The gentle lapping of the waves against the early-morning beach sings to me like a mother sings a lullaby to her coveted baby. I sway my head side to side, snap my fingers, and smile along to the tune. The wind whips at my hair and my lips taste of sea salt. Brine and the scent of sea creatures fills my senses, the warmth of the rising sun confirming all the promises of a new day.

I look around at the secluded and empty beach. The wide floor-to-ceiling windows of my neighbors’ homes drink in the South Carolina coast much how I savor my morning lattes - something I get to do when I finish my morning stroll. The light of the sun reflects off the windows, making it impossible to see inside, but I toss up my arm in a friendly wave nonetheless. I know at least a few are up, appreciating the view as much as me. They see me walk every morning and in the summer, sometimes, they delight me in their presence by sipping their coffees and reading their papers on their large back decks.

I love it here. A place sealed in perfection because the public can’t get to it. Like the public beaches of Charleston; so much trash, clamor, and drama. Here, just a mere ten miles from the city, we have so much peace and exclusivity. In order to live here, one has to earn it.

I reach the lone wooden post that signals my turning point, the sea water digging a little hole by the base as it slaps at the soft wood. I smile down at the post, wondering how much longer it’ll be before the ocean claims it and washes it ashore. I picture the post coming aground on some beach, maybe in the Long Island Sound or the coast of Washington State; maybe even some villa on the Red Sea! The book, _Oh The Places You’ll Go!_ By Dr. Seuss pops in my head.

Laughing to myself, I turn around, instantly noticing something glinting in the distance. I squint my eyes, barely making out what it could be. I can tell from my point that it’s most certainly an object right at the water line, but I can’t see what.

I begin to head towards it, my thoughts now consumed in a guessing game of what this object can be. I toss ideas back and forth - a watercraft that’s gone ashore, a sunken car now re-surfaced, maybe even a beached dolphin! I’ve heard of that last one happening around here but have yet to experience it myself. Maybe today is my lucky day.

I begin to hear what sounds like faint piano music, carried to my ears on the soft beach breeze. I strain to make sure what I’m really hearing is music, but the wind whistles in my ear. It’s hard to discern what’s nature and what’s man. I scan the back decks of my neighbors, but no one is outside, and I see no indication that any of them have turned on their entertainment systems. Puzzled, I lean my ears forward and quicken my pace.

Definitly piano music.

My pace increases to a light jog, the item glistening as the piano cadences grow louder and louder. My eyes continue to squint to make out the object, and I think I can see that it is, in fact, a piano. A piano that’s planted in the beach right in the back of _my_ house.

And the closer I get, the more I see the swinging, white-haired head of a man, fingers dancing around the keys with passion, eyes closed as he sways to the music. The chords begin to make sense, and I recognize Aquilo’s _The Road Less Wandered_ coming from the man’s fingers.

I slow to a stop once I am at the piano, which is the same exact hue of the ocean and the beach sand. The engravings that grace the piano are divine and extraordinary in their beauty; definitly a musical instrument that deserves a place somewhere like Buckingham Palace or The Grand Ol’ Oprey. I wonder how this man managed to drag such a beautiful piano out to the beach like this.

I plant my hands on my hips, the music winding its way through my soul. My tension begins to slip away, a steady calm taking its place. I close my eyes, feeling my body give in to the graceful notes.

“You like that, huh?”

The deep and smooth baritone of the man’s voice startles me back. My eyes snap open and I see the man, still swaying to the music, but his eyes are open this time, watching me. His face is in a deep and warm smile, the kind that your favorite uncle gives you when he walks in through the door on Thanksgiving.

My jaw opens, but my mind draws a blank. No words come to mind nor hang on my tongue.

The man chuckles, his voice rumbling low waves of bass. “That’s alright, just feel the music my friend. Feel the music.” His fingers appear to press the keys harder, his soul guiding them across the ivory keys.

The salt on the breeze brings tears forth from my eyes, and I blink rapidly, realizing I hadn’t blinked since he spoke. I close my mouth and straighten my posture. “H-h-how?” I finally stammer out.

The man continues on playing. Another chuckle. “That is quite the mystery, isnt it?” His eyes meet mine, both knowing and warm in their startling depth. I instantly feel like I know this man, but I also know for an absolute fact I have never seen him before.

“This thing,” I begin, my mind racing to come up with logical conclusions, “must weigh at least a thousand pounds. How on earth did you get it out on a _beach_?” I scan the dunes and see no tracks or any other signs of a piano being dragged out to the ocean side. Plus, there’s no public access whatsoever to this beach. The road that leads in to the neighborhood is gated off at its access point at the main road; anyone entering needs a special card to get in, including guests.

The music swells around us, engrossing me in a stunning symphony of high notes.

“Is that what you’re worried about?” His smile hasn’t changed nor dropped, and he continues dancing to his own tune.

Heat snakes up from my neck to my face, my heart picking up pace in my chest. “Can’t you just tell me what you’re doing here instead of asking _me_ questions?” My voice is a demanding and authoritative bark. “This is a private beach. This entire street, is private. I didn’t invite you here. You don’t have a card. If you’re someone else’s guest, why are you in _my _beach?” I cross my arms tightly over my chest, drawing a stern and hard face. I stare down into his eyes. I’ve decided that should he respond with another question, I’m not going to answer. After all, I’m not the one trespassing here.

He chuckles, and suddenly his chuckle morphs into a boisterous roar. His voice grows deeper and deeper, the bass rolling so loud it drowns out the music. Which, by the way, he’s still playing. And then, he presses the final key, the last note drifting into the sky like a balloon released by an unknowing toddler. He smiles widely down at his fingers, which leave the keys and comes to rest in his lap. He’s wearing dark gray corduroy pants and black loafers, with a matching gray wool sweater and the white collar of a pressed shirt poking out of the neck of the sweater. A bright gold watch flashes on his dark wrist.

His laughter dies down, but his smile remains. His kind eyes continue to hold mine, and then he drops a foot into the sand. He leans forward on his matching piano bench.

“Ryan, I’m here to save you.” His tone is oddly soothingly.

My head knocks back as my face scrunches up. “What?”

He nods, patiently. “Yes. You see, you’re dead right now.” He hooks a thumb back up towards my house. “You got about thirty minutes before it’s all over.”

I stand there for a second, my mind arrested in disbelief. And then suddenly, I’m the one laughing. Doubled over, hands on my thighs, laughing. Tears start to slide out of the corners of my eyes, and I open them, looking to see the man who’s no longer smiling, his face hard. I feel steel fingers close tightly in my chest, and my laughter dies.

“Okay, that was entertaining.” I straighten up, wiping tears from my cheeks. “But what’s really going on here? Please. Don’t make me call the police.”

An amused “huh” leaves his mouth as he looks off to the water. “They’re already here, Ryan. They’re here because of you.”

That’s it. This guy must be crazy. Somehow, someway, a crazy guy landed on my beach with a piano. Don’t ask me how. But clearly that’s what’s happened.

“Alright, then,” I say, turning my body towards my house but still facing him, my palms held out in front of me. “I’m going to head back inside and call the police. Okay? I think you need some help. I can’t help you.”

He stands then, his hands sliding with ease into the pockets of his corduroys. Sweat breaks out on my forehead, my heart quickening and palms clammy. I need to get into my house without this guy crashing in behind me. If he does that, I’m done for.

I start taking a few more steps back, palms higher up in front of my face. The man leans back.

“Don’t do that, Ryan,” he says. He takes his left hand from his pocket and gestures me to approach him. He pats the piano bench next to him. “Let me explain everything to you. Trust me. You don’t want to go into that house.”

I’m frozen in place, wondering if there’s any way in hell this guy can be trusted. I weigh my options - I can sit next to him on this bench and get killed and thrown into the waves, with my neighbor’s camera _maybe_ catching the whole thing. Or I can make a run for it back into my house, lock the door behind me (but he can certainly still crash in through the glass which makes up the entire back wall of my house) and try to call 911 and have no camera witness it. Since I turn my cameras off whenever I’m home.

The man swings his head towards the piano bench, hand returned to his pocket, and smiles a sad, wary smile at me. My heart gives. My foot lifts from the sand, and I pivot, dashing as fast as I can towards the house. My arms pump at my sides, my lungs burn with effort, the steps leading up to my back deck coming coming closer, closer…closer…closer……..

The air is sucked completely out of me as I fly backwards. I lift up and through the air, the world around me turning black as a dull “hoompf” leaves my lips. I soar backwards, arms and legs outstretched like Super Man, but I am nothing like Super Man. I am Super Murder Victim.

I land hard on the bench, my tailbone taking the sudden shock and sending it up my spinal cord, where it rattles my head. My eyes blink, the gritty and stingy sensation letting me know that somewhere during this ride, sand got into my eyes. I feel a _thud_ on the bench next to me as my murderer takes a seat beside me. He lets his breath out in exasperation, his head hung low, shaking. “I was really trying to not have to do that. But I needed to get you back here, or it really _would _have been too late.” Head still hanging low, he casts his eyes over at me. “You ready to listen now?”

I place a hand on the edge of the bench, leaning forward, chest heaving. He knows what I’m thinking of doing. “Please don’t try to run off again,” he tells me, disappointment heavy in his words. “I’m only going to save you one more time, and then if you do it again, I will just let you have it.”

“Have _what_?” I blurt out. “Look, if you’re going to kill me, or rob me, or whatever, just do it. What is all this? Some torture game?”

He chuckles again but there’s no joy in the laughter. “Kill you? Ryan, you’re already dead. This is what I need to explain to you. And we are running out of time. I can only hold them for so long.”

“Hold who? Your heist members?”

“No.” He turns to face me, arms on his legs. “Ryan, I am going to put it simply for you, okay?”

He watches me for a beat. I just stare at him. I have no other choice at this point.

His chest rises as he sucks in a deep breath of air. “Ryan, you are dead.” He lets the words hang in the space before us. They mean nothing to me; I already figured I was dead the second I saw this man laughing at me on the beach while playing a happy tune on a piano.

“And I know what you’re thinking. You’re not metaphorically dead, like you think you are. You are _actually_ dead. The fire department is in there right now, working on you.” He points back up my house. From where we sit, there’s zero view of the street or what’s going on in front of the house. “Your alarm system picked up a fall, and it sent an automatic tone to the dispatch center. Since it was a general alarm, they sent a full response to you. Police, fire, ambulance, the whole nine yards. They found you lying there, no pulse, no air in your lungs, and they started pumping on your chest.” He leans in so his eyes are locked deep into mine. “They started trying to bring you back to life.”

I have no words. I am convinced this man is crazy.

He leans back to his original position. “I know you don’t believe me. I know you don’t believe in much.” He laughs. “Besides money, of course.” His tone returns to its serious and somber note. “Let me show you what’s going on inside your house right now.”

The man waves his fingers over the keys of the piano, and they blur and shimmer, turning into a vivid view of the inside of my house. My breath catches in my throat, my heart a hummingbird in my chest. My head tightens.

Lying in the center of the living room, wearing the joggers and t-shirt I had put on this morning for my walk, is me. I am lying on my back, arms and legs splayed out to the sides of me over the rich aquatic carpet. Leaning over me are a bunch of rescue workers. There’s a tube sticking out of my mouth, where one is leaning above my head with a bag-mask device, no doubt breathing for me. Another hovers, frozen over my bare chest, his hands clasped one over the other, working steadily to beat my heart for me. Another sits by a heart monitor, staring intently at it, the white pads on my chest transmitting some sort of information back to the monitor. Another is by my right leg, the knee bent up, with something that looks like a drill in his hand. Another stands right behind him, some red box lying open beside him with what looks like a ton of medication waiting. Three police officers stand with their heads huddled together behind the workers. They’re all frozen in their positions, like a movie with the “pause” button pressed.

“I held them up,” the man continues. “Because I needed to give you this time to understand what’s going on here.” He searches my eyes, but I am transfixed on the frozen screen before me.

“You see, Ryan, I am your lead Spirit Guide,” he bellows. I blink and look back over to him. My right hand searches my chest, looking for my heart, looking for anything concrete that tells me this is just a dream. But there’s nothing there. An unsettling weight falls over me.

“I know you don’t believe in anything religious or spiritual. I know that because I have been with you since the minute you were conceived.” He stares at me, my eyes sliding to meet his.

He continues. “I have been with you ever since, Ryan. From the moment your heart took shape in your chest and beat for the first time. To when you came screaming from your mother’s womb. To when you took your first step, kissed your first girlfriend, graduated from high school. When you struggled in poverty, when you took control of your business and elevated yourself here.” His face hardens, his eyes twinkling. His tone softens.

“To when you abaonded your daughter and left her mother wrecked.” I feel a stone drop deep in my stomach. “To when you ousted your business partner, and took everything you stole and hid it behind electrified iron gates. Because deep down, you know. You know what’s not yours eventually returns to who it’s meant for.”

My mouth opens, but this man already knows what I am saying before I can say it. He’s in my head.

“Ryan, I am your lead Spirit Guide and you have ignored me and the rest of our team.” He is stern with me, a father to an obstinate high schooler who refuses to do his homework. “God wanted to call you back home. He has a greater plan for you, He wants to save your soul, but you wouldn’t listen to anyone while in your earthly body. So, He called you back so he can start fresh with you.

“But, I saw promise in you, Ryan. There’s still something there, something _in you_ that can redeem you here, today. I begged and pleaded for the Lord to give me the chance to turn you around. _To speak to you. _You can do great things on this earth, Ryan, but you have to let me help you do them.”

A puff of air leaves my mouth. I watch as waves ripple through the image of my living room.

The man, catching me watching the shuddering image, speaks again. “The pause I put on the world is running out. When that happens, they will resume their work. Time will resume again, and you’ll have thirty minutes, Ryan. Thirty minutes before that guy over there-“ he points to the man standing by the open red box, “-declares a time, and that time will be your official Time of Death. You’ll be out of options in this life. It will be over for you. God will have you meet with Him so together the two of you can figure out what went wrong, and then you’ll get sent back into the womb of a new expectant mother to try to make a real lasting impact on this world, all over again.”

“There’s no way,” I blurt, the words escaping without my control. “I am thirty-three. I have nothing wrong with me. I was on my walk this morning. I was walking. There’s no way.” I suddenly feel out of breath and unable to suck enough air in to keep up with my rising emotions.

“You have a pulmonary emobolism,” the man explains patiently, his eyes closing. “It’s a clot in your lungs. They are very fatal, especially in the younger population where they come on suddenly. If we don’t come up with a plan now, you won’t be coming out of this alive.” His eyes open and stare right into mine.

The image before me grows wavier and wavier. The men in the picture are starting to move. Slowly, in jerking motions, and then more faster and smoother. The one over my leg presses the drill to my shin. The one over my chest starts pumping up and down, rhythmically. The one by the heart monitor bobs his head in time to the compressions. The one at the tube by my mouth presses the bag together, my chest puffing quickly.

“Wh-wh-what do I have to do?” My words are a whisper.

The man, my Spirit Guide, smiles. “Make amends.” He watches me, but he already knows. I have no idea what what means. “And genuinely want to.” He straightens up, placing a hand on my back. “As long as God knows you’re sincere, He will let them bring you back.” He nods down at the image. I swallow.

I watch as the group, in real time now, work diligently to keep my body, my brain, alive. Are they doing it because it’s their job to do this, or do they really and honestly care?

Care.

That word sticks in my mind, reverberating through my being. Care.

Is that something _I _ever did?

The man’s hand squeezes my shoulder. Pictures of Emma flash in my eyes. Emma, smiling up at me while I hovered above her, taking advantage of her, taking her consent under the guise of love.

Emma, a few short months later, round with pregnancy, bright and radiant. Exuberant, because she was _so_ excited to share in raising her child with me.

_Emma_. Emptied, destroyed, wrecked, Emma.

And then I see Tony. His joyful, round face, with his characteristic smile that lit up entire rooms, front and center before me. Tony. My most loyal, creative friend from kindergarten. Tony, the one who was pissing himself in excitement because he came up with _the best_ business idea. He just _knew_ this would take us all the way to the top.

Tony, tears streaming down that chubby face, set in stone and chiseled in anger, wrought with betrayal. Tony, out of place swimming in a stiff black suit in the lawyer’s office, watching everything he poured his heart and soul in disappear right before him. Tony, who couldn’t afford a lawyer brash enough to beat down mine, silently giving up in the way that he stood, slowly, staring down at me, and then wordlessly turning and stalking out of the office.

And then my parents, who stood together, silently holding the check I had placed into their hands once I had beat Tony out of the business. I used the win to retire them, and they stood stiffly before me, their faces frozen with shock. My mother’s fingers trembled as she held the small rectangular paper which held the magnitude to change their lives forever. And I see the tears she must have cried when I stopped taking her calls shortly after.

I hear in my ears the desperation and pleading in her tone as she left voicemail after voicemail, begging me to come home and help her with Dad, because she couldn’t do _this _alone.

I hear my own voice, cold and calculating, as I tell her, “Just use the money and hire whatever you need to help with Dad!” As I slam down the receiver, annoyed and irritated that she took time away from me following up on clients and new leads. I was irritated with her because time is money, and she took money away from me with her incessant calls.

My mother, her cries like steel wool scratching me from the voice message, repeating over and over that what she needed was her _son, _her _husband_, not money and not some stranger.

God knows, Dad had plenty of strangers surrounding him in that time.

My thoughts continue to whir and spiral, my chest cold stone and my being, my soul, falling away from me.

The man pats my back, smiling gently over at me. He motions with his head for me to watch the scene on the piano.

The man by the monitor is clapping. They’ve restored a heart beat in my empty chest. The others are scrambling to get me on a backboard, hoisting me to the waiting stretcher and sprinting to get me into the parked ambulance standing in my driveway. And less than a minute later, they’re gone, screaming down the street to the nearest hospital.

The man smiles at me as the world around me grows fuzzy and distant. His warm, assured smile is the last thing I see.