BETWEEN ME AND YOU

THE VEIL BETWEEN WORLDS

Morning light fell through the narrow church windows, pale and uncertain. Father Mateo stood at the altar, murmuring a prayer beneath his breath as Banjo and Kristine waited by the front pew. The air still smelled of last night’s incense, sweet, heavy, and a little burned at the edges.

Kristine hadn’t spoken since the flash that had shaken the church. She sat with her hands folded around the broken compass, the crack running straight across its face like a scar. Banjo hadn’t slept. His eyes were rimmed in red, the skin beneath them gray.

When the priest finished his prayer, he turned to them. “You felt the crossing.”

Kristine nodded once. “It wasn’t just Rico. There was something else.”

Mateo sighed. “There always is. A door never opens for only one.”

Banjo clenched his jaw. “Then close it. Whatever you have to do.”

The priest studied him for a long moment. “You think this is about shutting a door. It isn’t. It’s about understanding who opened it, and why it answered.”

Banjo looked away, heat rising in his chest. “I didn’t ask for this.”

“No,” the priest said quietly. “But love rarely asks permission before it binds.”

They followed Mateo down a corridor that smelled of dust and candle wax. He unlocked a small iron gate and led them into a narrow room lined with shelves. Old ledgers, melted candles, a tarnished chalice. On the wall hung a single painting. Saint Raphael guiding a traveler through storm clouds.

Mateo lit two candles on the table. “Every object that carries a heartbeat has once been offered,” he said. “The compass isn’t cursed; it’s promised. Someone gave part of their life to make it find what should never be found.”

Kristine’s voice was small. “Rico gave it to me. Years ago. Before he died.”

Banjo looked at her. “You never told me that.”

“I’d forgotten until last night,” she whispered. “He said it would always lead me home.”

Mateo nodded grimly. “Home to him, perhaps. But he was lost beyond the veil. When you touched it again after so long, you called to what still answered in his name.”

Banjo’s stomach turned. “You’re saying she… summoned him?”

“She remembered him,” the priest corrected. “Memory is the oldest form of invocation.”

They sat as Mateo prepared a small bowl of salt and water, stirring until the surface shimmered. He placed the compass beside it, its cracked face catching the candlelight. “Watch,” he said.

The needle began to twitch, slow at first, then faster, scraping softly against the glass. Kristine’s breath hitched.

“Rico?” she whispered.

A low vibration passed through the table, faint as a sigh. The candle flames bent inward, toward the compass.

Mateo raised a hand. “Don’t speak his name again,” he warned. “It gives him path.”

Banjo reached across the table and covered Kristine’s trembling hands. Her skin was cold. “Father, what do we do?”

“The living can’t command the dead,” Mateo said. “But we can bargain. He believes he was promised forever. We must make him understand that forever has changed.”

He took a thin length of black ribbon from a drawer and laid it between them. “This will mark the boundary. Once we begin, don’t break it, no matter what you see.”

Banjo nodded, though his mouth was dry.

Father Mateo started to pray softly, his words flowing with an ancient rhythm. The air in the small room grew heavy, and Banjo could feel his heartbeat echoing in his ears. The compass trembled slightly. A gentle light oozed from its crack, pulsing like a heartbeat. Then, a whisper drifted through the space, too faint to take form, yet too close to ignore.

She called… I answered…Kristine’s head snapped up. “Rico?”

Mateo’s voice rose sharply. “Do not answer him!”

But she was already crying. “I didn’t mean to. I just wanted you to be at peace.”

The whisper trembled, almost tender. Then let me in…

Banjo stood abruptly. “Stop! You can’t have her!”

The candle flames flared, and something unseen struck the wall with a dull, heavy thud. Books toppled from the shelf. Kristine screamed.

Mateo caught Banjo’s arm. “Hold her! Keep her in the circle!”

Banjo pulled her close. Her body shook violently, her breath ragged. The light from the compass brightened until it was painful to look at.

Mateo scattered salt into the air. “Rico, son of the departed, your path is closed! The living do not belong to you!”

The whisper turned into a hiss. Then silence. The compass went dark.

Kristine collapsed against Banjo’s chest, sobbing. “He’s gone.”

But the priest’s expression didn’t ease. “No,” he said. “He’s waiting.”

They left the chamber in near silence. Outside, the afternoon had darkened into gray drizzle. The bells of the church tolled once, deep and hollow.

Kristine leaned against Banjo as they walked to the car. “I thought I saw him,” she said faintly. “Behind Father Mateo. Just for a second.”

Banjo didn’t answer. He kept his arm around her shoulders, feeling the slight tremor in her body.

When they reached the car, Mateo stopped them. “Take this.” He handed Banjo a small silver medallion stamped with an angel.

“Keep it near her when she sleeps. If she dreams of him again, wake her before she speaks his name.”

Banjo nodded. “Will it stop him?”

“It may not be him you need to stop,” the priest said. “If something else crossed when the door opened, it will seek to wear a face you trust.”

Banjo felt his throat tighten. “You mean...”

“I mean love blinds even the faithful,” Mateo said gently. “Be careful what you try to save.”

That night, Banjo lit only one lamp in the living room. Kristine lay asleep on the couch, her breathing uneven but calm. The medallion rested on her chest, glinting faintly in the low light. The compass sat on the table, silent, cracked but lifeless.

Banjo poured himself a glass of whiskey and sat across from her. The house was too quiet; even the city beyond the windows seemed to have stopped breathing. He tried to replay the priest’s words in his mind, about bargains, about boundaries,but they slipped away like smoke. All he could think about was how close he had come to losing her. When the clock struck two, he realized his hand was shaking. He set the glass down and rubbed his eyes. That was when he heard it: a faint tapping from the floorboards beneath the table.

Tap… tap… tap…

He froze, and listened. Kristine didn’t stir.

The compass twitched once. The crack glowed faintly blue, a pulse faint but certain.

Banjo leaned forward, whispering, “Don’t.”

The needle spun once, then stopped, pointing directly toward Kristine. Her lips parted in sleep. A small sound escaped her throat, half-whimper, half-word.

“Rico…” The medallion on her chest grew cold enough to frost.

Banjo reached for it, but his hand stalled in the air. For a heartbeat, he thought he saw someone else lying there, another woman with the same face, eyes open and weeping, whispering to him from behind the veil.

Then it was gone.

He let the medallion slip from his fingers, his heart racing as he stumbled back until his knees hit the wall. The lamp flickered, casting long, thin shadows across the room. He felt an overwhelming urge to wake her, to shake her awake, to help her forget every single memory tied to that name. But he was frozen in place. The weight of her dreams seemed to hold the entire room hostage.

Outside, the thunder rumbled through the city, distant yet purposeful, as if it had been biding its time for this moment of quiet.

The compass flickered one last, feeble pulse before the light faded away. Banjo kept his eyes open until dawn, watching her breathe, too scared to let himself drift off. When the sunlight finally spilled into the room, he noticed that the compass had shifted again, its cracked needle now pointing not north, but east.

As he made his way toward the church, the soft sounds of the morning,birds chirping and the distant hum of traffic, filled the air. But amidst all that, he thought he caught a new sound.

A second heartbeat. It wasn’t hers, nor was it his. It felt as if someone else was listening in.