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We were on the edge of the Otherworld, and we didn’t even know it.

Surrounded by music, all I could think of was how I wanted to dance, and how mysterious that one tune sounded through my headphones. There was music in that old, old house. The heater clicked and clacked, like someone walking the stairs. The fog drifted by in an eerie presence. We could hear waves on the shore, but they couldn’t be seen for the darkness. We had to wait until morning to see our surroundings.

Perhaps I was being pulled away even then. You had your dreams, and I had mine. I dwelt in that otherworld of fantasy. You wanted to change in other ways. You’d be active in the church. You needed to be needed. You’d climb that mountain, do it yourself, have all the answers.

Those woods were my undoing. It was winter. Or perhaps very, very early spring. Lichen had taken over the silvery trees and underbrush. Ghostly green, but never sickly; pale green, but not quite ice; beckoning green, for a girl who was seeking. I should remember all the tunes we learned. All I remember was how he made the fiddle sound like bagpipes. I was untalented, except in the areas that didn’t matter.

But that tune. I listened to it over and over. It pulled at me the same way those woods did. It was Otherwordly, and I belonged there. Just beyond. Just beyond.