apartment."

 

"Hello, neighbor."

 

"Hi."

 

"I thought you were my next-door neighbor."

 

"This unit is vacant; no neighbor lives between us," the man says.

 

"That's what I thought."

 

"It's better this way, less noise, well good night," Neighbor said.

 

"Good night." I closed my door.

 

The following day, I fried a couple of eggs, toasted two slices of bread, and drank a black coffee before I lit up the first cigarette, always the most enjoyable one for me. I opened the window, and while gazing down at the street, I heard footsteps in the hallway and rushed outside. A woman followed the landlady out of an apartment. The woman walked away as the landlady locked the door.

 

"Good morning."

 

"No souvenirs for tourists today?" The landlady asks.

        

"I'm waiting for someone."

 

"How come my next-door neighbor is never in?"

 

"I don't know, I don't snoop on my tenants,"

 

She lied, and I knew that for a fact.

 

"That's what I call a good tenant," she hollered.

 

"Does he travel a lot?"

 

"I have no idea. I don't see him in the hallways."

 

"Me neither. How does he pay his rent?"

 

"The first day of the month, someone slips a check under my door."

        

"Do you know his name?"

 

"I'm not at liberty to provide you with that information."

 

"I understand. See you."

 

"Good day."

 

I returned inside, picked up the envelope again, and examined the package as I walked into the kitchen. After this exchange with the landlady, the damn curiosity got the better of me; I had to make sense of what was happening to me. I searched my little box filled with nick-nacks in the pantry and found two bobby pins and carefully straightened them for breaking and entry. I went out to the lobby, picked the lock, and broke into the next-door Neighbor's apartment with the envelope in my hand to look around and see what was going on. The apartment was as poorly furnished as my own. There are a few books on the shelf, a coffee pot on the stove, a pair of shabby shoes by the unmade bed, and a few towels in the bathroom. No personal items, letters, or photos to identify the Neighbor I'd never met. Then I heard footsteps; someone was coming upstairs.

 

I flustered and rushed out, closed the door, and jumped inside my own; I could hardly breathe as I was eavesdropping behind my closed door. Then I opened the door and saw a man run upstairs and hastily enter the next-door apartment and slam the door shut, but the door flung back open as the lock was tampered with. I walked out of my place, stood outside the Neighbor's apartment, and witnessed the man frantically ransacking the flat. Although sometimes he was out of my field of vision, I could hear him rummaging through his empty apartment. As the man ran out of the apartment empty-handed, I followed him with the folder in my hand to catch up before reaching the top of the stairs.

 

"I have got a package for you," I yelled, extending my hand and offering him the envelope.

 

"Is this what you're looking for?" I shouted.

 

The stranger turned back his head and seized the envelope from my grip without saying a word. As he suddenly turned back to rush downstairs, he lost his balance and fell downstairs with an explosive sound when he violently hit his head on the wrought iron railing, and his torso crashed down on every step and tumbled down to the lobby. When the lifeless body reached the ground, the envelope flew off his hand. A few neighbors, startled by the commotion, dashed out and watched over the railing, only to see a dead body on the ground with blood spewing out of his head and mouth. I rushed downstairs to help and examined my Neighbor, whose face was now covered with blood. Alas, it was too late. The envelope was thrown out of the Neighbor's sight, who was watching the horrific scene from the second floor.

 

"Call the police," I shouted.

 

"I already did; they're on their way," a neighbor said.

 

I picked up the envelope and hid it inside my jacket and quickly returned to my apartment and hid it inside my pillow sham on the bed after carefully wiping out the fingerprints. Then I grabbed my camera and walked out, stood by the railing, and took a few snapshots of my dead Neighbor.

 

"This is not the time to take pictures, mister," a neighbor grumbled.

 

"Is there anything better left to do?" I slyly responded.

 

Thirty minutes later, two uniformed police officers and an investigator arrived. One officer searched the man's pockets. The other looked around and found a lighter in the victim's pocket. He picked up the evidence with a handkerchief and carefully put it in a plastic bag. The two officers followed the landlady to the victim's apartment. The detective talked to every Neighbor who witnessed the tragedy. He then walked toward me.

 

"Did you see him fall downstairs?"

 

"I sure did, sir."

 

"What is your name?"

 

"Charles Cunningham."

 

"What do you do, Mr. Cunningham?"

 

"I'm in sales."

 

"What do you sell?

 

"Souvenirs to tourists."

 

"Where?"

 

In the battery park."

 

"How long have you lived in this apartment?"

 

"About two years."

 

“Was the deceased your next-door neighbor?"

 

"I believe so."

 

"What do you mean by that? Was he your Neighbor or not?"

 

“I'm not sure; I never met him before today; I just saw his body…"

 

"You lived here for two years and didn't meet your next-door neighbor?"

 

"That's correct, sir."

 

"Have you met other neighbors?"

 

“I see them sometimes in the hallway."

 

"Do you say hello to them?"

 

"Do I say hello to them? Well, if I'm in the mood, I say hello."

"If you had never met him, how do you know he was your neighbor?"

 

"Well, I heard someone coming upstairs, and then I heard his footsteps inside my next-door apartment, and I believe everyone on the second floor heard the door slamming."

 

"Did you see what exactly happened?"

 

"As I walked out of my apartment. I saw the man running out of his apartment, and when he reached the first step, he slipped and tumbled downstairs."

 

"Was he running or walking?"

 

"Definitely running."

 

"Was he running from someone?"

 

"I have no idea. I didn't see anyone else."

 

"Do you remember how long he stayed in his apartment?"

 

"Not more than a few minutes.

 

"How do you know it was a few minutes? Did you look at the clock?"

 

"It seemed a short period."

 

"Did you go out to talk to him?"

 

"No, sir. As I said, I didn't know him."

 

"The landlady said you were asking questions about your neighbor a few days prior, is that right?"

 

"Yes, I did."

 

"Why?"

        

"Because I was curious of why this unit was still vacant, that's all."

 

"Did you ask your landlady your neighbor's name?"

 

"I might have, I'm not sure."

 

"You did, Mr. Cunningham. I ask you again, are you sure you never met him." The investigator slyly asked.

 

"The only time I saw him was when he was tumbling downstairs."

 

"How do you know he was your neighbor tumbling downstairs?"

 

"I told you I don't know; I just assume he was my neighbor."

 

The investigator was not satisfied with what he was hearing, and I was nervous. After all, I was hiding a lot of information.

 

"He just fell and died. Just like that, ha?"

 

"That's what I saw."

 

"You said he was in a hurry; do you know why?"

 

"I have no clue, officer," I responded, trying to stay calm.

 

"Were you the only one seeing him fall?"

 

"I don't know, you should ask this question from other neighbors. I told you what I saw. Am I a suspect?"

 

The investigator intentionally ignored my question as he surely sensed my anxiety.

 

In the short time he was in his apartment, did you hear anything? Was he alone?"

 

"I believe he was alone. I'm not sure."

 

One of the officers walked to the investigator and whispered in his ear while he was staring at me.

 

"The apartment's door lock was picked, sir."

 

"Anything missing?" the detective asked.

 

"The apartment is almost empty."

 

"Answer my question. Is there anything missing?"

 

"It doesn't seem so sir."

 

"Mr. Cunningham, do you go to work every day?"

 

"Not in rain or snow."

 

"Your landlady said you didn't go to work for the past week or so. We had some sunny days during this time."

 

"I... I didn't feel like working for a few days, that's all. Selling things to foreigners is not as easy as it seems."

 

"One of the neighbors said she heard a conversation before he fell downstairs. Did you say anything to him?"

 

"No."

 

"Did the man say anything to you before he fell?"

 

"No. Everything happened so quickly. I heard his footsteps leading to his apartment. I heard the door slammed shut, and as I walked in the hallway to see what was going on, he ran towards the stairs, and then I witnessed him falling."

 

"Neighbors said you took some pictures of the deceased. Why?"

 

"I take pictures of interesting people and bizarre events at times.

 

It's my hobby detective, is that a crime?"

 

"What's so interesting about a man plummeting to his demise?

 

"It's noteworthy, isn't it?"

 

The detective expected a different response. He paused, questioning me for a moment.

 

"I cannot let you have these photos; it's evidence in an ongoing investigation."

 

"But I haven't processed the film yet."

 

"Well, then I confiscate the roll from your camera. Mr. Cunningham, do you mind if we look around your apartment?"

 

"Why? I had nothing to do with this. I told you everything I knew."

 

"Then you have nothing to worry about, Mr. Cunningham. It's routine in the police investigation of murder cases."

 

"Why did you call his death a murder? He fell downstairs. I saw him."

 

"I stand corrected, sir. We don't know yet if it was a murder or just an accident; that's why we'll investigate."

 

"If it helps your investigation, why not."

 

 ushered the detective inside my place.

 

"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Cunningham. I appreciate it."

 

"Go ahead. I don't have anything to hide."

 

The investigator noticed the pack of cigarettes on the table, and with the tip of his pen, he nudged its lid open. The box had two cigarettes inside. Standing behind the detective, I suddenly noticed two straightened pins by the coffee pot. I casually walked closer to the kitchen.

 

"I still have some coffee left in the pot. Would you like a cup?" I delicately slid the pins under the coffee maker as I poured a cup.

 

"No thanks. I can't sleep at night even without coffee."

 

"You must have a stressful job."

 

The detective gazed at the coffee pot. I added a teaspoonful of sugar to my coffee, started stirring and, sipped. The closet door was not completely shut. I stealthily looked at the brass bedpost, hoping this tormenting interrogation would end. The investigator returned to the living room and took the camera off the shelf. I followed him.

 

"The film Mr. Cunningham," he said.

 

"Do I get my pictures back?"

 

“We'll develop the pictures in our lab. After the investigation is over and if there is no value to those photos, you may claim them."

 

"But the roll is not all used yet."

 

"I cannot let you have the roll of film, sir."

 

I carefully and, under the investigator's gaze, removed the roll from the camera and handed it over.

 

"Well, Mr. Cunningham, please don't leave the city for a few days. We'll contact you if we need more information. And here it is, my card. Don't hesitate to contact me if you remember anything else about your Neighbor, anything at all."

 

"I sure will, detective."

 

The body was removed, and the initial investigation was concluded before I decided to get out to get some fresh air and buy a pack of cigarettes. I saw the two police officers leaving my next-door apartment. I felt guilty as I passed by the next-door apartment. The investigator and two officers walked behind me downstairs until we all reached the foyer. I left the building, and the investigator and two officers stood by the cruise car. The investigator lit up a cigarette and deeply inhaled.

 

"I didn't have a good feeling about this entire affair. I knew the detective sensed something was off about me and my responses. Before I got too far away from them, one officer ran after me."

 

"This is one mysterious death; we'd like you to come downtown first thing in the morning," he told me.

 

The following day, I was sitting at the desk filled with papers. The detective took a puff of his cigarette.

 

"Mr. Cunningham, did you tell us everything you knew last night?"

 

"Yes, everything I knew."

 

The detective opened his desk drawer, pulled out the lighter, and placed it on the desk.

 

"Last night, we fingerprinted the crime scene and your apartment, and now we're puzzled."

        

"Why is that?" I asked.

 

"Why in the world are your fingerprints all over the dead man's lighter? Do you recognize this lighter?"

 

"I do, sir."

 

"How so?"

 

"As I told you, I'm a vendor in Battery Park.

I've recently sold two lighters with 'AA' on their cases, the only pair I had with only two initials."

 

"Do you remember to whom you sold those two lighters?"

 

"One I remember was to a tourist who said his kid brother had the same initials."

 

"When was that?"

 

"I would say a couple of weeks ago."

 

"And the other one?"

 

"I don't remember."

 

"Did you sell it to the victim by any chance?"

 

"I may have."

 

I opened my briefcase and paraded a variety of lighters just like the one the victim had.

 

"You see, detective, I sell souvenirs," I told the detective.

 

Present Time

"Do you remember anything about the victim in your apartment building?" Adam asks.

"I looked at him for a moment, and it was dark. When he fell, his face was covered with blood; I couldn't see much."

 

"Was the victim me?" Adam asks.

 

"Are you asking me if you were the man who fell downstairs and died more than thirty years ago?"

 

"Did you ever find out who the man was?" Shiva asks.

 

"No. and I didn't want to know."

 

"Why didn't you tell the investigator the truth about the envelope?" Jake asks.

 

"How could I explain any of that without incriminating myself? The stranger's visit, a large amount of money he paid me to deliver this envelope to my next-door Neighbor, the breaking and entering into the victim's apartment, and the lighter police found in his pocket with my fingerprints on it. How could I possibly explain all that? It was bad enough that I was the only person of interest in a suspicious death investigation."

 

Kate shows the victim's pictures to Mr. Cunningham.

 

"Did you take all these photos yourself?"

 

"As I said before I took these pictures, he is the dead man in my apartment. But who he was, I have no clue."

 

"You never claimed your pictures, did you?"

 

"After this sordid affair, I was too scared to walk by the police station, let alone ask them for my pictures. I don't think the investigator was ever convinced I had nothing to do with the falling of the victim, but they had no evidence to connect me to his fall. I won't ask you how in the world you got these photos. This entire situation is so bizarre that I don't have the desire to figure it out."

 

"Did the cops investigate you more?" Shiva asks.

 

"They sure did. For more than a month, I was going back and forth to the police station. But I did not change a word of my story. It was too late to tell the whole truth unless I had a plan to commit suicide."

 

"You never became curious to find out what had happened?" Kate asks.

 

"To snoop around a case like that, hell no. I was lucky not to be accused of pushing the victim downstairs. Besides, if he were in any way related to mobs, sooner than later, I would've ended up floating in a river. I was not that stupid."

 

"So you decided to keep the envelope forever? You never cared to see what was inside the damned package?" Adam asks.

 

"For years, this envelope and the entire saga spooked me so much that I decided on more than one occasion to throw this envelope away or burn the damn thing, but for some weird reason, I could not bring myself to do that. After a few years, I finally dared to peek inside this envelope."

 

"What's in it?" Adam asks.

 

All four guests stare at Cunningham's lips.

 

"I only read the title on top of the first page; it must be a story of a sort."

 

"What is the title?" Adam asks.

 

"Illusion."

 

"Did you read any of it?" Shiva asks.

 

"I had a premonition that all those events were somehow related, and I was just a piece of a big puzzle, and now I know for a fact that was the case."

 

"We're all pieces of this puzzle," Shiva says.

 

"Can you take us to that apartment?"

 

"No, I want no part of this anymore. I'll give you the address if you wish. The building is left intact exactly as it was thirty years ago."

 

Shiva types the address on Google Maps on her cell phone as Cunningham gives the address.

 

"I don't think you should go there," Cunningham warns his guests.

 

"I need to know the whole story," Adam says.

        

"Maybe you shouldn't," Cunningham says.

 

"You're right, sir. I don't think we should probe this matter further either," Kate says.

 

"I can't just let it haunt me for the rest of my life," Adam says.

 

"Not every story should be told," Cunningham says.

 

Shiva, Kate, and Jake nod.

 

"You need to let it go before it's too late, Mister," Cunningham says.

 

"I need to know what is in this envelope. If it's a story, I must read it."

 

"Maybe you have more compelling reasons to probe this matter further, but not me. I give this envelope to you because deep inside, I believe you're the rightful owner, but please don't open it here in my presence, and don't ever contact me again."

 

Cunningham stretches his hand to give the envelope to Adam, but Kate snatches the file before it touches Adam's hand.

 

"Give it to me?" Adam orders his wife.

 

"No."

 

"I said give me the envelope."

 

"I won't let you touch this, Adam." Kate shrieks.

 

"Don't give it to him, Kate," Shiva says.

 

"We came here to figure this thing out."

 

"Not anymore. We know enough not to pursue this anymore," Kate says.

 

"Don't you see, logic and reason have nothing to do with what we all went through so far, nothing," Shiva says.

 

Kate gives the folder to Shiva.

 

"I will destroy it today," Shiva says.

 

"Let's all go back to the city and enjoy the night. Tomorrow, we'll all go back," Jake says.

 

"You'll never hear from us again, Mr. Cunningham. That's a promise," Kate says.

        

Shiva shows the photo Cunningham took of her with her father in the park when she was eight.

 

"You may not remember me, Mr. Cunningham, but we met in Battery Park about thirty years ago. And most likely, you don't remember taking this picture. This is a beautiful picture. Thank you so much for capturing a beautiful moment," Shiva kisses the host.

 

"You saved my husband. Thank you so much from the bottom of my heart," Kate says while hugging Cunningham.

 

Visitors leave Cunningham's room. Before they leave the facility, Kate walks to the management office and talks to the administrator.

 

"I would like to give you this check for Mr. Cunningham's expenses. Please send it for him however he wishes," Kate leaves a generous reward, and they depart.

 

 few hours later, they are in a Persian restaurant in downtown Manhattan.

 

"Believe it or not, this restaurant has been here in operation for more than thirty years?" Shiva remarks.

 

"Really? Have you been here before?" Kate asks.

 

"The first time I ate here was with my father when I was about eight years old during the same trip we visited Elis Island, the same trip on which Cunningham took our picture."

 

Kate and Shiva order a variety of Persian cuisines. A man in the back of the restaurant is eyeing them and smoking a waterpipe as they have dinner.

 

"I love this food. This Kabob is almost as delicious as the Kabob your mother makes," Jake says to his wife.

 

"You better wish she doesn't hear this insensitive comment of yours," Shiva chuckles.

 

"Oh! No. I don't want any trouble, dear. I know how proud of her cooking skills she is."

 

"We also have a Persian artifacts store behind the restaurant," the waiter informs the customers as he refills their mint-flavored yogurt drink.

 

"Tonight is Adam's birthday. Let's celebrate."

 

After dinner, the four visitors walk to the store adjacent to the restaurant to browse. Tables and shelves are inundated with ancient Persian coins, spears, swords, stamps, and handwritten writs of kings, and walls draped with silk Persian rugs and miniature paintings. On one table, there is a backgammon board open with all the pieces set. The price tag is $750."

 

"Shiva, look at this backgammon," Jake says.

 

"Yeah, it's exquisite," Shiva says.

 

"The problem is that she cannot find a player to challenge her," Jake says to Adam and Kate.

 

The man behind the counter steps closer.

 

"Are you a good player, Ma'am?" he asks Shiva.

 

"I learned this game from my father. I don't remember seeing him lose to anyone."

 

"My father thinks he's the best too," The store manager says. "I like to see my father lose for a change. Would you like to challenge him, Ma'am?" He asks Shiva.

 

"And what if my wife beats your father in this game?"

 

"Then you can take home this exquisite handcrafted backgammon for half the price."

 

"Really?" Shiva is excited.

 

"And your dinner will be on the house."

 

"Shiva, here is the challenge you've been looking for," Jake says.

 

"Dinner for four in New York City? That by itself cost more than a hundred bucks," Kate comments.

 

"One hundred and twenty dollars, to be exact, before tax and gratuity," the store manager grins.

 

"You beat this gentleman's father, and I'll buy the backgammon set for you." Jake eggs her on.

 

"Is your father here now?" Shiva asks the store manager.

 

"He's always ready to roll, no pun intended," the store manager says.

 

"What if she loses?" Kate asks.

 

"I won't," Shiva says.

 

"What if she does?" Jake asks.

 

"Then you'll buy the backgammon for your lovely wife at full price, and dinner will be on me. What do you say?"

 

"Are you sure you can beat him? We are talking about $750 here," Jake asks his wife.

 

"Yes, you cheap bastard."

 

"Alright, sir. We accept the challenge," Jake says to the store manager.

 

The store manager calls on his father.

 

"Baba, come on out. I found another victim," he chuckles.

 

"During this game, we want Baklava and hot Darjeeling tea served at no cost." Kate ups the ante.

 

"Deal. Dad, come on out here, please. This lady is going to beat you in backgammon."

 

An older man walks to the counter dressed in a traditional Persian robe and twirling religious beads around his fingers.

 

"Go bring me the Chai," he orders his son to bring tea.

 

"Yes, father."

 

"So, which one of you is the challenger?"

 

“Salaam, my name is Shiva."

 

“Hello, how are you?” The man greets his challenger in Persian.

 

"Are you ready to lose my dear?"

 

"She's ready to kick your a… "

 

"Shut up." Shiva stops him from insulting the old Persian.

 

The game starts. Shiva and her opponent roll dice and move their pieces one after another.

 

Kate and Adam browse the store. Jake enjoys the Baklavas and hot tea while watching the game. The older man orders his son to bring a water pipe. Jake takes a puff and coughs. Kate finds a book of poetry from Omar Khayyam. The older man notices the book in Kate's hand.

 

"Omar Khayyam says:

 

We are the puppets, and fate the puppeteer

This is not a metaphor but a truth, sincere

On this stage, we play for a while

Into the chest of nothingness, we return one by one."

 

The older man recites.

 

Jake enjoys watching the game and savors Baklavas, and at the end, he pays the full price for a handcrafted backgammon set for his wife. After dinner, Jake drives in quiet streets, stops by the dilapidated Dream Apartment, and parks the car across the street. The passengers exit the vehicle and stand in front of the dark building. A gentle breeze caresses the visitors. The Dream sign rattles in the wind. Shiva has the envelope in her hand.

 

"Are you guys not curious to know what's inside this envelope?" Adam asks.

 

"There are more twists and turns to this tale than we can ever unravel," Kate says.

 

The breeze suddenly flew a few pages of the Illusion through the ripped-up old envelope. Shiva manages to hold on to the rest of the story, runs after flying pages, and briefly disappears into darkness for a short period. When she comes back, she's empty-handed.

 

"What happened to the envelope Shiva?" Adam Asks.

 

"Kate is right. There's no use to meddle in this affair any longer. Don't you see the more we explore, the darker this tale grows?"

 

 

10 Years Later

 

Shiva opens the envelope and finds the "Illusion," an allegory she never dared to read until ten tonight when she recites the present text word for word exactly as she found it ten years ago.

 

"…Illusion; an enigmatic creation, a perplexing fable written by a capricious author of our lives. It is an allegory inundated with so many puzzling twists impossible to predict. It is a tale we never know if we're the author or solely a protagonist. The only certainty of our journey is the ending, which never is as enchanting as the journey itself…"

 

At this point, Shiva pauses and takes a deep breath.

 

"This story doesn't end here. I haven't read the ending myself. That night ten years ago in front of that building, when the gust of wind blew a few pages of this tale, I did go after those pages but didn't find them. So, I decided to hide this envelope to end our melancholic expedition towards death and to save Adam's sanity," Shiva says.

 

"Why didn't you get rid of the envelope the same night?" Adam asks.

 

"I tell you why because she's a Persian nut. You two know Shiva too well to believe she would let go of such a mystery. That night, when she returned empty-handed, I knew she was up to something, but I preferred to let it go. I never asked her about that envelope, and we never mentioned it again to you guys." Jake says.

 

"Jake is right. This puzzle was too perplexing, dark, and compelling to let go; I just could not do it. It drove me crazy going through everything we all went through without having a resolution. I saved the salvaged pages of Illusion to read in the future, and now I know it was not meant to be read to the end. Now, I know the flown-away pages were the ending of our story." Shiva says. "Hmm; life's meant to be experienced, not figured out," she continues.

 

Shiva then threw the envelope into the flaming fireplace, and the tantalizing sparkles of Illusion exploded in space and mesmerized everyone in the room.

 

The End.