Will-o'-the-Wisp, Part 4 (Fiction)

       "Forget it," Bryn said. "It's nothing."
       But she didn't sound sure. The edge had worn off her voice under the press of darkness. Andy shook his head slowly.
       A white hot streak slashed across the constellations. A lonely grain of sand wandering since the beginning of time had met its death. Andy thought the stars looked like sparkles on the surface of impossibly deep water. Each breath he drew plunged him farther down. And the fairy light was leading him with promises of things words couldn't describe.
       "Andy?" Bryn asked. Her voice was changing, becoming airy and unfocused. "Andy?"
       ...listening to the crickets. And sinking. Lower and lower.
       A gentle whoosh of air brushed Andy's cheek as Bryn jogged past him in the direction of the light. Her unhurried strides bounced away and were swallowed by darkness. Their motion mirrored the spirit of the dance on the hill.
       Andy followed them both in his mind as if in a dream. Whether his feet carried him, or he glided on the night breezes, Andy disappeared into the field. Bryn had already pulled far ahead of him.

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Based on the legend of the Will-o'-the-Wisp

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