That night—if it could be called night in the Orchard, where the sky shimmered in eternal twilight—Eli lay beneath a fig tree and dreamt. Or perhaps he didn't dream at all, but crossed some subtle seam in the universe where memory, desire, and grief folded into one another.
He found himself in a place neither here nor there: a dim mirror of the waking world, misted and fragile like breath on glass. A dream space.
Julian was there—his son, still in his fifties, hair thinning, eyes tired.
He stood in the middle of their old kitchen, stirring coffee in silence.
It was morning, real morning—back on Earth. The light was cold. His back was slightly hunched, the weight of mourning stitched into his posture.
Eli stood beside him, invisible.
And then, somehow, present.
He reached out, touched Julian's shoulder—not with a hand, but with something purer Intent.
Julian paused, confused.
Eli leaned close, whispered, "You're doing fine, son."
Julian blinked. His spoon clinked in the mug.
And then… he smiled. Just slightly. The kind of smile that arrives with no known cause. A moment of warmth. As if something had briefly lit inside him.
When Eli woke beneath the tree, the leaves above him stirred in unspoken applause. He sat up slowly, breath caught between sorrow and wonder.
"Lena," he said aloud, "I spoke to him."
She arrived not long after, barefoot in the grass, a basket of pears in one hand.
"I felt it," she said. "He heard you, didn't he?"
"I think so."
"You left an echo."
Eli gazed into the orchard. "I want to do more."
She handed him a pear. "You will. But be gentle. They are still bound by time. By grief. You are now made of something softer. They can't always receive it."
He nodded.
Eli drifted backward, the dream fading. As it did, he heard Julian whisper aloud to the empty room:
"Miss you, Dad."
When Eli woke beneath the tree, the leaves above him stirred in unspoken applause. He sat up slowly, breath caught between sorrow and wonder.
"Lena," he said aloud, "I spoke to him."
She arrived not long after, barefoot in the grass, a basket of pears in one hand.
"I felt it," she said. "He heard you, didn't he?"
"I think so."
"You left an echo."
Eli gazed into the orchard. "I want to do more."
She handed him a pear. "You will. But be gentle. They are still bound by time. By grief.
You are now made of something softer. They can't always receive it."
He nodded.
But the yearning to help his son—to ease the ache that still pulsed in the living world—would not let go.