The Birthday, Part 3

The Banquet Hall had never looked so cold.

Outside, the sky hung as heavy as a cast-iron lid, squeezing out what little color remained from the day. Inside, the Hall was too bright by half: every sconce and chandelier burning with a ****, overcompensating glow. The long tables—set up in a T-shape, Andy at the head with the twelve women flanking in double rows—were loaded as always with impossible abundance: pyramids of fruit, grilled meats, warm loaves of bread. There was even a chocolate fountain, running despite the morning’s chill.

But the mood was not festive. It was, if Andy was being honest, a wake.

He'd expected the women to space themselves out, each tending their own stew of dread in private, but the opposite happened. They clustered tight. Chloe had positioned herself squarely between Norah and Riley, as if proximity to their sharpest voices might distract her from what was coming. Marissa and Dawn bookended Liesa, keeping a careful, gentle watch on the Belgian, who sat with her arms folded and gaze fixed on the table's grain.

Claire sat directly to Andy's right, her tail occasionally flicking against the table leg in nervous rhythm. Sam, normally glued to Liesa, was at the far end next to Emi—who kept smoothing the tablecloth with small, precise movements, her eyes darting between the door and Andy's face. Emily sat beside them, and for once, didn't look like she'd just rolled out of bed, but had actually washed her hair and even clipped part of it up with a pin, exposing the soft, pale line of her neck. Myra sat by herself, one seat off the main row, her white cane set perfectly parallel to her water glass, the tail curled over her lap like a second belt.

Erin hovered behind Andy’s chair, arms folded under her impossible breasts and jaw set with martial tension.

Nobody spoke at first. The sound of clattering silverware and pouring drinks was too loud. Every minor slip—a glass tipping, a fork dropped—was a gunshot. Finally, Norah broke the silence:

“Anyone else feel like they’re at their own funeral?”

A soft round of nervous laughter. Riley, who had been poking her salad into a wilted green sludge, shrugged. “The food would be better.”

“Not possible,” Dawn said. “This is, like, Top Chef ghost edition. I had two bites and my brain shorted out.”

Liesa, voice flat: “Would rather have herring and potatoes.”

“Someone get this woman a potato,” said Marissa, reaching for the side bowl and spearing one for her. “Here. The world’s smallest carb for your troubles.”

Liesa accepted it with a nod, no smile.

Andy watched all of it. Facing the first real elimination, the alliances had collapsed into a sort of grim solidarity. No one was pretending anymore. The threat was real. Elimination was not a joke or a game. It was the end of something, maybe the end of someone.

Chloe broke next. “I know I’m not supposed to say it, but… I’m scared. I thought, after the last two, maybe there’d be a way to avoid it again. But there’s no way out, is there?” She looked at Andy, eyes huge and shining.

Andy had seen this look before—in a hospice room, in a hospital corridor, in the face of a friend who knew there were no more tricks left. For a split second, the wild idea he'd been nursing since dawn flickered in his mind. But he couldn’t be sure Arabella would allow it, or that it would work at all.

He shook his head. "No vetoes this time." He swallowed the rest of his thought, not wanting to plant false hopes. "But maybe we’ll put together a miracle on us."

Marissa’s voice—too soft, too sweet, but carrying—cut through: “It’s worse, I think, now that we know what happens. You saw what happened to the coffee table girl. We all know it could be one of us. It’s not dying, but it’s… not life either.”

Silence. The women glanced at one another, then down at their plates.

Erin, still standing behind Andy, put a hand on his shoulder. “If I get axed, just promise me you’ll find some way to sneak a plant cutting back home. You can put it on the roof of your apartment or something.” She squeezed, her fingers surprisingly gentle on the muscle.

He smiled, weakly. “I promise.”

Myra, who had said nothing since sitting down, cleared her throat. “I’ve been thinking. We should—if anyone has unfinished business, things they want to say—do it now. Or, after. If it’s me, I’ll go down swinging, but I’d hate to be the kind of idiot who dies and leaves everyone else guessing what she meant.” She touched the cane, the tip gently tapping the underside of the table.

“That’s fucking grim,” said Riley, but she smiled when she said it. “But I agree.”

Chloe raised her glass. “To unfinished business, then. And to all of us making it out alive, if possible.”

Glasses clinked. Marissa looked straight at Andy. "If you have unfinished business, say it too. You're not exempt."

He opened his mouth, hesitated. The urge was there—to confess, to say he'd failed Laura, to tell them how every morning he still woke with the belief she'd be at his side. But what good would it do? He **** a smile instead.

"I'll keep that in mind," he said. "But right now, I'm mostly just grateful for all of you."

A warm weight pressed against his calf. Samson Drei, the corgi, had appeared beneath the table, his stubby legs carrying him in a determined circuit. The dog nudged Andy's hand before trotting to Chloe, who immediately scratched behind his ears. The tension in her shoulders visibly melted.

"Who wants to guess the next elimination twist?" Dawn asked as Samson padded over to her, his tail wagging like a metronome. She scooped him into her lap, burying her face in his fur before continuing. "I'm thinking Arabella's going to trap someone in a lava lamp. Like, suspended in time, but also kind of disco."

Emi giggled, reaching over to stroke Samson's back as the dog stretched between them. "Or maybe, like, you get turned into a beach ball and have to watch the volleyball games for eternity."

Sam chimed in as the corgi wriggled free and pressed his warm body against her leg, "If they make me a dragon statue, I hope they at least let me breathe fire on the hour. For the tourists."

The jokes circled the table, the laughter getting a little stronger, the fear thinning just enough to make the air breathable. Andy watched the faces of the women he cared for—each so different, each with her own fear, her own hope, her own reason for holding on. He saw Erin’s jaw relax as Chloe made a self-deprecating joke; saw the way Riley watched the room, never letting herself laugh until she checked that it was safe for everyone else to do it first; saw Liesa pick at her food, but with less of the self-loathing than before. Samson sensed the tension, and made sure to give each girl time to pet him; Andy felt oddly grateful to Cassandra for the corgi.

He felt Claire’s tail loop around his ankle, just once, a silent reassurance. She’d chosen to sit to his right, within easy reach, and her presence was as strong as any voice.

Marissa leaned in, speaking to all but looking at Andy. “I think… if I had to go, I’d want to remember this. Not the prize, not the transformation nonsense, but sitting here with all of you. Even if the world is ending tonight.”

Norah rolled her eyes. “You’re all being so fucking dramatic. It’s just a game. You win, you lose, you get a prize or you don’t. Worst thing that happens is you get turned into a bust of yourself and some creep puts you in a museum.” She crunched her carrot with extra ****, then added, more quietly, “But yeah, this is nice. You’re all good company.”

Emi held up a hand. “I… can I say something?”

Andy nodded, and the room quieted for her.

“I know I’m not the bravest, or the smartest, or anything. But when I was little, I used to be afraid of the dark. My mom said that if I ever got really scared, I should close my eyes and try to remember the last time I was truly happy. And if you do that, the darkness can’t hurt you. So… if anyone needs to, you can borrow my happy memories. There’s enough for everyone.”

There was a long silence, then Chloe said, “I think I’d like to borrow one. Maybe two.”

Dawn: “Same.”

Even Riley, who had never met a moment of vulnerability she didn’t want to punch in the face, said, “Okay, kid. I’ll take one for later.”

Andy felt a lump in his throat. He looked at Emi, and she beamed—genuine, if a little watery. He realized, in that moment, that whatever came next, whatever Arabella or the Producers did, they had made something real here. Silently, determination built inside him, beside the sorrow. He would save all these women. He would not let any of them meet Katherine’s fate.

He tried to say so, but his voice wouldn’t work. He just nodded, then looked down at his plate, and pretended to be busy cutting a chicken breast into smaller and smaller pieces.

None of the women seemed in a hurry to leave. They lingered over coffee, picking at desserts, trading stories—mostly happy ones, now. Emi told a tale about her grandmother teaching her how to make paper cranes, even though her first dozen had come out looking like “drunk pigeons.” Liesa, prompted by Marissa, described sneaking out of her house at thirteen to see a punk show in Antwerp and coming home at sunrise with a black eye and a new obsession with American music.

Claire wrote, in her elegant notebook, a message for Andy. She passed it to him, the ink still wet:

We will be okay, even if not all together. I believe in you.

He traced the words with his finger, feeling the truth in them.

Marissa raised her mug. “To Emi’s memories. And to all of us. May the showrunners get what’s coming to them.”

There was a round of laughter, then, one by one, the women drifted off. Some headed back to their rooms. Others found seats by the windows, watching the storm. Riley and Chloe left together, arms linked. Emi and Myra walked the hall, Myra’s cane tapping out a bright, hopeful rhythm.

Andy stayed behind with Erin, who’d finally sat down, arms wrapped around her knees. She stared at the rain, then at him, then back to the rain.

“I meant what I said about the plant,” she said, voice low.

“I know you did.”

She looked at him again, something softer in her expression. “You’re not going to let any of us go, are you?”

He shook his head. “Not if I can help it.”

She smiled. “Good. Because I’m not giving up, either.”

They sat in silence, listening to the storm.

When the Hall had emptied, Andy stood, stretching his legs. The next phase would come soon: the elimination, the impossible decision, the heartbreak. He thought about what Emi had said—about happy memories as a shield—and wondered if it would work for grown-ups, too.

He looked out the window, watched the darkening clouds. Somewhere, in a world that no longer existed, Laura would have hated a day like this—she loved the sun, the heat, the way it made your skin sting and your eyes squint. But he liked to think that, if she was here now, she would have sat at the table with them, would have made them all laugh, would have made it okay, even for a moment.

He imagined her there, just for a second. Then he squared his shoulders, and left to find his guitar.

Andy’s footsteps echoed up the marble steps and down the long gallery, the weight of the guitar case bumping gently against his back. He cradled it as if it were an infant as he made his way back to the Banquet Hall.

He hesitated at the threshold. The room was quieter than before; only a handful of women lingered over coffee, the rest gone to nurse their nerves elsewhere. But as Andy entered, word must have rippled through the Suite, because within minutes, they were all there: Chloe and Riley first, arms still linked; Emi, her six arms weaving together a tiny origami flower at the end of the table; Norah, who yawned theatrically but whose eyes were alert and unreadable; Marissa, perfectly poised, hands folded; and, one by one, the others, drawn by the collective gravity of anticipation or dread.

Andy set the case on a side table and stood by it, suddenly aware of how naked he felt in front of this group, and how utterly without armor. Erin joined him, flanking his left, her arms crossed under her breasts, green skin shining faintly in the chandeliers’ light. On his right, Claire took a step closer, her notebook already in hand.

“I know it’s a weird time,” Andy said, voice low. “But there’s something I need to do. And I’d like you all to know why.”

He hesitated, fingers splayed on the case lid. Erin’s foot nudged his calf, subtle as a secret. Claire shifted her tail, wrapping it tighter around his ankle.

He looked at the room, at every woman who had survived the last week—some battered, some buoyed, all still here. “Today is Laura’s birthday,” he said. “You all know this by now.”

Andy went on. “Every year, since she died, I… I learn a new song. I play it, once, for her. Sometimes it’s on a rooftop, sometimes by her gravestone, sometimes before her plaque in the memorial garden I had built for her, in Warrenville. Doesn’t matter where, only that I do it.”

He let the words settle. Riley’s head was bowed, her hands tucked beneath the table. Chloe’s eyes glistened, but she wiped them clear with a practiced flick of the thumb. Emi’s face was unreadable, but her bottom pair of hands were folded tight, as if holding back a flood.

He tapped the case. “I was hoping to play this year’s at the overlook. The one up the Walk of Remembrance, where the stone bench is.” He hesitated. “But, Riley, you’re the one who unlocked that part of the island. I… I don’t want to take over something that’s yours. But it would mean a lot. To me. And, I think, to Laura. And probably to you, too.”

The room stilled. Riley’s voice, when it came, was low and measured. “It was never mine. Not really. If anything, it belonged to the both of us. I’d be honored if you used it. Hell, I’ll carry your case up there if you want.”

A small exhale, then Andy pressed on. “You’re all invited, if you want. I usually do it alone, but I think… I think Laura would have liked company. So, if you feel comfortable, you’re welcome to join me.” He looked out at the sea of faces, all beautiful and all, suddenly, so impossibly dear. “But it’s totally fine if you’d rather not. I know it’s a lot.”

He watched the ripples move through the room. Chloe’s hand shot up, not quite in a wave, but a definite sign of intent. “I’d like to come,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Erin, beside him, said, “Of course I’m coming. You think I’d let you go alone? I want to hear what song you picked.”

Claire scribbled quickly, then flashed the message: Me too. She set her notebook down and reached for Andy’s hand, squeezing it.

Emi, a little shy, said, “I… I’d love to. If that’s okay?” Her hands trembled, but she gripped the edge of the table for ballast.

Myra, beside her, nodded. “You’ll need someone to keep the rhythm, if you can’t.”

Andy grinned, blinking back something wet at the corner of his eye. “Anyone else?” he asked, looking down the table.

Dawn hesitated, ears flicking. “I think… I’ll stay here. But I’ll listen for you, if the wind carries.”

Sam, who had never said no to a challenge in her life, shook her head. “This one’s yours, boss. I’ll save my air guitar for later.”

Liesa, who had been so quiet all morning, looked up. For a second, Andy thought she would say yes, but then she shook her head, just once. “You have enough witnesses,” she said. “I will listen from here.”

Norah shrugged, already dialing her phone. “If anyone gets lost, I’ll be base camp.”

Marissa didn’t respond, but she met Andy’s gaze with a kind of fond approval, as if to say: This is the best medicine you could have prescribed.

Emily, hiding behind a curtain of rose-gold, offered nothing but a soft, “Good luck.”

Andy felt his throat tighten. “Thanks,” he said, hoping it sounded strong.

He reached for the guitar. The six women who’d said yes gathered near the door, a soft, rainbow array of support. Erin’s touch was warm on his arm; Claire’s tail looped his wrist, gentle but present. Riley waited for him at the front, hand open for the case.

Chloe hung back, nervous, until Riley caught her hand and pulled her forward. Myra tapped her new cane, reaching out for one of Emi’s arms, and said, “Lead the way.”

He paused at the door, and looked back. The rest of the harem watched, some with soft smiles, others with a measured, almost professional distance.

He wanted to say something, to thank them all for being here, for caring, for making this place less of a prison and more of a home. Instead, he nodded once, then turned and led his six companions into the gray hush of the afternoon.

The path to the overlook was steeper than Andy remembered, each step landing with a heaviness that seemed to draw the clouds even lower. The seven of them walked in silence, the only sounds the soft shuffle of feet on mossy stone and the distant crash of waves against the rocks. Erin and Claire flanked Andy—Erin’s stride brisk and a little aggressive, Claire’s soft and deliberate, her tail swaying in time with her steps. Behind them, Riley and Chloe walked in tandem, their arms not quite linked but close enough that when Chloe stumbled, Riley caught her elbow with a practiced, almost careless grace. At the rear, Emi held Myra’s arm, guiding her with the gentle confidence of someone who had spent a lifetime leading others through unfamiliar ground.

Andy was grateful for the silence. It wasn’t the awkward kind—more like a shared agreement that words would only dilute what needed to be felt. He watched the sea, watched the thickening bands of rain gather over the horizon, and tried to imagine what it would be like if Laura were there beside him. In some parallel universe, maybe she was.

The last switchback brought them into the little clearing, the stone bench still half-swallowed by a tangle of wildflowers and trailing vines. The view was spectacular, a sweep of gray-blue ocean under a sky that threatened to swallow everything. Andy set the guitar case down, opened it, and let his fingers run over the fretboard while the women arranged themselves around him.

Claire settled onto the first step, knees tucked up, her notebook balanced on her lap. Erin sat next to Andy, her shoulder pressed against his, arms folded tight. Chloe and Riley found a spot a few feet away, leaning against each other, the pose more intimate than Andy had ever seen between them. Emi took the far end of the bench, cross-legged, hands folded like a prayer in her lap. Myra stood slightly apart, her fox ears canted forward, eyes unfocused but turned in Andy’s direction.

He took a breath, then another, and began to play.

The opening chords of “How to Save a Life” came shaky at first. His voice, never the strongest, quavered on the high notes, but the more he sang, the more the words settled in his chest, anchoring him to the earth. He thought about the hours he’d spent practicing, the calluses on his fingers, the mornings he’d woken with the melody still stuck in his head. Mostly, he thought about Laura—the way she’d mock the song, saying it was too on-the-nose, then demand he play it anyway, just to hear if he’d gotten the fingerwork right.

“Step one, you say we need to talk…”

Below, the ocean heaved, each wave a hammer blow against the black rocks. The air thickened, or maybe it was just the way the group’s breathing seemed to synchronize with the song—each inhale lining up with Andy’s strum, each exhale a counterpoint to the ache in the melody.

He saw Riley’s hand find Chloe’s, lacing their fingers. Erin’s jaw flexed, her lips white with the effort of holding it together. Claire’s tail unwound, drifting over to loop around Andy’s ankle, anchoring him. Emi, eyes squeezed shut, rocked in place, humming along so softly Andy almost thought he imagined it.

Andy played the bridge slower, dragging it out, the lyrics blurring as the first drops of rain spattered the guitar’s wood. He sang to the end, his voice nearly swallowed by the wind on the last verse. When the final chord faded, no one spoke. The silence was so absolute it took him a second to realize it was no longer silence at all—the rain had started, first as a whisper, then as a steady patter, dotting the stone at their feet and misting the surface of the guitar.

He looked up. Claire’s eyes were closed, her tail wrapped tight around one ankle. Erin, for once, didn’t try to hide her tears. She pressed her shoulder into Andy’s, face turned away, and let them come. Riley was the only one watching him, her face blank but her throat working, like she was fighting to keep her voice inside. Chloe had her hands over her mouth, her eyes huge and wet. Emi blinked hard, trying to keep from crying, but failing; her cheeks were streaked with tears. Even Myra, who couldn’t see the view, let the rain mix freely with the tears on her face, her head bowed but her ears still listening.

Andy set the guitar in his lap and let the rain fall on him. He didn’t feel cold. He didn’t feel sad, exactly. He just felt—present. More alive than he had in months.

"You play like that every year?" Erin's voice was thick, like she'd just come up for air after a long dive. Rain dotted her mint-green shoulders, the drops clinging to her skin in perfect spheres.

Andy nodded, fingers still pressed to the wood of the guitar as if he could wring one last note from it. The ocean heaved below, a cold and living thing. "A different one each time, but yeah," he said, roughly. "Every year."

No one moved for a long time. The women arranged themselves around him as if they'd always belonged there: Claire silent on the lowest stone step, her tail curled tight around her knees; Erin next to him on the bench, elbows on her thighs, hands interlocked. Chloe and Riley sat together on a flat outcrop, Chloe’s L-cups pillowed against the inside of her arms as she hugged herself, Riley a bulwark at her side. Emi was perched at the far edge, legs crossed, rain beading on her hair and the upper set of her knuckles. Myra stood slightly apart, the white of her cane visible against the dark, her fox ears twitching at every sound.

No one was dry. No one cared.

The silence after the song wasn’t hollow. It was full, swollen with everything that couldn't be said. Andy kept his head down, watching the fretboard blur as water pooled between the strings. He wanted to speak, but everything he'd planned felt stupid, overwritten by the realness of the moment.

"She would have hated this weather," Chloe said, her voice small but steady. "She used to say cloudy days were just the sky being lazy."

Riley made a noise, a short exhale that was not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. "She used to drag me outside on days like this. Said it was 'good for character.' I don't think my sinuses ever forgave her."

Andy smiled, even as the ache behind his eyes sharpened. He remembered: Laura making him chase her through a downpour, the two of them ending up at riverbank, soaked to the bone, laughing so hard they almost slipped into the river.

Claire, who had said nothing, tore a sheet from her notebook. She wrote in her quick, slanting hand, then held it up for Andy to see:

This was beautiful. She would have been proud of you.

He nodded, unable to speak.

Emi’s lower arms pulled in close, hugging her middle, while her top set reached out and brushed the drops from her notebook. "You have a good voice," she said, so softly that it was almost lost to the wind. "I think… I think Laura would have liked it better than the original."

Andy doubted that, but he let the kindness settle in his chest.

Myra, who stood closest to the overlook, turned her face up to the sky. "I never really knew her, not as well as any of you," she said, her tone careful. She hesitated, then added: "I'm sorry for what I did. Back then."

Riley looked up, her heterochromatic eyes sharp but not cruel. "You already said that. We’re here, aren’t we?"

Myra inclined her head, a tiny bow of gratitude.

The rain intensified, moving from a gentle percussion to something more insistent, soaking Andy's shirt and making the guitar strings sing out weird, accidental harmonics. He realized then how much he'd wanted—needed—this moment. Not for closure; he knew there would never be any. Just to remember, without the weight of apology or regret.

Erin leaned into his side, warmth bleeding through the wet. "Play another one?" she asked, voice barely above the rain.

He did.

This time, the words came easier. “One More Light,” by Linkin Park. The chords were surer, the melody less like a wound and more like a scar—painful, but part of him now. The guitar didn’t need to be loud. The music filled the hollow above the sea, mingling with the hiss of the downpour, the foam on the rocks below, the damp, slow heartbeat of the world turning. Andy sang the first verse almost under his breath, voice warbling but true:

“Should’ve stayed, were there signs, I ignored?
Can I help you, not to hurt anymore?”

He thought he’d break on the chorus, but instead his voice went steadier, like the strings were holding him upright. The words wound their way through the rain, up the steps, through every woman there, and then back to Andy himself:

“Who cares if one more light goes out?
In a sky of a million stars...”

The tears came, sure. They always did. But this time, he didn’t flinch away. He let it all show, let the song wrap around the pain, and when he finished, his voice just faded, like a tide going out.

Halfway through, he felt Claire’s tail loop around his ankle, a silent anchoring. Chloe and Riley joined in on the second chorus, their voices mismatched but strong, and Emi hummed a sweet, off-key harmony that made Andy want to laugh and cry at the same time. Even Myra joined in, the sound of her voice low and raw, but true.

They played through the end, the final chorus drawn out, echoing against the stone and the roar of the sea. When it faded, no one moved. The only thing that seemed to shift was the rain, which slowed for a moment, then picked up again as if the sky was not quite finished with them.

Andy kept the guitar in his lap, its body now slick with rain, and stared out at the place where the sky met the ocean, a wavering line blurred to nothingness by the low clouds and mist. He felt emptied, as if the music had wrung him out, but he also felt—if not lighter—then at least more honest. The others formed a rough crescent around him, as if the act of sitting together, shoulders bumped and legs tangled, was itself an act of collective remembering.

He wanted to say something, a capstone for the impromptu wake, but the words in his head were like a snarl of wire; every time he tried to pull one loose, it only got tighter. So he just sat there, letting the rain tap steadily against the guitar, until finally, without deciding to, he spoke. But not to the women, not even to himself. He spoke to the ocean, to the churning gray that had always felt like a boundary between the world and everything that hurt too much to name.

"I miss her," he said. "I miss her in a way that doesn’t make sense. Not just the memories, or the things we did together, but the way she made things… matter. Like you couldn’t just go through life on autopilot, because she was always there to poke you, or mess up your hair, or say something so dumb you had to stop and pay attention. The void she left behind has never closed. She was part of me, and since she left, I’ve only ever been half a person."

The wind carried his words outward, over the ledge and down to the rocks, where the ocean shredded them to foam.

He looked at the others, then slowly lifted his left wrist. A thin bracelet circled it, white and green threads faded to the color of old tea stains, frayed at the edges where the knots had loosened over the years. “Last thing she ever gave me,” he said, running his thumb over the worn threads. “First week of eighth grade. Said she made it because we were starting a new school and needed something to remember where we came from.”

He realized he was crying again, the tears hot even as they mixed with the chill of the rain. But this time he didn’t feel embarrassed, or weak, or any of the things he’d spent years teaching himself to avoid. It felt right, like another way to remember her, another way to refuse the letting-go she’d always mocked him for.

Chloe lifted her head from Riley’s shoulder, her mass of hair darkened and clinging to her face. Her cheeks were striped with fresh tears, but her eyes were clear in a way Andy had never seen before—brighter, as if she’d decided to let the world see through her for once.

"She dragged me to a science show once," Chloe said, voice trembling only on the first syllable. "I was in sixth grade and I thought science was the stupidest thing ever invented. I told her I’d rather eat paste than go, but she bribed me with this gigantic bag of sour worms. I remember that part the most, because I spent the entire show sucking my cheeks inside out from the sourness. But also—I remember the show. Every dumb song about atoms, every magic trick with dry ice. She laughed at everything, even the parts that were supposed to be serious. By the end I was laughing too." She smiled, a half-broken thing, and wiped her nose on the sleeve of her hoodie. "I think I hated her a little for making me have fun at a science show. But I never told her that. Because I did have fun, and she was happy about it. I never told her a lot of things."

Riley snorted, but the sound was warm and unguarded. She pressed a fist against her mouth and shook her head, as if embarrassed by how easy it was to conjure up the past. "She used to sneak me candy in class, even when she was supposedly on a health kick. She’d do it with this exaggerated wink, like she was letting me in on some huge conspiracy. Once she gave me a bag of Skittles, and half of them were actually M&Ms, which—okay, evil? And she just sat there watching me, waiting for the moment I bit down and realized. I think she laughed for a week straight.” She shook her head, remembering. “But once, when I was in trouble for real—accused of breaking a window—she marched up to the principal’s office, told him she saw me helping a kid find his ball by the basketball court at the time. And I wasn’t even there. She saved me, plain and simple.”

Andy laughed at that, but it came out twisted, a hiccup of grief and fondness. "She did that to me. Except she swapped half of them with little peas. She loved pranks."

Emi doubled over, all four hands flying to her face to muffle the giggles. "That’s so mean," she said, and when she looked up, her eyes were pink and swollen from crying, but dancing with something like joy. "She once tried to braid my hair at a sleepover. I have really slippery hair, and she had no idea what she was doing, but she called it a ‘friendship braid’ and insisted I wear it the next day. It was crooked and lumpy, but she said it looked better because it was ‘handmade.’ I wore it the next day too, even though my mom said it looked like a squirrel’s nest. I think I liked how she never tried to be perfect, you know? She’d mess up and just… laugh about it. I wanted to be that way. I still do."

There was a lull, a moment where the circle seemed to draw tighter, the women glancing at each other, each one waiting to see if someone else would speak. Myra, silent for so long that Andy had nearly forgotten she was there, finally cleared her throat. She stood very straight, the white of her cane stark against the dark stone, her fox ears flicking back and forth with restless energy.

"I didn’t know her," Myra said. "I mean, not really. I was never part of your group. I spent most of school thinking you all hated me. Maybe you did." She shrugged, the gesture rigid, but her face was oddly gentle. "But I remember her. I remember her beating me at a spelling bee in seventh grade, and she called out the winning word in this fake British accent that made everyone laugh. I was furious for weeks. I thought it was cruel, but…" Myra hesitated, her mouth working as she searched for the right shape of the memory. "She apologized after. Not for winning—she said winning was the point of a competition—but for making me feel small. She told me I was smarter than she’d ever be, and that I should use that to crush everyone next time. I never forgot that. I never forgot the feeling that she saw me, even if she didn’t always say it right."

Myra’s lower lip quivered. She gripped her cane so hard her knuckles blanched white. "I should have tried harder to be her friend. I should have tried harder to be everyone’s friend."

The wind gusted, a cold arm around the clearing, and Emi inched closer to Myra, linking her lower hands with Myra’s free one. Emi looked up at Andy. “I’m glad you remembered her this way. Not just as a…”

“A ghost?” Andy finished for her.

Emi nodded. “Yeah.”

Andy let the guitar fall across his knees. He watched the women, saw the different ways they made room for each other's pain. He realized this was the closest he’d ever come to actually giving Laura what she wanted: not a world without hurt, but a world where the hurt didn’t have to be carried alone.

He turned to the sea, the sky, the invisible horizon.

“Happy birthday, Laura,” he said, not loud, but strong enough to be carried by the wind.

The others echoed it, a murmur, then a chorus, then just the soft sound of water falling, everywhere, on everyone.

The walk down the hill felt different than the climb. It wasn’t lighter, but the heaviness had changed: less burden, more ballast. No one spoke. There was no need.

The rain, which had slackened to a mist at the end of their vigil, picked up again as they reached the main path. Andy led the way, the guitar slung on his back, the rest of the group close behind. Erin’s bare footfalls were silent, but he could sense her at his side; Claire kept a step behind, her tail occasionally brushing the backs of his calves like a benediction. Emi and Myra walked together, the former’s hand resting on the latter’s forearm to help guide her through the slippery places. Chloe and Riley trailed, their arms not linked, but always within reach.

By the time they reached the elevator, the rain had turned their clothes and skin to second skins, hair to ropes and ribbons. No one looked glamorous, or even put together. But no one seemed to care.

They crowded into the elevator lobby, water beading off them and pooling on the tile. There was a hush, a moment of transition, as if the gravity inside the little vestibule had shifted and made everything more possible.

Claire was the first to move. She wiped a streak of wetness from her glasses, then turned to Andy and held out her hand. When he took it, her grip was gentle but absolute, the pads of her fingers cool from the rain. She didn’t let go until he squeezed back, matching her pressure, then released.

Erin slid her arm around his waist, and for a moment they stood hip-to-hip, her mint green skin warm and oddly comforting against his side. He dropped his hand onto her shoulder—solid, real, present. They held the pose for a second, then Erin peeled off, not with ****, but with a kind of satisfaction, as if she’d said what she needed to without words.

Chloe and Riley approached as a unit. Riley gave him a short, clipped nod; Chloe a softer one, her lips pursed but smiling. He nodded back, feeling the echo of their private strength.

Emi hovered, then, on impulse, darted in for a hug. It was quick, one of those full-body compressions that left Andy startled and then immediately bereft when it was over. She stepped back, cheeks red, arms fluttering, but she looked happier for having done it.

Myra came last. She lifted her cane and found her place in front of Andy. He expected a handshake or maybe a nod, but instead, she leaned in, the tip of her nose brushing his jaw. He felt the warmth of her breath and, before he could register the intent, she kissed him on the cheek—soft, quick, a touch of bravado trembling beneath it.

"Thank you," she said, and he believed her.

Then the elevator doors opened, and the moment scattered like a flock of startled birds.

The women dispersed, each slipping into the corridors and alcoves of the hotel, leaving Andy alone with his guitar and the echo of their presence.

He took the ride up to the Suite in silence, eyes tracking the numbers, the pulse of his heart slower than he expected. When the doors opened, the familiar hush of the room greeted him—a hush that was not absence, but anticipation.

He set the guitar carefully on the couch, then entered the bedroom and crossed to the far wall, where Katherine’s painting hung.

She was there, of course. She was always there. But the eyes, today, seemed different—brighter, less fixed, following him as he entered. He wondered if she could sense what had happened, or if she’d just learned to read the subtleties of his face better than anyone alive.

He stood in front of her for a long time, uncertain what to say. Then he spoke, quietly, to the only witness who could never leave him.

“It’s Laura’s birthday,” he said, quietly. “I know you don’t know her, not really. But I think she’d have liked you.” He shrugged, feeling ridiculous. “Today would have been thirty."

He waited. As always, he waited. From the corner of his eye, he noticed her shift: Katherine’s painted feet sliding a half-step to the right, her weight settling on one hip. Her gaze stayed locked on him, eyes bright. Behind her, a haze of wildflowers glowed gold against the darkened Suite, the painted sunlight almost painful compared to the bruised sky outside.

He waited for the emotion to fade, but it didn’t. He kept talking, almost a whisper. “Some days, I think I’m getting better. Like maybe I can put it behind me. But then a song, or a smell, or a voice, and I’m back at zero. It’s stupid, I know, but I can’t make it go away.”

He watched the painting for any sign of reaction. Katherine shifted again—this time a slow lean forward, gripping the edge of the canvas as if poised to step out. Her bare shoulders lifted, then fell. Her painted hand floated near her thigh, palm up, fingers curling. She signed a single finger to her lips, then pointed gently at his chest—a silent mimic of listening, of understanding.

Softly, Andy said, “I still miss her. It’s like a void in my chest, all the time. I know it’s stupid. I’ve got… all these people now. All these women, and I don’t deserve them, and they don’t deserve what The HH will put them through. But the emptiness is still there. It’s just shaped different now.”

She stepped another inch forward, shifting her painted knees in a subtle crouch. Then she straightened and flicked two fingers at him, a thumbs-up gesture rendered in oil.

Andy’s throat tightened. “I’m scared I’ll lose them,” he admitted. “And it’s not really The HH. It’s me. I freeze up. I overthink. I get too careful, and then I do nothing—and people get hurt anyway.” He ran a hand through his hair and let it drop. “I’m sorry.”

She inclined her head once, then raised both hands palm-forward, fingers splayed—as if to say, Stop beating yourself up. Let it go.

He stepped forward until the frame pressed lightly against his ribs. His breath fogged the glass. “I want to protect them,” he whispered. “Not just from Arabella or the show, but from myself.” He lifted his palm and pressed it flat against the painted grass at her feet, fingertips trailing up her shin, across the hollow of her knee. The surface was cool, slippery lacquer.

Inside the painting, Katherine shifted again. Her bare toes slid back; she leaned toward him, her hand rising, palm up, as though to meet his. She couldn’t break the canvas—but for a heartbeat, her painted fingertips almost touched his. Then she signed two simple gestures: a circle drawn in the air (“change”) and a single finger pointed at him (“you”).

He swallowed. A low hum thrummed beneath his skin, as if the boundary between worlds had thinned. He pressed closer, thumb hovering a breath from her painted flesh. “Can you understand that?” he murmured.

Her wildflowers brightened, the yellows flaring. She signed one last word: a heart drawn against her chest with two fingers. Fierce, possessive affection—love, built on knowing every fault and embracing it anyway.

Andy let his palm rest. He poured out everything he couldn’t say aloud: the hope that terrified him, the new life pushing its way through old scars, the ache that clung on good days. She watched him, shifting only enough to acknowledge each confession: a tilt of the head, a subtle step forward, a lifted palm.

When he was done, the sky outside had gone the color of bruised peaches. Storm clouds hovered, but the last rays of sun slipped between them. Andy pressed his forehead to the cool glass and closed his eyes. The hush beneath his bones settled into something steady.

“Thank you,” he said. “For caring about me.”

Katherine’s eyes sparkled in the gloom, a single bead of painted green brighter than all the world outside.

Andy left the guitar on the bed and went to stand by the window. The ocean below was a silver smear, the rain drifting in lazy slants across its surface. Somewhere, far away, thunder grumbled.

He didn’t feel healed, not yet. But he didn’t feel alone, either. And for now, that would have to be enough.

Andy left the Suite without a plan, without even a towel for the rain. He let the weather hit him full-on, the instant chill knocking his mind clear of any last ghosts. The path from the elevator to the main gardens was already a river, each step a splash, each breath thick with ozone and salt.

He was halfway across the central court before he saw her: Arabella, standing in the middle of the stone walkway, hands clasped, face upturned, hair plastered to her skin. The white of her gown was nearly transparent in the downpour, but she wore it without self-consciousness. When she saw Andy, her face split into a grin—genuine, unfiltered, not the Host’s careful mask.

He slowed, then stopped a meter away, water streaming off his arms. For a second, neither of them spoke.

Arabella broke the silence, voice pitched low so only he could hear. “You know, most men in your position would be hiding in a spa right now. Maybe trying to bribe me with wine. You just walk straight into the rain.”

He smiled, shrugged. “It’s better than waiting around.”

She nodded, a solemnity settling into her bones. “That’s what I wanted to see.” She dropped the Host voice entirely, words coming softer, more brittle. “I won’t keep you long. I just… I need you to hear this, from me. Not as the Host, but as someone who has watched you longer than anyone.”

Andy nodded, unsure what to expect.

Arabella’s hands trembled, just a little. “I’m proud of you,” she said, then let the words hang there. “The way you forgave Myra. The way you understood Chloe. How you helped Riley find her voice, how you opened yourself to Erin, to Claire, to all the women here.” She laughed, short and sharp. “You even gave Liesa what she needed, when no one else would.”

She stepped closer, until her soaked sleeve brushed his arm. “You were so broken when you arrived. So certain you didn’t deserve anything. And yet, every day, you put yourself on the line for others. You never turned away. Even when it hurt.”

Andy stared at the cobbles, throat tight. “Sometimes it’s the only thing I can do.”

“Maybe,” Arabella said. “But not everyone would.” She let her gaze bore into him, unblinking. “There’s one more trial. The hardest one. You’ll know it when it comes. I won’t lie—it may ask more from you than you think you have left. But if you walk into it the way you walked into this rain, I promise, you won’t fail.”

She reached up, brushed a wet strand of hair from his temple. The gesture was so human, so accidental, that Andy almost flinched. But he held her gaze.

“I’ll see you at the Gazebo,” she said, then turned and melted into the storm, vanishing before he could thank her.

Andy blinked the water from his eyes and kept walking. The colonnade that ran the length of the gardens was a blur, the arches turned to gray by sheets of water. Just beneath the eaves, two figures stood in the shadow, as if summoned from memory: Anna, in her blue dress and trailing scarf, and Herman, still wearing the battered yellow hard hat, now streaked with riverlets. Anna’s eyes glimmered when she saw Andy; she gave a small bow, as if to royalty.

“Today is a holy day,” Anna said, voice lush as always. “You honor the dead well, Andy Cooper.”

He looked at her, then at Herman. The man nodded, a slow, measured thing. “You did right by the girls,” Herman said. “And by yourself.” His tone was more gravel than voice, but it held a warmth that Andy hadn’t noticed before.

“Thanks,” Andy said. “I don’t know what else to—”

Herman reached forward, placing a hand on Andy’s shoulder. His grip tightened, then he leaned in and said, quietly, "Trust your instincts. Even when it goes against the script." He pulled back, winked, and said, "Don't forget—cheat codes exist for a reason. Sometimes the only way out is through." He grinned. “If you ever need a back door again, you know who to ask.”

Andy laughed, remembering the first week, the maintenance effort, the secret that had bought him every chance that followed. He nodded, then let the gratitude show on his face.

Anna stepped forward, took Andy’s hands in hers. Her palms were cool and dry despite the rain, and when she spoke, it was in a voice that shook the world. “If the next trial brings you to your knees, remember this: even the gods fail. It is not the falling that matters. Only the getting up.”

She let his hands go, then swept a hand in blessing, turned, and drifted away with Herman into the fog.

The path to the Gazebo was washed clean, every petal and stone gleaming like it had been set for a king. He could see, even before he reached the steps, the semicircle of women assembled, waiting in silence. No one spoke as Andy approached. They simply looked at him, eyes shining, the rain matting their hair, their clothes clinging to skin and fur and fabric alike.

Arabella was there, too, this time in the Host’s full regalia, but her eyes were soft, almost maternal.

“Your throne awaits,” she said, voice just above a whisper.

Andy climbed the slick steps, the white of the seat luminous in the gloom. Next to it, on a low table, stood a single blue rose, massive and perfect, petals the color of midnight and summer sky all at once. Water ran down its stem, pooled at the base, then ran off the table and vanished into the cracks of the wood. It glowed with a light not of this world.

He sat, rain pooling at the hollow of his throat, the guitar case laid beside the throne like a sword set for judgment. The rose’s color—impossible, unreal—drew his gaze. He’d never seen blue like that, except once, and he would not have remembered it, had it not been for this day. The rose was the exact same hue as Laura’s eyes. And the memory was close enough to catch at the edges of his heart.

The women watched him, every single one. Claire at the front, tail wrapped around her knees; Erin next to her, arms folded but face open; Chloe and Riley, side by side as always; Sam, Emi, Liesa, Marissa, Dawn, Norah, Emily, even Myra at the far end, her fox tail streaming water down the steps.

They waited for the Challenge, whatever it would be. For once, Andy wasn’t afraid. Not of the next hour, not of the next storm, not of the world beyond the Hotel’s walls.

The rain came down, harder than before, the sound deafening but somehow peaceful.

Andy sat, eyes on the blue rose, and let the world hold its breath.