The Glass Floor Contract

It was the summer of 2009, three years after my brother Derek had passed. I kept a journal of our earthly adventures, but this one was different. Derek had always been a thrill-seeker, while I, Amelia, was rooted to the ground. My fear of heights was a family legend. Derek would tease me about it, but he never pushed too hard. That was until the summer of 2005, before his diagnosis, when he tried to convince me to visit the SkyNeedle in the city of Meridian.

‘Come on, Amelia, the observation deck is amazing. You can see the gardens from above, all the flowers laid out in patterns. It’s beautiful,’ he’d said, his eyes bright with excitement.

I’d shaken my head, my stomach clenching at the mere thought. ‘You know I can’t do heights. I get dizzy just looking down from a second-story window.’

He’d laughed, but there was a hint of pleading. ‘Just once. I promise, I’ll be right there with you.’

‘No, Derek. I said no. Don’t ask again.’

He’d nodded, a slight frown, and said, ‘Okay, I won’t bring it up again. But you’re missing out.’ My husband, Mark, had chuckled, knowing my stubbornness. Derek had passed that winter, and I never thought about the SkyNeedle again.

But after his death, I started having these vivid dreams. In each one, I was standing on a transparent floor, high above a city, and below me, in the patterns of the gardens, I could see Derek’s face formed by flowers, and he was mouthing, ‘Come see me.’ The dreams were so real I could feel the cold glass under my feet. I’d wake up shaking, my heart pounding. Mark would hold me and say, ‘It’s just grief, Amelia. It’ll pass.’

But it didn’t pass. Instead, I began to hear him. Soft whispers at night, in the creaks of the house. ‘Remember the flowers, Amelia. You never came.’ I tried to ignore it, but then I found an old postcard in his belongings—a picture of the SkyNeedle, and on the back, in his handwriting, a date: August 15, 2005. That was the day he’d proposed we go. Under the date, he’d written: ‘Maybe next year. If you’re brave enough.’ A shiver ran down my spine. It was as if he knew he wouldn’t have a next year.

One night, I woke up to find Derek sitting on the edge of my bed. He looked as he did in life, but slightly translucent, and his eyes were sad. ‘You have to come, Amelia. The flowers are waiting. You promised me a visit.’

I sat up, my voice trembling. ‘You never asked again. You said you wouldn’t bring it up.’

He shook his head slowly. ‘I didn’t. But you promised me, even if you didn’t say it. I always knew you’d come. But you never did. And now, I can’t rest until you see the view.’

His image faded, and I was alone. The next day, I told Mark I needed to go to the SkyNeedle. He looked at me, concern etched on his face. ‘You hate heights. Why now?’

I didn’t tell him about the dreams or the visitation. I just said, ‘I think I need to face my fear. For Derek.’

He agreed to come with me. We booked a trip to Meridian, and on a clear October day, we stood at the base of the SkyNeedle, a slender tower that rose into the clouds. My legs felt like jelly as we stepped into the elevator, my hand gripping the railing. But as we ascended, I felt a strange calm, as if I were being pulled upward by an unseen force.

The elevator opened onto the observation deck, and I stepped out onto a glass floor that seemed to stretch endlessly. Below me, the city sprawled, and the gardens were visible in the distance, a mosaic of colors. My heart raced, but I didn’t feel dizzy. Instead, I felt a pull to the center of the deck.

I walked to a spot where the glass was thickest, and below me, I could see the outline of a flower pattern—a chrysanthemum, Derek’s favorite. As I stared, the colors seemed to shift, and the flower morphed into a face. It was Derek’s face, staring up at me with a grin. ‘You came,’ his voice echoed in my mind.

Tears streamed down my face. ‘I’m sorry, Derek. I should have come.’

He smiled. ‘It’s okay. Now, you have to come down. The real adventure is below.’

I didn’t understand. I looked down, and the face was gone. I turned to Mark, who was standing a few feet away, looking pale. ‘Amelia, you’re crying. Are you okay?’

I wiped my eyes. ‘I saw him. He’s here.’

Mark’s expression turned to one of alarm. ‘Let’s get you down. This is too much.’

But as we headed to the elevator, I felt a hand on my shoulder, and I heard Derek’s voice again. ‘Don’t you want to see the flowers up close? They’re in the greenhouse at the base. I planted one for you.’

That evening, we visited the greenhouse, a vast glass structure filled with exotic plants. In the center was a single flower, a black chrysanthemum, unlike any I’d seen. A plaque read: ‘In memory of Derek.’ My heart ached. I brushed the petals, and the flower trembled.

That night, back at the hotel, I had a dream that I was standing on that glass floor again, but this time, it cracked beneath me. I fell, not into the void, but into the greenhouse, into the black chrysanthemum. When I woke, I felt a strange peace, as if Derek had finally let go. But then I saw my reflection in the mirror, and for a moment, my eyes were his.

A week later, Mark found me planting a chrysanthemum in our garden. He asked, ‘Are you okay?’

I nodded. ‘I think I finally made peace with his death.’

But that night, as I slept, I heard his voice, not in a whisper, but a clear, urgent call. ‘Amelia, you’re not done. The flowers need you. Come back.’

I sat up, gasping. The room was cold. My journal was open on the nightstand, and on the page, where I had been writing about our trip, was a new entry in Derek’s handwriting: ‘Don’t forget. The view is only for those who dare.’

I knew then that my adventure was far from over. And that maybe, just maybe, I would see those flowers again, but from the other side.