A group of old men of about 70 to 90, in sweaters, sat in front of the huge, very 80's television set, watching a Laurel and Hardy show. They were oblivious to the environment inside the hall. Others were either playing chess, smoking pipe, reading books. It was uncannily silent, except for a few coughs here and there, and the ultimate blast of the television on at full volume.

There was, however, only one man squirming in his seat, feeling uneasy, and scratching his head. He was a man in his late 70's, with white hair and furrowing lines at his forehead. His knuckles were pressed to his nostrils, glancing at the people around him skeptically.

I looked upon the faces of these wretched lonely souls; and I wondered: How could they possibly stay in a pathetic place like this and keeping the ultimate fact only to themselves that they wanted to escape? Oh, my God! It's so typical of another day to begin with the same repetitive routine – wake up, breakfast, shower, morning walks and never ending leisure time. The same faces, the same things that come out from their dumb, lousy mouths. I could already tell what a person wants to say when one looks at me. "Good morning, Jerry! Want to join our discussion of Hemingway's 'For whom the Bell Tolls?'" Louie Parson would ask me relentlessly, exactly at 2 p.m., every single day. He was the president of the Sacred Heart Book Club. Or was it an Ernest Hemingway fan club? I couldn't recall.

And then, there would be curious wrinkly faces staring right back at me, thinking that I was queer to their tastes. Some, however, were a little bit too friendly. Artie Gilligan, a WWII veteran who suffered from Parkinson's disease would approach me, strolling on his creaky wheelchair to have another round of backgammon. Oh, dear. There he was! I've got to hide in the washroom so that he wouldn't be able to find me! Phew, that was close.

Blast! These old folks have nothing else to do in their leisure times, don't they? Depraved of their successful children's love; that could afford to give them thousands of dollars a week, but couldn't spare a moment to visit. I couldn't possibly imagine how they feel, for I do not have a child myself. I did not plan to have one, even. It wasn't in my top list of priority. There was something else, much more important than Hemingway, backgammon, tai chi, or family's love. Those were merely what people do in the last few years of their lives, to justify that their time would come as their friends' and wives' had.

It was the drive to live, and keep living until eternity.

Even though this body would turn to dust, my soul shall be free. In fact, my soul had been trapped long enough in this frail body. So long, as I could remember, for half a decade. Look at those wrinkles and freckles on my face. Droopy eyes, and pale, lucid cheeks. Sagging, scaly skin as I rubbed my arms, and the sound of my knee joints click as I walked. I cursed in despise of my physical attributes. They called me "The One-Legged Hunchback of Sacred Heart". Losing my left leg during the WWII did not uplift my status as a national hero. As I pondered upon my reflection in the mirror, I realized that the color of life was slowly draining from my face.

Those were the signs. The clock is ticking. The time has come for me to be free. I have to learn to let go. I had been waiting so long, for the right moment to appear. I've had everything prepared in the past few weeks. But none of this would have occurred if not because of her.

She was so young, so sweet. A flower blooming in Spring; for only having turned 21 this year. Her name was Laurel Dresden, and I loved calling her my "Dresden Doll", and she'd blush at my remarks. It was her fault. She was so beautiful; my heart fluttered. The scent of her hair; - oh, that long, silky, auburn hair that tickled my cheeks when accidentally turned her head in rush while feeding my medicine, tied in a ponytail. She smelled like a whole field of magnolia, clearing up the pungent air of pipe smoke, medicine and phlegm. Her soothing voice as she uttered my name on her ruby lips – "Jerry", stirred my young blood to rise.

Laurel acted as if she could see right through my saggy, coarse, reddish skin, to the depths of my youthful soul. Playfully, yet respectfully. With my gracious smile, captivating wit and long, long years of experience had her heart captured tightly in the palms of my sweaty hands, or so I thought. I wasn't the handsomest knight in a shining armor, yet she clung to me as if I was her protector. I've had envious green eyes from Sacred Hearts' dwellers that were determined to receive the same attention from Laurel. I would entirely place all the blame on her. She shouldn't have treated me more than she treated others, for she was a nurse who was supposed to give her undivided attention to everyone. My dear precious Dresden Doll, you shouldn't have frolicked with my soul this way.

It had been almost one year since she first came and enlightened my life. Christmas came, and I was so sure that she would spend it with me – only with me. I secretly wished that she would take me under the mistletoe and give me a kiss – a quick kiss on the lips, or at least a peck on the cheek. Not one woman dared to share her life with me after the war had ended. All because of one stupid wooden leg hanging lifelessly when I go to bed, or the way I limped that scared them away. I gave up hope. Until my Dresden Doll was brought to life.

My hopes riveted around the scrupulous Christmas tree. But when she appeared on the door with a striking man by her side and a diamond ring on her finger, my heart crashed to the mahogany floor. I couldn't even bend to pick them up. She was alluring and illuminating as always; but that man; Clarence Cavendish - goodness me! I curse upon the path he treaded, or his filthy fingers that soiled her skin. I wished I could pluck away his blue crystalline eyes that gazed upon her beauty, when my thoughts were put to a screeching halt.

He was just a spitting image of myself. The real soul of mine, which was trapped in this body I detest so much at this moment; of a man named Jeremiah Creighton. And I realized that I could do so much more with this young, rich and healthy fiancé of hers.

She'd given me a sweater with a huge J letter knitted in front. Her card wrote, "To Jerry, who reminds me so much of my favorite uncle," and I understood finally that she never took me as someone more than a father figure. "Merry Christmas," she had said cheerfully on that night, before kissing me on the cheek. I blushed, yet my beet-red cheeks flamed when she embraced her beloved fiancé, and kissed him full on the mouth. Then it was his turn to give him his present. He had said, "Thank you for making Laurel so much happier a person," and went on and on with sweet words that must have been music to her ears, but poison to mine. He had presented me with a wonderfully crafted fountain pen, cased with real silver, of which the words 'Jeremiah Creighton' were engraved on it. I smiled. He should have known that he did not have to do all the crazy little petty things to cheer me up on Christmas. All I wanted was he. And Laurel.

On this day, the future became so much brighter. I wouldn't mind if Louie were to ask me to join his Hemingway discussion again. I wouldn't mind having another round of backgammon with Artie. Laurel told me that Clarence would be paying me a visit today. He should have known, that this visit would be a one-way trip for him. He would never return back to Laurel. She would be mine. All mine.

All plans were set up. Nervously, he sat by my bed as he handed me a basket of fruits. How sweet. I saw a straight-laced man with a glint of uncertainty in his eyes. I could read his mind, I could feel his body heat rising. His pulse, his adrenaline. His aura felt right, the compatibility was undeniable. The signs were so strong it nearly tore me apart – he was meant for me. He must have been shocked when I grabbed his wrist and whispered, "Do you believe in magic?"

I didn't even give him a chance to speak nor stutter. I reached out for a mirror and told him to stare at our reflections. He was utterly confused. I could feel his heartbeat coinciding with the rain outside as I started reading the mantra over and over again under my breath:

"Lord, this is where I cross my heart,

Let this body and soul of mine be apart

Trade it into the reflection of which I see

So that my soul would stay 'til eternity

Lord, this is the righteous time and place

For I have longed to own that face

My soul shall disperse to that body of thee

What was yours shall belong to me…"

It felt like an earthquake; the whole room shook. The mirror was shattered into pieces in Jerry's hands. Bleeding. I smiled. It worked. I told him, "I do".

I stood up, and went to the toilet to retrieve the first aid kit. At the same time, I admired myself in the mirror. I could no longer see the reflection of a bald man with traces of white hair, now I could see a tall, broad shouldered man, with spiky light brown hair and wide forehead. It felt exhilarating, to finally being able to walk on two feet again. Bonjour, Clarence Cavendish. Au revoir, Jerry Creighton. Forever.

I walked into what used to be my bedroom. Now it belonged to Clarence Cavendish's soul, who was trapped in Jerry's body. Traces of the Wiccan star I drew with chalk were still apparent around the bed. Easily, I lifted his bleeding palm, applied antiseptic, and wrapped it nonchalantly. I couldn't believe that I was whistling merrily, as Jerry tried to scream; but he couldn't. He merely stuttered. Amazed, confused. Clarence was looking at himself from Jerry's point of view. Welcome, Clarence, to the world of Sacred Heart. Stutter all you want, since it's what you do best. I'm sure that the fountain pen with 'your' name engraved would be a suitable companion to kill time.

I'm 28 again. And I walked out of Sacred Heart, as a free soul, and as a free man. Louie was discussing John Steinbeck's "The Grapes of Wrath" instead. And Artie, he switched to Mahjong. I'm heading right to the woman I love, waiting for me at home. My Dresden Doll.

Let me introduce myself again, since we weren't properly met.

My name is Caspian Granger. I practice Hoodoo. I was born on the 27th of September 1927, presumably died on the 14th of December 1945, but I remained a 28-year-old soul who took up Jerry Creighton's body. And now I'm not in his body any longer – for now people acknowledge me as Clarence Cavendish, Laurel Dresden's betrothed. And poor Clarence – no one will believe that his soul was now in Jerry's decaying body. The doctors believed that Jerry suffered from stroke and Alzheimer's. Sadly enough, Jeremiah Creighton died three days after Laurel and I were married.

Rest in peace. Amen.

I might change my mind about not having kids, though.