The sight of the darkened house gave him pause, and he wished, for one whimsical moment, that the walls were transparent. It would have been a singular joy to watch Miss Emmeline sitting at her vanity table, letting her hair down, brushing it with long, measured strokes, and, finally, winding the coppery strands into a thick plait. He’d seen her do that a hundred times in reality and a thousand times in his dreams, and he never tired of the sight. Just imagining that simple, ordinary ritual filled Gil with a yearning of unreasonable depths, rooted far down in his soul. He shoved splayed fingers through his hair in frustration. Emmeline was his wife, and for seven long years he had lived only to return to her. Now, miraculously, here he was, resurrected, back from the dead, close enough to call out to her. So why was he holding back, like a thirst-ravaged man denying himself water? All the while, the great unseen and unheard clock of the universe was ticking, and with every swing of the pendulum, there was another heartbeat used and gone, another moment lost forever.
