Abigail had been running. She had taken the spirit molecule from the vagrant. At first she didn’t even know what she had. She could feel it in her bag. It was whispering to her. She could feel it moving. It touched the edge of her consciousness. Was this real? At the very heart of it, she could feel a presence. She could hear his voice, faint. She could see his image in her dreams, dark, his face full of needles. It couldn’t be real.
For as long as she could remember she had been searching. Mystic experiences, LSD, DMT, and the spirit. It was never enough.
She never stopped moving. Never stopped searching. A brothel in New Orleans, BDSM in Berlin. Sometimes when she woke up she didn’t know what city she was in.
Is this all there was? Had she reached the limits of experience? Their had to be more.
She tried Wicca. The goddess rejected her. She tried Buddhism, but nirvana eluded her. What else was there? Their had to be something. Another guy bought her a drink. Where was she again? She thought hard. Her last clear memory was an alley in Paris. This didn’t smell like Paris. Was this Morocco? She had hit bottom.
She had heard of the vagrant. They said when nothing was left he would come. You couldn’t find him, he had to find you. She could feel him now. She finished her drink and stepped outside. She saw him outside the Pyramid Gallery. Their eyes locked. She approached. He took out a box, designs seems to melt and form. She couldn’t take her eyes off it.
She walked away, forgetting about the vagrant. He stared after her with empty eyes. His job was finished. Back in her room she sat down. Fingers tracing patterns. She could feel something traveling. Getting closer. Movement from the mirror. He had came. The light reflected from the pins in his face. She smiled. No more running, no more moving. She had come home.
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