They enticed Amaida too much to leave alone, spinning stories she didn’t normally possess. Each incursion into humanity and their memories made it harder for her to return to the white nothing she called home. A nothingness she only knew because she’d eaten memories. Memories of fingers entwined, a shared breath above a flower dappled meadow.
Images entwined inside her, much like the interlaced fingers. A blue bus. Red paint peeling from a park bench. And always his lips, soft against tender parts of her body. The back of her thigh. Her ear. The base of her neck.
Amaida didn’t know his name. But knowing his name might only make things worse.
Helping the young girl pass from human form to spirit, Amaida had consumed her memories as she always did, not expecting them to eat at the whiteness that kept her safe.
One more small taste, that was all Amaida desired now. But no other memories proved so vivid. She ate an old man’s memory of a sailboat, a small girl perched beside him, crystalline laughter spilling from her. A woman’s memory of a black dog, teeth dripping, made Amaida back away, memory left dangling, half eaten.
If she’d only found his name, Amaida would seek him out, place his warm touch where it belonged, beside her, painting her world with his colors.