The Source (Witching Savannah, Book 2) by J.D. Horn

average man. He followed me dutifully, so I let go of him. When I did, something tangible came over him. Disappointment? Lately I had felt buffeted by others’ emotions. Their feelings would try to take me over, and that constituted a major part of the reason I’d felt so lost lately. I had to talk to Emmet or someone else about this problem, but I doubted that this was the best time.
    “The memories of your mother, your grandparents,” he said as we reached the second-floor landing. “They may be more difficult to summon, since a bit of time has passed, and since they are . . . gone.”
    “Okay,” I prompted him.
    “Perhaps we could start with something a little easier,” he said, and for the first time since he had become real , I saw the shadow of a grin on his lips. “And have you work your way up? I want you to have a sense of accomplishment,” he explained. “Success will provide a much stronger encouragement for you to continue your studies than early failures.”
    I laughed. “You have been reading books on teaching, haven’t you?”
    “Well, yes,” he said, lowering his eyes and stepping back a bit, acting as if I’d stumbled upon an embarrassing secret. “Does that offend you?”
    I shook my head and rolled my eyes at him. “Come on. How do we start?”
    “Follow me,” he said, leading me to my own room. He stepped inside, and I followed. “May I close the door?” he asked.
    “Of course. Why not?”
    “I thought you might feel vulnerable, being in here alone with a man. A stranger.”
    “You aren’t a stranger,” I said. “I’ve known you all your life.”
    His broad shoulders relaxed and his full lips curved into a smile. The sadness that haunted his eyes dissipated, if only for a moment. “You are the only one who sees me as real. Everyone else—your aunts, your uncle, and the other families—sees me as an empty shell. An automaton.”
    “We know different though,” I said. “And sooner or later, the rest will see too.” I touched his arm, and felt a jolt run through him. For a second, his face flushed and his lips quivered. I stepped back, and the moment passed.
    “I am sure you already know,” he said, his tone turning distant, professorial, “that everything is made of energy. Living energy. Everything around us here. The walls, the floor, your bed and desk. Actions, circumstances are made of energy too, and energy can’t be destroyed. Even so, the way energy organizes itself changes over time. This house is well maintained. The roof is fairly new; the paint is fresh. Your family continues to pour new energy into it to keep it in the condition they desire. If they did not, the house would eventually decay and fall apart.” He paused and sat at my desk. At nearly seven feet tall, he was strangely oversized for the seat. “Do you understand?”
    “Yes, I think so. Entropy and all that.” I’d taken a steady progression of university classes in physics, math, languages, art, and literature. Aunt Iris had long since become frustrated by the fact that I’d never earned a degree, even though I had credits enough for three. I loved the learning, and I think a part of me felt afraid that a diploma would symbolize that my learning days had come to an end. My rational mind told me that I owed it to myself to finish my degree, and I also needed to set a good example for my son. I wanted him to know that his mama always finished what she started. I promised myself that I would do just that after Colin was born.
    Emmet looked at me with pride. “Yes. Things fall apart. The same thing holds true in regards to events. We build the events in our lives. We furnish them with our intellect and decorate them with our emotions, but then we walk away. We never bring new energy to them, and with time, they fade and disappear from our senses. That’s what leads to the sense that time is passing; what we call ‘the present’ simply reflects where we collectively are focusing the most