October 31^st

            It’s hard to write tonight’s journal entry with a shaking paw. But I must try. I can’t go to sleep. Too much happened for me to go to bed just yet.

            This morning started off like any other. I woke up early to prepare for school, then attended school after having breakfast with Mom present. Dad is still out of town, for work. I don’t remember much about classes, because I was too distracted by the party tonight, by seeing Thomas between the ringing bells in the hallway, and letting Mae convince me to go with the pair of clothes she got us. It’s amazing how much she is dedicated to cosplaying. How does she afford all her costumes again? And how does she convince her parents to let her have so many?

Anyway, once the final bell rang, she didn’t wait long to follow me home, then presented me with our costumes for the evening. Mom liked it, and so does Mae, but I have my…my reservations. It’s not bad, but…maybe a little weird. Even after leaving my house, I still felt…

            “I still don’t look like him.”

            “I got the costume right!” Maevis told me as she readjusted her daisy-decorated hat and the bright umbrella in her arm. From a nearby pub, the Black Fox and Rose, drunken laughter carried with the wind over the tiled roofs on either side of the chilly street. She caught me examining my phone. “Conor Cillian, you better not be getting cold footpaws, or I—”

            “I’m not, I’m not!” I reassured the frantic badger, hurriedly pocketing my device. “I was just checking the time, Mae. God’s sake!”

            “Can our marriage be saved?” she asked aloud. We rolled our eyes, and the normally gothic, deadpan badger punched me in the shoulder. “You must admit, I got the costume right.”

            “Dick Van Dyke’s a tabby cat though, not a Red Setter.” I frowned at the shirt and vest’s colors clashing against my crimson canine fur. “I look and sound like an Irish Oliver Twist.”

            I just needed to nix the fake sweeper brush currently hanging from a waistline pocket and speak with an even deeper London accent. Only then would the image be complete.

            “Perfect for the Allantide party!” she giggled. “And I’m certain Thomas will like it either way. He loves history, loves old American movies, and he’s gonna love you.”

            As we passed by a small corner of the street already filled to the brim with turnip jack-o’-lanterns on their front porches, I fought down a blush. Thinking of the wolf in whatever costume he wore, smiling at me and possibly saying he wanted to be my boyfriend. It had already been a some time since we started talking more at the start of our final school year, and I felt confident enough to believe he felt the same way about me. The thought of me confessing my feelings—of us becoming a couple—caused my tail to start wagging against the cold air.

            Compared to the Americans across the pond and the rest of England, Cornwall had a different way to celebrate the last night of October. We called it Allantide, a day to celebrate the Feast of Saint Allan. The local church would light candles, some festive folk bobbed for apples, and the devout prayed for the souls of purgatory to pass through and find everlasting peace. For the youth of the small town of Tuskfield, we saw it as an opportunity to party. Each year, some older lad volunteered their home to the teenaged population—with permission from their parents, of course.

            This year’s volunteer was Thomas Monague, one of the local popular kids at school. His end of terrace house stood at the end of the main street running down Tuskfield, close enough to the main road for tourists to easily see Bodmin Moor. Like every terraced home and business front, autumn vines decorated the walls while leaves were littered everywhere. Occasionally, a cub would be trick-or-treating with an adult in a costume, and the same went for the teenaged mammals walking in and out of the home Maevis and I entered. Or rather, the one she entered and dragged me inside, once I paused walking due to lead feet and heavy, folded ears under a loosely fitting newsboy cap.

            It wasn’t as loud as I expected, at first. The flatscreen TV in the living room played a marathon of horror movies from the 1980s. The scent of soda and junk food filled the first floor. The kitchen was a crowded nightmare echoing of loud chewing and immature laughter, with the host seizing another pizza slice from the stacks atop the table. He easily stood out within the sprawling crowd of mammals, all dressed in costumes like we were. Not just because of his tacky costume, but because Thomas happened to be a very tall grey wolf. His perked, happy ears easily gave him a height equivalent to a hundred and ninety centimeters. It easily made him the tallest-dressed Roman gladiator. He had the armor, sandals, but not the sword though. Instead, he wielded a slice of the pizza like a blade, pointing it over a head or two directly at me and Maevis across the room.

            “Conor! Maevis! You made it!” he laughed joyously, taking a bite of his slice. In-between chews, he proclaimed, “Happy Halloween!” Several listening guests raised their plastic cups (of juice, no doubt), and sipped. “Love your costumes! I’m gonna say…Mary Poppins and her friend, uh…Albert?”

            “Bert,” Maevis clarified for the wolf, and pushed me towards him. “Thanks for inviting us again, Tom. I’m gonna use the loo a bit—walking all this way was a bloody nightmare, haha!”

            The mischievous badger hurriedly let off a series of phrases, one of which I could make out being told to me as, “Go catch up with Tom, Conor!”

            “Hey there.”

            His voice sliced through the loud noise. I nervously turned from the retreating badger to the grey wolf beaming his fangs at me. Suddenly, my tail couldn’t stop wagging, and my goofy smile tried forming words. Why did my throat suddenly feel dry? Why did my tail curl painfully into a knot? Why did my paw tremble when it tried waving?

            “H-Hey, T-Thomas.”

            He grinned down at me. “Hey, Conor,” he said, his voice barely audible over the noise.

            “How is your night so far?” I tried asking.

            Somehow, the background noise of the house party had gotten even more thunderous than before, mainly due to a cluster of talkative preppies discussing college within a year. My question flushed down the drain. I doubted he even understood me.

            “What did you say?” Thomas asked, louder.

            “I was asking how your night is so far,” I tried telling him, just in time for a girl to shriek into her boyfriend’s muzzle, and they kissed in laughter.

            He asked again, “What?”

            My tone turned exasperated. “How’s your night so far?”

            He asked yet again, “What? I can’t hear you.”

            I growled, barking out, “I said ‘how is your night so far?’!”

            “You traveled very far?” he asked and minced my words. “Tuskfield isn’t that big.”

            Frustration welled up in my gritting teeth. Everything was too damn high-pitched and inconsiderately loud. My paw violently loosened the red scarf around my neck. I could barely think, let alone form the words to get it across to him what I wanted to say. Party volume be damned; I was just about to scream my question when one of Thomas’ other friends—a zombified red fox named Edward—started pulling him away from the table to places unknown.

“C’mon, Tommy!” he pleaded. “There’s this bitch I wanna introduce you to!”

“I was just talking to Conor here, man!” Thomas complained, despite not resisting.

I frowned at Edward, and he glared at me. “What, this wanker? Ha! C’mon, Tom!”

The wolf shouted something, but all I could make out was him waving at me over the partygoer’s ears. In the blink of an eye, I was all alone.

Well, all alone in the sense I didn’t truly know everyone around me. Even though we all grew up together in such an isolated part of England, beneath the Halloween costumes, I didn’t know anyone beneath them. They didn’t know me either, not fully. They couldn’t possibly understand being gay in a small town at the edge of Cornwall. None of them, not even my own parents, knew I liked guys except for Maevis, and she still hadn’t returned from her bathroom break. And just as I wanted to see him, Thomas’ cooler friends had dragged him away to something far more interesting than me.

            In a daze, I took seven or eight steps away from the kitchen into an adjoining hallway when it struck me. “Forget it,” I hissed at myself, snarling. Of course, the universe wouldn’t want to make life simple for me. “Just fucking forget it!”

            I needed to get out of there. Truth be told, I never really liked big, obnoxious parties full of peers or strange people. Maevis knew that, but insisted I came anyway when she found out Thomas invited me. The acrid scents mixing together, the sense of overwhelming anxiety, and the way I felt so constricted in the sea of elbows and tails…I required fresh air!  

            Pushing suddenly for the door, I ignored someone calling my name. My feet tumbled, but I didn’t fall. The Sun had set, but twilight still resisted dying beside the emerging stars. A few incoming partygoers eyed me weirdly, but I didn’t care. The pop music and dozens of curious eyes weighed me from the front porch, down the stone steps, then receded once I slowed down the road and stopped several feet away from the main road leading from town.

            As well as the edge of Bodmin Moor.

            My breathing grew calmer. The image of Maevis searching for me led to a groan. I didn’t feel the mood to return just yet though, glancing back to see the end of terrace home still lit up like a golden Christmas tree, and faint music carrying over a light autumn wind. The kind that howled, like a feral wolf.

            All of a sudden, the breeze grew strong enough to snatch the newsboy cap off my twitching ears. “Shit!” I hissed, reaching for it in the air as it blew away.

            Maevis was already going to be mad about me leaving the party early, but the badger would be outright pissed about me losing a part of the costume she bought for me.

            A stone wall older than the town divided us from a portion of the moorland. It stood approximately a meter tall and sat ordained with Celtic carvings and the occasional repair from destructive graffiti. On one side, my newsboy cap had gotten snagged on a branch from an unkempt rosebush someone planted against the ancient barrier. As I knelt down to snatch it, then place it firmly between my ears again, I stood back up and noticed two strange things.

            The first was that a smoke-like fog had quickly settled on the dreary moor. It started off being as thick as pea soup, then transformed into another solid wall the further I tried staring into the shapeless, wispy blockade. The second? I thought I’d seen movement.

            Without thinking, I pulled out my sweeper brush like a Billy club.

It only happened for a second. Maybe two. Except I did see it; half a dozen figures walking around within the fog, their shapes resembling different species. Some wore unfamiliar clothes and a few dressed like I would. There were voices too, barely audible beneath the chirping insects and faint wind. Any words I could make out didn’t bleat any louder than a distant crow’s caw though. I couldn’t get a clear picture either.

            “What the…?” I murmured.

            The same moment I saw these specters, the grey mist consumed them again, and I couldn’t relax my stiff tail as I stood against the stone wall, one paw blindly tracing a Gaelic inscription.

“Huh.” I shook my red muzzle, laughing at myself as I pocketed the sweeper brush into its belt pocket. “Nah, it couldn’t be…Conor, you were just seeing things. It’s…It’s only the spookiest time of the year.”

            A twig went, Snap!

            “Gah!” I yelped, whirling around to see what happened.

            Nothing. Absolutely nothing. No trick-or-treater, no adult, no Maevis, no Thomas, no concerned partygoer in sight. If anything, I was the only living soul standing right next to the border marker of the moor. The red hairs on the back of my neck started to fall, and I began to feel my heart race less, when I finally noticed something through the fog, to my left.

            A tall figure, coming my way along the stone wall, on its opposite end where the moor began. At first, I thought it was my scared mind playing tricks on me again, until he walked closer, and I could see the mammal emerging like a solid element in a liquid flask. The closer he approached, the more I could see it was a canine; an older beagle, dressed in either Victorian or Edwardian clothes.

            “H-Hello?”

            He saw me, but didn’t say anything. His stoic gaze remained forward. A couple of fingers from his right paw listlessly hovered above the stone wall, standing at waist-height as he walked towards me. He was yearnfully staring off into space, caught between here and another world, and his fingers dragging along the wall were his anchor.

            “Are you drunk? D-Do you need help, sir?”

            The canine abruptly stopped, finally looking in my direction. I could clearly see his clothes were definitely meant to be Victorian, if not pre-World War One. My nose, though stuffy due to the chilly autumn air, could make out the faintest hint of velvet. He possessed black trousers, a dark blue tailcoat and equally colored tie. His hair was disheveled, despite it once clearly having been combed and cleaned back in a regal way.

Seeing him closer, I could spot the greying fur in his muzzle, the melancholic, downcast bags under his cerulean eyes, and how they witnessed me. The beagle then let out a dismissive snort. “No, I do not, lad,” he replied in a weary voice. “I am not inebriated either.”

            “Are you sure?” I asked, feeling my tail relax behind me, but my ears remained perked. “I mean, are you sure you’re okay?” One of my paws motioned to the ash-like vapour currently wafting against his back. “What’re you doing, wandering around Bodmin? It must be like so thick in there, you can hardly see a thing! Wait, you’re not local, are you?”

            Admittedly, Tuskfield wasn’t one of the tiny, tiny hamlets nestled against the coastline, or a group of old homes left preserved by a historical society. The small town did have a train station. Still, it wasn’t hard to memorize the faces and species of residents.

            “No, I’m not,” he replied, sighing. “I don’t belong here, but here I am.”

            “Oh…okay?” I raised my eyebrows. “You here for the Allentide celebrations then?”

            He chose not to answer, instead turning to look at the fog again.

Loud laughter chimed from nearby. My tail curled, then uncurled, while I didn’t look away from the stranger back in the direction of the house. Not wanting to rejoin the party just yet, I awkwardly said, “That is a great costume you have. It looks like you’re a Victorian?”

Again, he did not speak.

“Yeah, my best friend somehow convinced me to dress up this year, for the party,” I said. “We compromised to go as a paired set, but she insisted on dressing up as Mary, so that left me going with her as Bert.”

“Who?” The confusion in his voice almost sounded like it came from a night owl. “Is he the reason why you dress like a chimney sweeper?”

            “Seriously?” I stared at the strange beagle, who returned his distant, despondent gaze back at me. “You’ve never seen Mary Poppins? It’s a classic movie, even if the Americans pissed its author off. Bert’s a jack-of-all-trades, speaks like this.” Clearing my throat once, then twice, I recalled a line from the film, and spoke in my attempt at sounding like Dick Van Dyke, “There's the whole world at yor feet, eh, guvnah? And who gets ter spot it, then? But the birds, the stars, and the bloomin' chimney sweeps.”

            I half-expected recognition. I partly-expected an eyeroll. Maybe additional silence.    

            He responded, “That is the most atrocious Cockney accent my ears have ever had the displeasure of hearing, boy.”

            With that, I had to keep myself from bubbling out laughter. “Agreed.”

            The older canine let out another dismissive snort. His eyes traveled back to the moor, as if he were peeking through the fog itself to find something. Or someone? Whatever the case, it didn’t stop me from noticing the sadness flickering through that stoic mask.  

            “So, why are you wandering on the other side of this thing?” I asked a moment later, referring to the stone wall dividing me from him and the otherworldly grasslands. “I get that Bodmin Moor is mighty spooky this time of the year, but it’s easy to get lost. Plenty of tourists like you do it too. Bloody hell, I’ve done it once or twice growing up…”

            The beagle sighed, glancing back to me. “Why are you still speaking to me, boy? Do you not have festivities to attend? Cubs your age, do they not host their own parties?”

            I almost asked why he spoke so…regally but chose to be polite.

            “I was just at one of those,” I confessed, leaning against the stone wall and looking leftward to watch the beagle. “Everything was so loud though, and I guess I needed some peace to myself.”

            “Are young people’s music today really that grating on the ears?” he asked, then let out an amused chuckle. “Good to know that I’m not the only cultured canine around these parts.

            “No, no. I mean, well yeah, music isn’t that good compared to the older classics, but it wasn’t just that,” I explained. “I was, uh…trying to confess my feelings for…for someone.”

            “Of course,” he mumbled. “Of course. Of course, you were. It is a beautiful night to do so…”

            It sounded as if the strange beagle was distracted by something. He stared back out to the foggy moorland, those tired blue eyes visibly seeing something else I didn’t. When I tried following his gaze, trying to see if he too saw any so-called specters or ghostly visages, nothing appeared. Just as I was about to speak, to break the ice again, he asked me a question.

            “Did she reciprocate your feelings?”

            “Huh?” I turned back to the older beagle, then remembered what I said earlier. “Oh, yeah! Um, no. I didn’t get the chance to tell him.”

            My chest suddenly seized itself up my throat. It came out so naturally, I didn’t even think to lie about Thomas being a girl. Here I was, instead telling a strange tourist outsider that I had unrequited feelings for another boy my age!

            “‘The chance to tell him’?” he recited, emphasizing the pronoun in his voice. Something else flickered behind that stoic look. Regret? Recognition? Dulled anger? “I take it then that you’re a…a friend of Dorothy’s? Homosexual, I mean.”

            “Well, I…” I mumbled, embarrassed beyond belief. Fear also mixed into my legs, which compelled me to begin walking backwards from the stone wall. “You…You don’t have a problem with it, do you? I’ll just go before you decide to give me a lecture about sin and how it’s an abomination—”

            “Once, I used to look down upon homosexuals like all my peers, but no longer,” he spoke up. The beagle almost sounded reassuring when he said it. “My opinions have…changed, as of late, you could say. Perhaps a little too late.”

            “Are you, like…gay too?” I asked. My tail prepared to wag if he said yes.

            “Oh, no, no,” he chuckled awkwardly. His paw scratched the back of his head, fingers smoothing back his unkempt headfur until it imitated a combed look. “I am not homosexual, but my older brother…my older brother, he held the same preference.”

            My apprehension transformed into piqued curiosity. “Your brother is gay?”

He nodded.

“Was.”

“Oh,” I cleared my throat, feeling terrible all of a sudden. “I’m…I’m sorry about that.”

The beagle’s stoicism began to quickly shed, washing away like murky water into a drain pipe, and he looked directly at me without pretending to be disinterested. The visible guilt that flickered before returned in full force in his eyes, no matter how much the canine tried to keep composed. He wasn’t able to hide it though, not in the way his paw trembled against the stone wall, his fang caressed against a lower lip, and how his eyes blinked repeatedly. At me, at the ground, and at the endless fog once more.

I stepped forward, tentatively placing both paws down on the ancient barrier again.

“Do you…want to talk about it?”

He sighed dejectedly. “There is nothing to discuss. Once upon a time, I had the greatest older brother any boy would wish to grow up with. He was a brave beagle, kind-hearted, well-spoken and embracing life each day. He smiled like a crescent moon, like tonight. He also never hesitated to play with me when we were cubs. It wasn’t until years later that I discovered his…preferences, by chance. Like a fool, I exposed him to our mother, and she was swift to exile him from our family. And like an even bigger fool, I joined in rejecting him, and it left our relationship beyond repair until it was far too late. I didn’t even have this revelation until recently…”

Uneasily silence was broken apart by a cawing crow nearby. Flapping wings cracked through the fog, splitting it apart until the mist repaired itself, and the avian flew away. The beagle looked at it in disgust, then sottoe. Now, his eyes were truly overflowing with tears.

“I used to blame his lover for corrupting him, but I was wrong,” he confessed further. “The truth is, I was a coward back then. I was afraid, letting the fear and anger of what others would think back then dictate my actions. I let those two emotions control most of my life. Like you, I had a romantic crush I wanted to confess my feelings to, a wonderful woman; she was kind, charitable, loved to dance and yet enjoyed reading like I did.

“But Mother and Father didn’t approve of her,” he continued. “They didn’t approve of her, so I married someone else. Rather than be rebellious like my brother, I spent decades miserable and alone. At least, when my brother died though, he was not alone…”

Once again, the beagle and I locked eyes, and we waited for the other to speak. However, a third participant decided to chime in, the church. Its bells pierced the howling wind, resonating through the cold air.

The beagle pinched the brow of his slightly bowing muzzle. “I apologize.”

“For what?” I asked.

“For boring you with my pathetic life story, lad,” he groaned. “I have no clue what came over me. I’ve not discussed this for a long, long time.”

I shrugged. “That’s okay. Maybe you needed to get it off your chest?”

He let out another dismissive snort, then followed my gaze away from the foggy moor back to the direction of town. If one peered closely over the rooftops, they could outline the shape of Tuskfield’s oldest chapel, and on a clearer night, see the hill leading towards the historic Fangcrest Manor. Part of me wanted to ask if he’d been there to visit yet.

“Why do they ring at this time?” the beagle asked out of nowhere.

            “They comfort the dead in purgatory,” I explained, “or limbo, I think.”

            He chuckled, sounding almost nostalgic as he asked, “My, my. Is that not just poetic?”

            I cocked an eyebrow at the strange, strange beagle. “What’s poetic?”

            “The idea of comforting the dead in purgatory,” he replied, sniffing. “I find it poetic.”

            My eyes traveled from the outline of the old church to the end of terrace where the party could still be seen. It thrived in my absence. However, I also noticed a certain badger burst from the entrance door, head jerkin left and right as she hurried down the steps, gripping her umbrella like an axe she planned to wield.

            “Better get back to the party,” I informed the beagle. “It was, uh…nice talking to you though, I guess. I’m sorry about what happened with you and your brother…”

            He simply exhaled through his nostrils. “Don’t be. They are my sins, and mine alone.”

            “Still,” I conceded, “thank you. For talking to me. I uh, I wasn’t doing well earlier, and telling you about it, and listening to you describe your brother…It was inspiring.”

            For the first time, the beagle appeared genuinely surprised.

            “Might I make a suggestion? There’s an old Latin expression I have grown quite fond of in my old age. It’s one my brother used to say to me, and it’s one I wish my younger self took to heart.” The beagle cleared his throat, then spoke with authority. “Quam bene vivas refert non quam diu. It translates to say ‘It is how well you live that matters, not how long’.”

            I chuckled, letting the words sink in. “That sounds very poetic.”

            He laughed, less dryly and more in amusement.

            “Anyway, I need to get going.” I held out a paw. “My name’s Conor, by the way.”

            The beagle glanced down at my paw, wrinkled his nose, then nodded.

            “It is Andrew, young Conor. Andrew Haywood.” A soft smile formed, but he didn’t shake my paw, instead waving as he turned around to go back in the direction he came. “Enjoy the rest of your night, and the rest of your life, boy.”

            The pieces began falling into place as I muttered aloud, “Rest of my life? Wait—”

            “Conor Cillian, what in the world are you doing out here?” Maevis shouted from meters away. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

            The same instant I looked in Maevis’ direction, I glanced back to find Andrew already retreating into the fog. Shaking away the uncertainty for a moment, I felt my resolve steel itself, and apologized to Maevis, claiming I needed some fresh air to myself. For an odd reason, she didn’t ask about the Edwardian beagle.

            Speaking of the devil, I found Thomas again in the party, getting into an argument with Edward the zombified fox. It had something to do with why Thomas wasn’t ‘doing it’ with one of the ‘bitches’, as Ed colorfully said to him. The music didn’t blare as loudly, and the conversations sieging around us didn’t overwhelm me anymore.

            “Thomas?” I tapped his shoulder, confidently. His handsome muzzle craned from Edward down to me, and while the fox looked annoyed, I didn’t let uncertainty or noise cloud my words. “Thomas, can we, uh…can we talk? Somewhere private?”

            At last, he heard me. His ears twitched at my question, and a smile formed across those lips I yearned to kiss one day. “Sure, Conor!” he said. Perhaps, it would be sooner than later.

            “Wait, wait,” Edward tried arguing, “where’re you going, Tommy—”

            “Eddie, let’s talk later!” he interrupted. “Enjoy the rest of the party!”

***

            Edward didn’t stop frowning in my direction the rest of the night. I imagine he’s gonna be even more foul with me in chemistry class by the time word gets around, but I don’t care.

            After breaking away from the fox, Thomas guided me through the labyrinth of partygoers until we found ourselves upstairs, in his bedroom. By the time he locked the door behind us, it didn’t take long for us to exchange pleasantries, then questions, followed by answers. We mostly talked about the party, and I was shocked to learn that Thomas didn’t like them either. At least, not the ones that were loud and in-your-face, like this one was. This led to me telling him the same thing. We laughed about it, then things went quiet before I ultimately told Thomas what I wanted to say. At the very least, I expected him to say no. At worst, I expected him to laugh.

            That didn’t happen. Even now, I can’t believe it. He gave me a hug, said he suspected for a while, and he kissed me. He kissed me! I kissed him back! And soon enough, we were sitting on his bed, out of breath and blushing madly. Then, I asked if he would like to start dating.

            He said yes! I have a boyfriend! Thomas Monague is my boyfriend!

            I didn’t see Maevis for the rest of the party, not until things began to die down, and her curfew came up. All this time, I spent with Thomas, who avoided Edward as much as possible while occasionally sitting close to me as we watched a horror movie in the living room. I remember at one point grasping his paw during the latter-half of “The Shining”. I dunno if anyone noticed, but I’m too high on happiness to care. On the other paw, Maevis couldn’t stop congratulating me as I walked her home, and insisted I text her everything. I think I’ll do that before breakfast. Excluding the beagle named Andrew Haywood.

            Note to self: look him up on MuzzleScroll during lunch tomorrow. Anyway, I better go to bed. It’s going to be a big day tomorrow at school. Good night.

November 1^st

            Holy shit. Did I just have a ghostly encounter?

            I have better explain. To make a long story short, the school day went less dramatic than I thought it would. Thomas sat with me during lunch, much to his group’s shock, but none of them looked pissed. Neither did Edward, who simply stared at us in shock the rest of the period. His mouth hung open like a codfish in chemistry too. Thomas has been open about us dating whenever someone asked, and we even announced our first date. Rather, Thomas did. He’s taking me to dinner at an Italian place in the next town over, followed by a movie.

            I was so distracted by how happy this made me, I didn’t bother looking up Andrew Haywood until much later tonight. I finished having supper with Mom, then started doing my homework when I suddenly remembered. That was two hours ago.

            I searched for the beagle on social media, including MuzzleScroll. No profiles popped up, but something else did. Instead of a profile belonging to some eccentric London banker or a Tory page, I discovered the beagle in an old photograph of an Edwardian-era portrait, on a MuzzleScroll post from the Tuskfield Historical Society. I am not joking. The portrait showed a stoic, middle-aged beagle with greying fur, and a dark blue tailcoat with black trousers. His eyes held so much sorrow. Those were the same cerulean eyes I saw the previous night.

            This cannot be real. Here I am, dating one of the most popular wolves at school, and I’m lying here, thinking that the ghost of an earl played matchmaker for me. I’m trying to tell myself, even as I write these words down, that it’s all just coincidence. There must be a dozen or so different beagles named Andrew Haywood, correct? How many of them used to own Fangcrest Manor on the hill though? And how many of them look exactly like he does in old portraits, both online and on the society’s website?

I should be returning to my homework. Maybe this didn’t happen. Maybe it did. Either way, I keep looking at my laptop and seeing the sorrow deep in that portrait figure’s eyes. Back here, lying in bed as I write this, I imagine those eyes brightening up at my news. I imagine him back on Bodmin Moor, walking along the stone wall in that endless fog, smiling with less weight on his shoulders. Whoever Andrew is, I hope he does find closure for his mistakes. I’m going to try to do what he suggested. What was it?

Quam bene vivas refert non quam diu. I had to look it up for clarity. “It is how well you live that matters, not how long.” Out of all the advice to follow from a ghost, I think that’s not only poetic, but timeless. Yeah, I should do that. If what happened last night happened, I must.

I am rambling. It’s time to finish up that dreadful homework, then text Thomas (we exchanged phone numbers too!) before we both fall asleep. I’ll definitely have trouble though. I’m too excited for this weekend. It’s going to be me and Tom’s first date. Good night.