Free Eternal by London Saint James Page B

of the bookshelves. I placed
Wuthering
Heights
back in place. I picked up the sketch and read my name written at the bottom of
the paper in Cayden’s own personal handwriting.
    I stood perfectly still, holding my breath before
my hands started to shake. There in my shaking hand was what I can only
describe as not only impossible, heart-wrenching, but also beautiful.
    “Impossible,” I said aloud. I studied every
intricate detail of my own eyes sketched on the paper in my hand gazing back at
me.
    Cayden had captured every detail of my eyes,
including the intricacy of my lashes. He must have used a dark-emerald colored
pencil to capture the color of my eyes then used another lighter shade of green
to highlight them with a sparkle somehow. Facets of light. I remembered how
Austin
said my eyes were the color of
emeralds cut with facets.
    I found a dark black book that looked worn. It
was nothing like the pristine condition of Cayden’s other books on the shelves.
There was no cover to indicate it was a book to read, but I picked it up and
held it in my hands. I flipped through the pages. It was a diary of sorts. I
sat it back down, wondering if it was too personal . Maybe I should not read it. I placed
the sketch Cayden had drawn back from where I took it then picked up the diary.
I took a seat by the window and read.
    The first entry was written years ago. Cayden
must have been eight-years-old by the date on the top of the page. I would have
been twenty-three. This knowledge gave me pause for just a moment, for more
reason than one, but I read my name written over and over and over on the page
with intermittent doodles.
    Winter Winter** Winter**WINTER §
    ≈≈≈winter W*I*N*T*E*R*   WINTER
    Winter ◊◊◊
    Then nothing more except for the periodic script
of my name until Cayden was fifteen. This entry was heartbreaking. Cayden
wrote....
     
    The doctors are trying to tell me I am suffering
from something called post traumatic stress disorder and do not believe me when
I say I have lost someone named Winter. They tell me there has never been any
such person in my life and try to explain her away, saying I may be creating
someone in my mind in order to compensate for other more painful suppressed
memories. They want me to talk about my parents but I have no memory of them
other than what I have heard from my brother. It upsets Chance because I do not
mourn my parents, never morning them. It should probably upset me. Maybe there
is something really wrong with me? No one wants to understand, not the doctors,
not my Aunt and not even my brother.
     
    He called his
brother Chance. Shaking my head, I flipped a few
more pages ahead to see another entry when Cayden was sixteen:
     
    I need to find Winter and I have no idea how to
find her. My need to see Winter plagues me. Is she a ghost which haunts my
dreams and my waking thoughts? Possibly. I wake up every night with her name on
my mind and I have no idea who she is but I know I will find her someday, I
have too. I miss her and I have to find what I have lost and never knowing how
I have lost her is something I do not understand.
     
    I sat quietly, pondering these entries. Amazing . Truly unbelievable, yet
Cayden’s words were filled with a truth that was hard to escape. Everything I
have heard since leaving
Colorado
,
and everything I have seen, has been more than a dream, surreal. And reading
Cayden’s diary was astonishing to me.
      Can love really conquer death? I recalled being in the hospital thinking how
Austin
said he would
always stay with me, but he was gone. I wondered where he was, where he had
disappeared to, and knew he had left me. I brought to mind the burning; almost
tearing needed within my soul to find him. I remember thinking I must to hold
on to
Austin
. A
part of me clung to the belief death could not be the end.
      Could
Austin
have loved me so much he fought to
stay with me? Could Cayden and Austin really be linked to each other on some
spiritual