I Should Die

T-shirt. “I have to get dressed.”
    I’m not looking , Vincent assured me.
    “Yeah, right,” I said, self-consciously ripping my T-shirt off and pulling some fresh clothes out of my suitcase. “How many times have you seen me naked?” It was something I’d always wondered but never had the chance to ask.
    I’m a gentleman —Vincent said— not a stalker. I always let you know when I’m in the room .
    “How many times?” I insisted.
    I swear to you, Kate. I would never take advantage of my situation like that. Maybe a bit old-fashioned of me, but I don’t want to see you until you invite me to.
    I couldn’t help but grin. Vincent was so chivalrous. I doubted that most boys my age would have passed up an opportunity to see a girl naked—if the girl was sure never to find out. Chivalry: one of the advantages of dating a teenager who had been around since the olden days.
    There was a silence. Not that it hasn’t been tempting .
    “Vincent!”
    Can I look now?
    “Yes, I’m dressed,” I said.
    Do you know the phrase “Un rien te va” ? Vincent asked me.
    “No,” I confessed.
    It means you look good in anything. I think you look even sexier first thing in the morning than when you’ve spent time beautifying.
    My smile took up my whole face. “I think that’s about the nicest thing a boy has ever said to me.”
    Just saying what’s true , Vincent said.
    “You’re lucky I can’t jump on you right now,” I commented.
    I disagree , he said.
    I had felt a yearning for Vincent’s body before. But never when he wasn’t there to touch. And now I wanted to touch him more than ever. To be touched by him. Maybe that was because it wasn’t possible, but I had a feeling that it was more than that. We had waited to make love because I hadn’t felt ready yet. But this brush with death—with Vincent’s eternal disappearance—had made me realize that that kind of connection with Vincent was what I wanted. If I was given the chance again, this time I would choose yes.
    Trying to clear my head of impossible dreams, I picked up my purse and the room key and began heading out the door when I suddenly remembered my phone. I hadn’t even taken it out of my suitcase when I arrived because I wasn’t sure I had international service. Plus . . . who was I going to call?
    “Wait a second, Vincent. I’m just going to check that picture,” I said, sitting back down on the bed. “I don’t even know if it turned out, since the cave was so big and my flash was pretty weak.”
    I clicked on the camera icon, and there it was: the last picture I had taken. It had worked. Although dark around the edges where the flash hadn’t reached, the middle of the painted wall was clearly visible . . . I expanded the image with my fingertips . . . and in focus!
    “Oh my God, Vincent? Do you see?”
    Yes! he said. It’s hard to read at this size, but if we loaded it onto your grandfather’s laptop, I think it would be legible.
    “Let’s go, then!” I said.
    Papy and Bran were sitting behind empty cups of coffee, studying a piece of paper. Seeing me arrive, Papy poured a cup from the pitcher on the table and set it on the place setting next to him.
    “No time for coffee!” I said. “The picture from the cave. It worked! We need your laptop, Papy.”
    My grandfather handed me his room key and I was back with the laptop in minutes. Plugging my phone into it, I waited a second until the image popped up, then selected the painting with the re-embodiment and cropped everything else out.
    “The image is very similar to what was on Theodore’s urn,” Papy agreed.
    “Can we see the words more closely?” Bran asked, leaning in toward the computer.
    I zoomed in, and the inscription filled the screen. As Papy began translating it from the Latin, Bran scribbled it down on the piece of paper.
     
A man of clay is only mud
Until his brother spills his blood.
Mortal breath will animate
The dead’s own ashes re-create.
Once these elements combine
The cooling flames will entwine
Spirit with inanimate form
For wandering soul to be reborn.
     
    “The dead’s own ashes? Does that mean Vincent’s ashes?” I asked, a cold wave of alarm washing through me.
    “That’s what it seems to suggest,” Papy said. He cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable. “Is there any way for us to get Vincent’s ashes?”
    “I seriously doubt it,” I said. “It’s been days since Vincent was burned.” I felt sick. I couldn’t