Under_The_Whispering_Door_by_TJ_Klune

They listened.
They learned.
They understood, after a time. Some just took longer than others.
But that was okay.
Each of them found their way to the door, and to what came after.
After all, Charon’s Crossing was nothing but a way station.
At least for the dead.
It was the living who found their roots growing deep in the earth. Tea
plants, Hugo had once told Wallace, required patience. You had to put in the
time and have patience.
Which is why, on a summer evening, when Nelson said, “I think it’s time,”
Wallace knew what he meant.
But any reply he had dried up in his throat when he saw who stood before
him.
Gone was the elderly man leaning on a cane.
In his place stood a much younger man, back straight, hands clasped
behind him as he looked out the window, cane gone as if it’d never been
there at all. Wallace recognized him immediately. He’d seen this very man in
many of the photographs hanging on the walls of the tea shop and in Hugo’s
room, mostly in black and white or grainy color.
“Nelson?” he whispered.
Nelson turned his head and smiled. His wrinkles were gone, replaced by
the smooth skin of someone far younger. His eyes were twinkling. He was
bigger, stronger. His hair sat in a black Afro on his head, much like his
grandson’s. Decades had melted away until before Wallace stood a man who
looked as young as Hugo. What had Nelson said?
It’s simple, really. I like being old.
“You stayed as you were because it’s how Hugo knew you when you were
alive,” Wallace said hoarsely.
“Yes,” Nelson said. “I did. And I’d do it all over again if I had to, but I
think it’s time for what I want. And Wallace, I want this.”
Wallace wiped his tears away. “You’re sure.”
He looked back out the window. “I am.”