A Dawn of New Beginnings, Part 2

The Lagoon had always struck Norah as a place for ghosts. Not the sheet-draped kind, but the quieter, heavier ones—the kind that lingered at the edges of things, watching and waiting for a sign they could move on. It was early—earlier than she’d meant to be awake, honestly—but her body didn’t understand the concept of sleeping in, and the two cups of coffee she’d downed after her session with Myra had only made it worse. So she’d wandered here, hoping for some private time, only to find the place already occupied.

Riley was waist-deep in the water, arms crossed over her bare stomach, head tilted back as if daring the sky to break. Her black-red hair clung to her cheekbones in thick, wet ropes, and her tank top, twisted at the hem, was so damp it was almost transparent. She wore the expression of someone who hadn’t slept all night but had never stopped moving, either: bloodshot eyes, jaw set in a line of quiet defiance, lips a little blue from the water’s chill. She didn’t turn around when Norah approached. She just stood there, letting the ripples from her legs fade into stillness.

Norah stopped at the edge of the sand, at a loss for what to do. She’d never been great at handling people like Riley—people who didn’t announce their wounds, but who also refused to let anyone else tend them. Riley was too similar to her. It was easier when she could size someone up, find the seam in their armor, and pull until something useful spilled out. But with Riley, it was all seams, all shifting plates, and if you pressed too hard she’d just slide away into some new, unguessable configuration.

So Norah did what she always did with impossible people: she gave them space, and waited.

A minute ticked by. Two. Riley didn’t so much as glance back.

Norah sat on the sand, shoes neatly paired beside her, skirt tucked under her legs. She hugged her knees and watched the sunlight burn through the last clumps of mist over the water. It was peaceful, almost, except for the constant sense that some conversation, somewhere, was about to start and neither of them knew who would break first.

Eventually, Riley did. She waded in a little closer, stopped at the shallow shelf where the water turned a luminous jade, and finally looked over her shoulder. Her two-toned eyes—one almost electric green, the other a muddied brown—were sharp but not hostile. She offered a little two-finger wave, as if to say, Sorry, you caught me in the act.

Norah nodded back. She didn’t smile, but she didn’t look away, either.

Riley didn’t bother with greetings. She walked out of the water, up the slope, and shook herself off like a half-feral dog. The droplets flew, catching the light in tiny, fleeting stars. She dropped down onto the sand a few feet from Norah, knees up, arms braced behind her. For a while, they just existed like that, neither willing to make the first move.

The Lagoon was quieter than usual. No birds, no bugs, just the lap of water and the faint rustle of wind through the mangroves. Norah found herself counting the seconds between the waves, a trick she’d used as a kid to avoid getting seasick on the ferry to Staten Island. It didn’t work any better now than it did then, but it gave her something to focus on.

She glanced at Riley, took in the haggard look, the flecks of sand on her calves, the way her jaw worked as if she were chewing over a thought she hadn’t quite decided to spit out yet.

“You been out here all morning?” Norah said, pitching her voice soft enough that Riley could ignore it if she wanted.

Riley shrugged. “Some of it.” Her voice was wrecked, hoarser than usual. “The beach is better than inside right now.”

Norah grunted. “Yeah.”

Silence again. It wasn’t awkward, exactly. Just loaded, like an old gun with a sticky trigger.

After a while, Norah said, “You’re not the only one ducking the group.”

Riley shot her a look, wary but not unfriendly. “Didn’t figure I was.”

Norah picked up a flat rock and turned it over in her hand, flicking off a bit of dried seaweed. “You know what happened with Marissa?” she asked, keeping her tone casual.

Riley’s mouth twitched, the closest she ever got to a smile. “No one tells me anything.” She picked up her own rock, smaller, and lobbed it into the water. It made a dull plunk, barely a ripple. “I heard there was a fight. I heard it was ugly. I looked for Laura, but she’s been in hiding. Beyond that, it’s all guesswork.”

Norah nodded. She watched the rock vanish, then looked down at her knees. “Marissa’s not talking to anyone.”

“Sounds about right,” Riley said, voice dry. “She does that, sometimes. Like Laura. Turtles up.”

"Yeah," Norah said, drawing a little line in the sand with her heel. "Seems like that's everyone's move these days."

Riley smirked. She watched a gull stalk the shoreline, its steps careful and measured. "You ever see that trick they do, where they stamp the ground to scare up worms?"

Norah shook her head.

"Guess gulls are smart. They know you have to make noise to get noticed," Riley said. She rolled her head to the side, meeting Norah's eyes. "Or, you just dig until you hit something ugly."

Norah considered that, picking at a thumbnail. "Or you keep digging because you don't want to think about what happens when you stop."

Riley exhaled sharply, the sound half-laugh, half-sigh. "That's the truest thing I've heard all week."

They let the silence gather. The sun had burned off most of the mist now, and the water was starting to show flashes of blue. Riley's legs, slick with droplets, left little trails of wet sand wherever she moved them. Norah tried to decide if Riley looked more comfortable here, or just more herself—maybe there wasn't a difference.

"Why'd you really come out here?" Riley asked finally, her voice neutral, maybe a touch curious.

Norah thought about deflecting, but decided to give the real answer. "Wanted quiet. Wanted to be the only voice in my head for a minute." She shrugged. "Didn't work."

Riley smiled, the kind you give when you're genuinely pleased someone didn't lie. "It's not supposed to. If you could shut it all out, you'd be dead or worse."

"Thanks, Yoda," Norah shot back. But the edge was gone, replaced by something lighter.

They sat with it, the soft thud of waves and the occasional bird call all that marked the passage of time. Norah felt the urge to ask about the bruises on Riley's shins, the tangle of her hair, the purpled half-moons under her eyes. But she knew better. Riley had always been a closed circuit: if she wanted you to know something, she'd solder the wire herself.

"Does it bother you, not knowing what happened between Marissa and Laura?" Norah asked.

Riley took her time, as if testing the water for hidden currents. "Bothers me a little. But the thing is, I don't think they even know. People fight for all kinds of reasons that don't have names yet."

Norah mulled that over, folding her arms around her knees. It was true. Most fights didn’t have a reason, not at first. The reason came later, long after both parties were already injured and committed to the damage.

She looked out over the water, letting her gaze unfocus. "Feels different this time," she said.

Riley didn’t answer for a long while. She tipped her head back and ran her hands through her hair, wringing out the ends. "Yeah," she said at last. "It does. Like we’re all waiting for someone to shout 'time’s up' and we don’t know if we want it to end or not."

Norah nodded. "You think it’ll blow over?"

Riley picked up another stone and rolled it between her palms. "Nothing really blows over here. It just settles to the bottom, and we all pretend we can’t see it."

"That’s bleak," Norah said, and meant it.

Riley smirked. "You wanted honesty."

They lapsed back into silence. But this time, the tension felt thinner, as if naming it made it bearable. Norah watched as Riley leaned back, letting the wet of her tank top soak the sand behind her, face turned full into the sun.

Norah watched as Riley leaned back, letting the wet of her tank top soak the sand behind her, face turned full into the sun.

Neither spoke for several minutes. It was the sort of silence that would have driven Norah crazy, once—the urge to fill every gap, to press and prod until the world coughed up its secrets. But Riley had a way of making silence seem like an answer all its own. After a while, Norah found she didn't mind it so much.

A heron stalked the far bank, moving with the kind of precision Norah would have killed for in her own life. Riley watched it, too, but there was no envy in her face—just the slow, patient tracking of a predator at rest.

“Hey,” Norah said, when she’d finally worked up the nerve, “you okay if I ask you something personal?”

Riley didn’t move, just said, “You just did.”

Norah smirked. “Okay, smartass. Seriously. You’ve been… what’s the word. Not AWOL, but…”

“Ghosting?”

“Yeah. That. You don’t have to explain, but I’m curious. And I’m not gonna judge.”

Riley turned her head, squinting into the bright. “You will, eventually,” she said, but not unkindly. “Everyone does.”

“Try me.”

Riley let Norah’s challenge settle, her face angled to catch the sun, so the two-tone of her irises seemed even more pronounced. “You really want to know?” she asked, her voice flat, the inflection making it clear that most people didn’t.

Norah, deadpan: “I’d have stayed in bed otherwise.”

A ghost of a smile from Riley. She looked down at her hands, palms gritty with sand. “I don’t like being around people when I’m… prickly.” She flicked her wrist, a gesture that could have been annoyance or just muscle memory. “And most of the time, I can’t even tell if I’m angry or just tired. But either way, it’s not anyone else’s problem. So I go off and wait for it to burn out.” She glanced at Norah. “It always does. Sooner or later.”

Norah made a soft noise. “Does it help?”

“Not really,” Riley said, but there was no self-pity in it, just observation. “But it beats the alternatives. I found a place in the Main Building that no one goes to. Where I can be alone, and… think.” She glanced sideways. “If you’re hoping for a big revelation, sorry. I’m fresh out.”

Norah shrugged. When Riley had mentioned the word ‘think’, Norah had heard the hitch in her voice and had known the red-haired woman had truly meant ‘grieve.’ It wasn’t Norah’s business to get involved. “I wasn’t. I just figured it was better to ask than to make up a story in my head.”

“People do that,” Riley agreed. “I prefer the real version, even if it sucks.” She rubbed a thumb along her jaw, then let it drop. “Sometimes I wish I could just… be the person everyone wants me to be. Strong, funny, always ready to say the right thing.” She gave a half laugh. “But the days when I can do that are getting further apart.”

Norah let her head rest on her knees. She watched Riley, really watched her, the way a sibling might watch another to see if the crying was over or just waiting for a new excuse. “If you want company, I’ll stick around,” Norah said. “If you want to be alone, I’ll take a walk and pretend I never saw you.”

Riley picked up a stone, rolled it between her palms. “You can stay,” she said, voice a notch softer. “I think I’m done being a ghost for today.”

They sat in a comfortable, slack silence, the kind that was more holding pattern than conversation. After a while, Norah asked, “Was it always like this, for you?”

Riley considered. “After Laura died? Yeah. Some days I’d do normal stuff—grocery shopping, job, whatever. But always, it felt like my life happened about a foot to the left of where everyone else was living theirs. I could see them, but I wasn’t in it.”

Norah picked a piece of moss off her shoe, voice neutral: “Did you ever try to fix it?”

Riley’s laugh was jagged. “Tried everything. Therapy, church, running, the works. The only thing that helps is the distraction.”

Norah nodded, not with empathy, but with recognition. “I tried to fix it, too,” she said. “The hunger. The need to matter. Everyone said if I just relaxed, it’d get better, but it never did. So I kept going. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.”

Riley eyed her. “Doesn’t seem like you’re that broken.”

Norah gave her a look. “Everyone is, just in ways that are less interesting.” She hugged her knees, elbows braced against bone.

The library was the only place in the whole hotel that still felt like it belonged to another century. The stonework, the musty velvet of the armchairs, the fugitive smell of beeswax and slow-decaying parchment—every detail said, This is a place for thinking, for remembering. Not for comfort, not for the easy escape of bodies or of time. It was supposed to be Laura’s favorite place in the world, if she’d ever been the kind of person who had a favorite place in the world.

She tried to lose herself in a book, but the words crawled over her eyes and left nothing behind. She couldn’t concentrate. She couldn’t even pretend to concentrate. Every time she closed her eyes, the images crashed over her in perfect clarity: the look on Marissa’s face when she’d turned away, blue eyes hollow and infinite; the way Chloe’s voice went small and tremulous when she’d said, not in so many words, I just wish you could see how much he missed you; the way Claire, earnest as always, had tried to offer comfort but only ended up confirming that Laura’s absence had been a wound that never closed for Andy. She had known all this, Andy had told all this when she had come back, but somehow it had never hit her so deeply as it did now.

The memory wall Emi had showed her didn’t help. The previous day, Laura had spent an hour staring at the parade of childhood and adolescence, trying to recognize herself in the grainy Polaroids and digital freeze-frames. She saw Andy, always Andy, sometimes alone, sometimes flanked by people she couldn’t remember, sometimes with his arms around her. There was even a photo of him from the last birthday before she died, the one where she’d given him the stupid crown, and then she had cried on the porch after everyone else had gone home. That part wasn’t in the picture, but she remembered it. She remembered all of it, whether she wanted to or not.

She had always believed she was the kind of person who could take a punch and keep going. She’d had to be, growing up in a house where bruises were the only form of affection her father could manage. But the blows that landed these days didn’t come from fists or belts or broken glass; they came from the mouths and hearts of people who actually cared about her. They weren’t intentional, or worse, they were meant kindly. That was what made them so much harder to shake off.

She wanted to believe she could fix it. That if she just apologized enough, or made herself small enough, or bled enough, she could patch the world back together. But every attempt seemed to make things worse, as if the universe was trying to teach her a lesson she was too stubborn to learn.

Marissa had tried to help her, and she’d lashed out. Chloe had tried to help her. Claire had tried to help her. Even Andy—sweet, loyal Andy—kept trying to pull her out of the pit she’d dug for herself, and every time she ignored or bit the hand that reached for her.

What if it would have been better, she wondered, if she’d just stayed dead?

The question was not new. It had hovered over her every day since she came back, sometimes as a whisper, sometimes as a scream. The only difference now was how clear it seemed. She hadn’t fixed anything by returning. She’d just hurt more people, more deeply, and now they all had to navigate a world warped by her second chance.

She picked a book at random—an old psychology text, maybe a hundred years out of date, the kind Marissa would roll her eyes at—and tried to read the first page. The letters blurred and jumped, refusing to resolve into meaning. Both bodies let out a synchronized sigh, and the one by the window let her head fall forward, resting her forehead on her knees. It was the closest she could get to hiding.

The library was silent, save for the slow tick of the old grandfather clock near the entrance. Even the air seemed to hold its breath. When the door opened—barely a whisper of hinges—she almost didn’t notice. But then Myra was there, moving through the stacks with the caution of someone who expected the floor to open up and swallow her whole. Her fox ears twitched at every sound, and her cane swept the ground in front of her with soft, surgical taps. She moved by memory and instinct, her sightless eyes focused on some private horizon.

She paused at the edge of the reading nook, head canted as if listening for a voice that hadn’t spoken yet. The air around her shimmered with something—call it intent, or maybe just the raw ache of someone who knew exactly what pain looked like, because she’d spent her life serving it in measured doses to strangers in white-walled clinics. Myra had never been one to **** her presence on anyone, least of all Laura. She simply waited, hands folded over her cane, the curve of her tail flicking restlessly at the hem of her dress.

Laura tried to muster the energy to say something—anything—but the words stuck. The bodies both tensed, as if expecting Myra to leave. But she didn’t. She waited. And in that waiting, something shifted. The body at the window uncurled slightly, feet dropping to the carpet. The body in the stacks drifted closer, hands empty, gaze fixed on the floor.

The silence between them stretched, warm and heavy, until Myra broke it.

“I don’t want to interrupt,” she said, voice soft but certain. “I just—” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “I felt you, is all. From the other side of the building. It’s like… you’re screaming, but only on the inside.” She said it like a fact, not a judgment.

Laura blinked. She hadn’t realized anyone could sense it. She should have, knowing Myra’s transformations. She just hadn’t realized she was being so obvious.

Myra moved forward, feeling for the edge of the chair, then sat down, careful and precise. She set her cane across her knees and folded her hands in her lap. She didn’t speak again right away, just listened, as if the hush itself was more important than the story it contained.

Laura found her eyes filling, not with tears, but with a pressure that refused to let her breathe. She tried to swallow it down, but Myra’s calm, undemanding presence made it harder, not easier.

“I fucked it up,” Laura said, voice raw. “I thought coming back would make things better, but I made it worse.” She glanced at Myra, who didn’t flinch. “I keep hurting people. Even when I try not to. It’s like that’s all I’m good at.”

Myra nodded, like she already knew. “Sometimes the people who hurt us most are the ones we care about the most.” She smiled, just barely. “And the reverse is also true.”

Laura let that sit. She could feel the tears now, not because she wanted them, but because she was tired of fighting them off. One body wiped her face with the heel of her hand; the other stared at her lap, fists balled tight.

“I don’t want to be poison,” she said. “I don’t want to—” She broke off, afraid of where the sentence would go.

Myra’s voice was gentle, but not pitying. “You’re not poison. You’re just alive. And you’re in pain. It doesn’t have to mean anything more than that.”

Laura tried to believe her, but the guilt was relentless. “I hurt Marissa. I hurt Chloe. I even hurt Andy, and all he ever did was love me.” She looked away, ashamed. “Maybe it would have been better if I’d stayed gone.”

Myra didn’t answer right away. Instead, she reached out—slow, deliberate, telegraphing the movement so Laura could see it coming—and set her hand on Ponytail Laura’s arm. The touch was feather-light, as if Myra was afraid she’d startle her. The warmth of it traveled up Laura’s skin, a pulse that settled in her chest and loosened something there.

"That's not the right way of thinking about this," Myra said. The words were small, offered into the vastness of the library as if afraid to take up too much space. She didn't let go of Laura's arm, but she didn't squeeze, either—her hand was just a pressure point, a reminder that they were both still there.

Laura tried to laugh, but the sound stuck in her throat. Both bodies made the attempt, and the result was an ugly, hiccupping gasp. "If I was just alive," she said, "I wouldn't have left so much broken behind me." The voice was as flat as the books lining the walls. "I wouldn't have killed him."

Myra's head tilted, fox ears alert. "Killed who?"

"Andy," Laura said, and heard her voice splinter in two. "I was the reason he couldn't—" She stopped, biting down on the rest. It didn't matter. She couldn't say it without becoming someone she hated.

For a moment, it seemed as if Myra was going to contradict her, to roll out the therapist's script and tell Laura how no one person could hold all that blame. But instead, she just sat. She let the silence fill up, let the air go slack between them, and only after the hush had grown so heavy Laura thought it might smother them both, did she speak again.

"I know what it's like," Myra said, voice barely audible, "to be the center of a bad story." She tapped the tip of her cane against the carpet, a soft, metronome-like rhythm. "I said something once—a lie, a stupid, mean lie—and it set everything on fire. I didn't mean for it to get so big, but it did." Her eyes were unfocused, seeing nothing, or maybe everything. "I spent years thinking if I was just a little better, a little less myself, the world would go back to how it was before. But that's not how any of this works."

Laura let the words drift, let them rattle around her head until they found the places that still hurt. She remembered the day on the bridge, the panic and the shame and the way her own mouth seemed to operate on autopilot, saying things she didn't mean, and meaning things she didn't dare say. She remembered the sound of the water, the cold slap of the air, the moment her hand slipped out of Andy's. She remembered the feeling that followed: not pain, not terror, just the certainty that she had ruined everything.

The body by the window curled tighter, trying to become invisible. The one on the couch sat rigid, spine ramrod straight, as if waiting for the next blow.

"I don't know what to do," Laura admitted, the words stinging on the way out. "I'm not like the others. They have reasons, or at least stories that make sense. I'm just a problem to be solved." Her voice wavered. "I don't want to be a problem anymore. I don't want to keep hurting people just by being alive."

Myra's smile was sad, but genuine. "You're not a problem. You're just scared." She shifted her cane, letting the tip rest lightly on Laura's foot, a weirdly comforting gesture. "We all are, in our own ways. But you don't have to fix everything right now. Sometimes it's enough just to stay."

The notion was so foreign it took Laura a second to process. "Stay?" she echoed, as if the word itself was a lie.

"Yes," Myra said. "Just... stay. I will stay with you, if you want. We don't have to talk, or fix, or even pretend it's okay. We can just be miserable together, if that's what you want."

It was not the offer Laura expected. It wasn't the comfort she wanted, or from a person she wanted to be comforted by, but it was the only one that made sense. For the first time in days, the urge to run—the one that made her want to vanish, to erase herself from the world—dampened. Not much, but enough.

She nodded, a small, stiff movement. Myra, sensing the shift, relaxed into the chair, her tail curling around her ankles. She didn't touch Laura again, but she let her presence radiate out, a gentle gravity that anchored both of them to the moment.

For a long time, they just sat.

Outside, the rain thinned to mist, and then to nothing. The old clock ticked away the seconds, marking the passage of time in slow, deliberate increments. Laura listened to the sound, letting it lull her into a state that wasn't quite peace, but wasn't agony either.

Her mind drifted, as it always did, to the place where the wound lived. She thought of Andy, and the look in his eyes when he'd seen her for the first time after the resurrection—the stunned relief, the terror that she would vanish again at any second.

She wondered if he would have been better off if she'd never returned. She wondered if she would have been better off.

The thought was so loud it nearly drowned out everything else. But then Myra, almost as if she'd heard, shifted in her seat and said, "Can I tell you a secret?"

Laura nodded, not trusting her voice.

"I wanted to die," Myra said. "After it happened.” She touched her eyes. “I thought the pain would eat me alive, and I was scared it would never stop." Her smile flickered, then steadied. "But it did. Not all at once, and not in the way I expected. It just... changed. Became something I could live with."

Laura tried to picture a world where her own pain was something manageable, something that could be carried instead of wielded like a weapon. She couldn't. Not yet. But the idea—that pain could shift, could morph into something less poisonous—planted a seed. It would take time to grow, if it grew at all. But it was there, now.

She let herself lean into the feeling. Let herself be held, not by Myra's hands but by her acceptance, her refusal to judge or demand or even try to fix. For once, Laura didn't try to fight it. She just sat, and breathed, and let the ache settle into something duller, quieter, less sharp.

They stayed in the library until the light changed, until the world outside went from gray to gold and the dust in the air caught fire with the sun. Myra dozed in her chair, head tilted back, the line of her throat strong and unguarded. Laura watched her, both bodies perfectly still, and wondered if there was a word for the kind of relief that didn't make you happy, but made you less alone.

She decided there probably wasn't, and that it didn't matter.

Andy had always assumed that once you lived through enough impossible things—paintings that orgasmed when you did, women who photosynthesized in the sun, a teenage soulmate clawed back from oblivion—your tolerance for the miraculous would go up. You would see a ghost and just nod, "Yeah, makes sense," then go on with your eggs. But by noon, that particular day, Andy’s sense of wonder had not so much plateaued as split itself open, raw and buzzing, unable to decide if it wanted to be awe or dread.

He left the Suite under a cloud: still shaken by what happened with Katherine (her kiss, her hand against the glass, the way her eyes had clearly shown she had felt it too), but also unable to ignore the low-frequency ache that hummed at the center of the world. Laura was hurting, and even with all the distractions of the island, her pain was the only note he couldn't tune out. Sam waited for him in the Main Lobby, but she had a skittish look to her eyes, and after a quick hug, she was gone. He had the uneasy feeling that she was avoiding him, and it frightened him. But she never lingered long enough to even ask anymore.

He made it as far as the entrance to the Inner Gardens before someone called his name.

"Hey!" It was Emily, standing in the middle of the Lobby with the open confidence of a person who'd already rehearsed this encounter in her head three times. She was, as always, completely naked except for a pair of flats that made her look like she'd stepped out of a fever dream at Victoria’s Secret. Her hair fell in thick, artful sheets over her shoulders and hips, arranged by some gravity-defying magic to conceal precisely what it needed to.

Andy smiled before he could help it. "Hey, Em."

She crossed the distance in a few quick, eager steps, arms open. He accepted the hug, surprised as always at the strength in her skinny limbs. She hugged him like she wanted to memorize the shape of his body—then let go, just as abruptly, and stood back to study his face.

"You look like you lost a fight with a cloud," she said, her voice low and kind. "Or maybe like you just saw a ghost?"

Andy considered, then shrugged. "Both, maybe."

Emily nodded, as if this were exactly what she'd expected. "I have something for you," she said, with the bright, rehearsed certainty of a birthday-party magician. Then, as if remembering herself: "It’s my turn. Today. I asked the others, and they said I could have you until dinner. Unless you already had plans?"

The words hit him sideways—she'd asked the others—and he had to tamp down the weird, grateful relief that came with not being expected to arbitrate another round of emotional claims. He shook his head. "No plans. Just walking."

"Perfect," she said, and took his hand.

Her palm was small and smooth, almost childlike, and she wielded it with the absolute certainty of a person who knew what she wanted. The only thing that betrayed any nervousness was the quick, staccato flutter of her fingers against his knuckles. She didn't say anything for a few steps, leading him out past the main quad and toward the sea, but after a few paces she looked up at him, searching his face.

"Are you okay?" she asked, soft.

He was about to say yes, because it would be easier, but instead he went for honesty. "I don't know," he said. "Kind of a weird day."

Emily squeezed his hand, then shifted to walking backward in front of him, careful not to trip. "Want to talk about it?"

Andy hesitated at Emily’s question. For a moment, the urge to answer with a breezy “No worries,” hovered, but her expression was so open, so expectant, that he decided to try honesty for once.

“I’m worried about Laura,” he admitted. “She’s been—she’s not herself.” He didn’t know how to summarize the spiral he’d been sensing. There were no words to easily describe what they could sense about each other.

Emily nodded, as if she’d already anticipated the answer. “She’s hiding again?” she asked.

“Pretty much,” Andy said. “I found her yesterday, but she didn’t want to talk. Or maybe she didn’t want to talk to me.” He let that hang for a second, then shook his head, as if to clear it. “It’s not your problem. I don’t want to dump it on you.”

Emily stopped walking. Her hair, so thick and pale it looked almost white in the sun, fell in a sheet over her chest and hips, a living modesty screen that somehow never seemed disheveled, no matter how much wind tried to tangle it. She looked up at him, her eyes bright and a little mischievous, but her voice was soft as dusk. “I want to help,” she said. “If you want me to.”

Andy tried to smile, found he didn’t quite have the energy. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“Let’s go find her,” Emily said. “You and me, together. If she doesn’t want to talk to you, maybe she’ll talk to me. Or maybe she’ll just… not feel so alone, if she sees us both.” She said it with the kind of cheerful matter-of-factness that had made Andy like her from day one.

He hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Okay.” And he meant it.

They doubled back through the gardens, the stone paths warm and dry underfoot after the morning’s rain. Andy was only peripherally aware of how outlandish they must have looked together—him in board shorts and a T-shirt, her in nothing but flats and a privacy curtain of improbable hair. But the staff didn’t blink, and the few guests they passed looked away as soon as Emily smiled at them.

As they neared the Main Building, Andy tuned into the bond he shared with Laura—a faint, persistent tug that, if he let himself listen, would always tell him where to find her. They found her in the Sunroom, a three-walled greenhouse perched at the edge of the garden, its glass panes still beaded with yesterday’s rain. The air inside was a riot of green, every flat surface covered in potted ferns, spider plants, and long, vining monsters with leaves the size of skateboards. The light was soft and diffuse, shadows shifting and alive.

One of her was sitting on the floor with knees hugged tight, the other perched on the window ledge, staring out at nothing. Both wore identical loose jeans and faded T-shirts, the kind of outfit that belonged on a suburban porch in the nineties, not in this riot of glass and sun. If they were aware of Andy’s approach, neither moved.

Emily hovered at the door, unsure of whether to barge in or announce herself. Andy took the lead, stepping into the room with a gentleness that felt deliberate, not cowardly.

“Hey,” he said.

The window Laura didn’t react at all, but the floor Laura looked up, eyes rimmed red but otherwise dry.

“Hi,” she said. The sound of her voice, doubled as always, never failed to send a weird jolt down his spine.

“Can we come in?” Emily asked. She hovered at Andy’s elbow, fingers twined nervously.

Laura’s shoulder twitched, a half-shrug. “It’s not my room,” she said.

Andy glanced at Emily, who gave him a you go first look. He moved to the window, standing just close enough to not be threatening.

Andy took the lead, stepping into the room with a gentleness that felt deliberate, not cowardly.

“You okay?” he asked, keeping his tone soft.

The window Laura didn’t react, but the floor Laura lifted her chin, eyes flicking past Andy to Emily and then back. “I’m resting,” she said, both voices in perfect sync—one muted, the other so sharp it might have cut if there was any edge to it.

Andy hesitated, then shrugged. “You don’t look like you’re resting.”

Laura’s mouth moved, both of them at once. “I’m doing my best.” There was a hollow in the sound, like she was reciting the words from memory and couldn’t quite remember what they meant.

Andy sat on the floor, careful to keep a respectful distance. Emily stayed at the threshold for a moment, then padded in on bare feet, moving with the tentative grace of someone who knew exactly how precarious this moment was.

“I brought Andy because I wanted to show him something,” Emily said, voice low and even. “But if you need him, I can wait.”

Both of Laura’s selves shook their heads at the same time. “He’s fine. I don’t need anything.”

Emily’s face softened, but she didn’t press. “Would you come with us?” she asked. “I’d love your opinion.”

Laura’s eyes closed for a second, and when they opened, Andy saw the answer before she spoke it. “I don’t want to mess up your day,” she said. “You should go.”

Emily sat cross-legged beside Andy, the perfect posture of a schoolchild invited to circle time. “You wouldn’t mess it up,” she said. “I just want you to come.” She left it there, not trying to sell it, and Andy respected the move.

For a long time, nothing happened. Laura’s bodies both went perfectly still—the kind of stillness you only got from someone who’d trained themselves to freeze rather than fight or flee. Andy was about to try again, but something in Emily’s eyes made him pause.

The silence held until it didn’t. The window Laura turned, and the movement caught Andy’s eye. Her shoulders dropped—barely, but enough to notice. The floor Laura unfolded herself, slow and deliberate, until she sat upright. The body language had shifted. Not relaxed, exactly, but looser, as if the act of being asked had given her permission to move.

“I’ll come,” she said, after a moment. “But I’m not going to be any fun.” There was a warning in the tone, and a desperation not to be talked out of it.

Andy nodded. “That’s fine,” he said, matching her. “You don’t have to be anything.”

There was a pause, and then—very subtly—one of the Lauras rolled her eyes. The smallest possible show of personality, so out of place in the heavy air it made Andy want to grin. Instead, he got up, dusted off his hands, and offered one to each of them.

Emily took his, warm and dry. Laura hesitated, then took it, her grip light but real.

They made their way through the gardens, the world outside blinding with midday sun, the paths hot underfoot. Neither Andy nor Emily spoke. Laura kept pace beside them, her bodies moving in sync, the strain in her jaw gradually dissolving as the walk went on.