The Hearth, Rekindled, Part 2

In the afternoon, Emi found Mildred in the Main Lobby, standing by the Master’s Elevator, radiating her usual customer-service smile, the one that looked sincere at first and then, if you stared too long, suggested she could snap your neck with a single flick of her perfect black fingernails. The elevator door was dusted and gleaming, though Emi doubted anyone had touched it for weeks. Mildred was reading a magazine titled "Home Defense: Crossbow Edition" and not actually turning the pages. Emi suspected she was hiding something else between the pages. When Mildred saw Emi, she set it aside with exaggerated care, folding her hands before her in a way that reminded Emi rather uncomfortably of the Cheshire Cat.

"Can I help you, darling?" she said, a little too loud for the hush of the empty lobby.

Emi hesitated. "I'm looking for Laura. I thought maybe—"

"Walk of Remembrance," Mildred said, not waiting for the question to finish. "Took the side door near the old rose terrace. I'd give her a wide berth if you don't like ghosts." The smile sharpened, then vanished. "Anything else?"

Emi shook her head and shuffled toward the corridor, a tiny parade of nervous energy in motion. Mildred watched her go, lips twitching, as if she knew what awaited at the end of the Walk and approved.

It was mid-afternoon and the light beyond the doors was already golden, the residue of a hot day threading through the air. Emi crossed the terrace, six hands stuffed into as many pockets or wound tight in her sleeves, then found the path that led into the manufactured forest at the heart of the island. The Walk of Remembrance looked more like a real Illinois river trail than any of the other engineered landscapes at the Hotel: the path was irregular, slightly overgrown at the margins, with scratchy grass and a few wild grapevines climbing the mossy posts. At first, the air was just air, the forest nothing but a corridor of green and shadow, but as Emi walked deeper, something else seeped in—a hush, heavy and strange, that made the hair on her neck bristle. She recognized the sensation: the way you feel when you know you are being watched, or remembered.

The path ended in a small clearing, and there, just as Mildred had promised, sat Laura. Both bodies, together, perched on the same old stone bench, one at each end but with no distance between them at all. Their hair was the same wild black, both tangled by the wind; both wore the same kind of not-quite-present expression, as if they were listening to the air instead of watching the world.

The bench looked wrong on the island in the way all the Walk’s recreations did—too familiar to be decorative, too exact to be coincidence. Riley’s Sanctuary didn’t suggest Warrenville places; it resurrected them, stubborn and specific, like the island refused to let certain memories blur.

What caught Emi's attention first, though, wasn't the uncanny mirroring, or the way both pairs of hands were folded the same way on the bench. It was the photo Laura held: a glossy print, edges warped from too much handling, showing Andy—older, so much older than Laura remembered—sitting on this very bench in a downpour, guitar cradled in his lap and his head bowed. Flanking him were the others: Erin, skin bright against the gloom; Riley, her face half-hidden under her mane of red-black hair; Myra, hunched over and dripping but unmistakably herself; Chloe, hands folded like she was praying. Even Emi was there, in the background, her hair wet and her six arms wrapped around her torso to provide what self-comfort she could. Claire sat near Erin, hand entwined with the plant-woman’s, watching with flattened ears and a bedraggled tail.

Emi had seen the photo before, on the memory wall in the Dance Hall. She knew when it was from: it was from Laura's birthday, the last one before the Fourth Challenge and Laura's return. She wondered who had taken it, then decided it didn't matter. Someone always took the photo. Someone always tried to keep the memory.

The part that still snagged, every time she saw it, was the rain. Not just that it was pouring—but that none of them had left. They’d all stayed, soaked through, as if leaving would have been admitting something was over.

Laura wasn't crying. Both faces were perfectly dry, but both had the distant, red-ringed eyes of someone who had run out of tears hours ago. The two bodies sat with identical posture—elbows on knees, hands cradling the picture, shoulders rounded as if they could close in around the image and protect it from the wind. Emi watched for a minute, then another, wondering if she should announce herself or just sit and wait for Laura to notice. It was hard to know, sometimes, with her.

The spark in Emi—quiet most days, a background hum—shifted as she watched. Not urgent like yesterday, not insistent. More like… attention. Like something in her was tracking the shape of Laura’s pain and adjusting its approach. Like it was warning her that what would happen now would matter as much as what she had said earlier.

She heard, more than saw, Laura draw in a sharp breath. Both bodies blinked, slow and deliberate. "You can come closer," Laura said. Both voices spoke, slightly out of sync. It was less eerie than comforting, like a song sung in harmony by one soul split across two throats.

Emi obeyed, stepping onto the soft moss and lowering herself onto the bench beside the nearer Laura. She watched the hands for a sign, but Laura didn't pull away. If anything, the closer body shifted slightly toward Emi, the way you move closer to a space heater on a cold night. The other Laura sat perfectly still, eyes on the photo, lips pressed thin.

"I asked Mildred where you were," Emi said, not sure why she bothered with small talk. "She said you'd be here."

The Lauras both nodded, in tandem, but only the one beside Emi spoke. "Sometimes it feels like the only place that's real," she said, voice barely above a sigh. Her thumb rubbed the edge of the photo again and again, worrying it like a scab. “Like if I stare at it long enough, it’ll tell me what I’m supposed to do with myself.”

She looked down at the photo, then handed it to Emi, who took it with a four-handed grip, as if afraid it might blow away.

"It was a good picture," Laura said. "I think you blinked. But it was still good." She smiled, thin and flickering. "I remember how Andy played guitar. He'd bring it everywhere. Even when he was bad, he played it like it was going to fix the world." Both Lauras watched Emi's reaction, searching for something in her face.

Emi smiled, remembering the off-key chords, the way Andy had once tried to serenade her and Laura with a self-written song and got only as far as the second verse before both girls had collapsed into giggles, clutching each other for balance. The memory was a soft one, not a knife. It was one of the last memories she had of the three of them together. "He still plays," Emi said. "He got a lot better, but it's still… Andy."

The silence stretched, almost daring her to fill it.

"Why did you come?" Laura said, both heads tilted, both pairs of blue eyes unblinking.

Emi hesitated, six hands flexing in a useless little choreography of nerves. "I wanted to check on you," she said, simple as that. "After what I said this morning, in the Forest—I was worried it was too much."

Laura shrugged, a gesture so familiar it made Emi's chest hurt. "It was what I needed," she said. "No one tells me the truth. I think people are afraid I'll break." Her mouths twitched, not quite a smile. "But you didn't lie." She looked down at her own hands, fingers locked tight together.

The way she said it… it didn’t sound like gratitude. It sounded like verdict.

Emi let the silence hover, then said, "I'm not good at hiding things." She traced the edge of the photo with a thumbnail. "But I'm not always good at knowing what people need, either.” She glanced at Laura’s shoulders, the way both sets held themselves tight. “Earlier, I thought… I thought the truth would make you feel less alone in it.”

Laura’s eyes didn’t lift. “It didn’t,” she said, matter-of-fact.

Emi flinched at the fact that Laura’s bluntness matched what she’d been afraid of. She swallowed. “Then I’ll try something else,” she said quietly, more to herself than to Laura.” She laughed, soft. "That's why I used to love being around you and Andy. You always knew what to say. Or if you didn't, you just said something wild, and the rest of us forgot the problem for a while. Maybe for once, I can return the favor."

Both Lauras looked up at that, a faint spark in both faces.

Emi wanted to help, but didn't know where to start, so she told the truth, or as close as she could get. "When I was little, I thought you were the bravest person in the whole world. Even before the—" She swallowed. "Before you were gone. I wanted to be just like you. I used to write your name in my notebook, just to see what it looked like next to mine." Emi flushed, and shrugged all four shoulders. “I know it’s silly. But you made the world seem bigger than it was.”

She didn’t say it like a compliment. She said it like she was placing a stone on a cairn—one more marker that Laura had existed as something other than an ending. She wasn’t sure why she’d said it, except that it felt true, and Laura was the kind of person who respected the truth, even when it stung.

Both Lauras stared at the ground, then at the photo, then at each other, blue eyes locking. Emi half expected the two bodies to argue, but instead they both breathed in at the same time—a deep, shaky inhale, like a diver surfacing after a long, cold swim.

Neither spoke for a while. Emi waited, hands fidgeting on her lap, trying not to crumple the photo. Emi thought of the river, the summer afternoons where all three of them would spend hours just skipping stones and daring each other to find the ugliest frogs. She thought of the way Andy had always been so careful, so patient, never wanting to push but always willing to wait for you to catch up. She thought of the time they’d gotten lost in the woods behind her house, and Laura had been the one to keep everyone calm, even though her hands were shaking so bad Emi thought they’d never stop.

Then Laura said, softly, “Did I really matter that much?” The words came out raw, like she didn’t expect an answer.

Emi nodded, rapid, all arms moving at once. “Yes. To everyone. You were—you are—a ****. Even when you made people angry, it was because you cared so much. You never let things go, even when you should have.” Emi risked a glance at Laura’s face, and saw both pairs of eyes shining, even if no tears escaped.

“I don’t remember most of it,” Laura said. “I remember being angry. And I remember loving so hard it hurt. But I don’t remember… I don’t know. I don’t remember if anyone liked me. Not really. I remember people pretending, or Andy putting up with me, or Riley covering for me. But I don’t remember being important.” Her lips twisted, a rueful echo on both faces. “Is that weird? That I can remember every time I messed up, but not the good stuff?”

“No,” Emi said. “I do that too.” She flexed her lowest right hand, watching the fingers curl. “I remember the time we fought, in sixth grade. I remember you yelling at me in the music room, and me crying so hard my mom had to take me home early.” And she remembered the feeling afterward: the shame, the stubbornness, the conviction that if she admitted she cared, she’d be handing someone a weapon. “I remember you apologized the next day, but I don’t remember what you said. Just that it was enough.”

Laura’s mouth quirked, then stilled. “I was so jealous of you,” she said, quiet and close. “You had the best handwriting. You always beat me at the spelling bees. And you had friends, even though you never tried.” She tilted her head, both bodies echoing the movement. “Maybe I was scared you’d leave. That everyone would leave, and it would be my fault.”

Emi hesitated, wanting to reach out but not sure if Laura would accept it. She risked it, one upper arm moving slow, deliberate, and placed her hand lightly over Laura’s nearest fist. The other Laura flinched, but didn’t move away. After a moment, both Lauras relaxed, shoulders slumping, as if they’d both been holding a weight too long.

“I don’t think I’m good,” Laura said, not looking up. “I think I ruined things. For Andy, for you, for Riley, for my mom. Even now, it feels like I’m just making it worse. I got to come back. And now I’m hurting people all over again.”

Emi’s throat tightened. It wasn’t melodrama, it was the same logic Laura had used yesterday—only now it had settled into something more rigid. A belief you could build a life around, if you wanted to punish yourself enough.

“That’s not true,” Emi said, and felt it shake inside her, a hot, almost angry thing.

Laura didn’t look up. “It is.” Both bodies said it, not as argument, but as if she were naming the weather.

Emi **** herself to breathe. She looked down at the photo still in her hands—the rain, the guitar, all of them clustered like they could keep something alive by proximity alone.

“You see this and you think it proves you’re poison,” Emi said carefully. “But when I look at it, I don’t see you hurting us. I see us choosing to be there.”

Laura’s fingers tightened around her own knee. “Choosing to suffer,” she said.

Emi shook her head. “Choosing to love.”

Laura’s eyes finally lifted to Emi’s face. Both sets. Skeptical, exhausted, listening despite herself.

Emi swallowed. “Listen.” She searched for the words that didn’t sound like a lesson. That didn’t sound like she was trying to fix Laura in one conversation. “Grief and pain are the price of love. That’s all it is.” She held up the photo slightly, not as proof, but as context. “You can’t hurt like that if you didn’t have something worth losing.”

Laura stared at the photo again.

“And losing you hurt,” Emi said, quieter. “Because before you died, you mattered to us. You made our lives brighter. And that love doesn’t get erased just because the ending was terrible.”

Laura’s mouth twitched. “It feels erased,” she said. “Back home… if people think of me at all, it’s probably just… that. The bridge. The funeral. The girl who drowned. The cautionary tale. The way everyone looked.” Her eyes narrowed, focused on something not here. “It’s probably all anyone remembers.”

Emi’s chest tightened at the word home. She realized Laura’s fear was focused beyond the island, it lived there—in Warrenville, in the idea of being remembered as damage.

“I can’t imagine a single person who knew you and loved you,” Emi said, softly, “who would say they’d rather have never known you than feel the pain of losing you.”

Laura didn’t answer. Both bodies stared forward, shoulders still slumped, but the slouch had changed. Less like collapse. More like strain—like she was holding a thought that was too heavy to lift yet.

Emi waited, resisting the urge to fill the quiet with more reassurance. The spark inside her stayed quiet too, not pushing, just… present. As if it knew this wasn’t the moment for the final correction.

Laura’s gaze dropped to her hands. “I’m still his daughter,” she said, very softly.

Emi’s stomach dropped.

“She wasn’t angry,” Laura added quickly, as if correcting herself mid-thought. “My mom. She wasn’t. She was just… gone inside. But him—” Laura’s jaw tightened. “He thought being hurt meant he had the right to hurt back.” Both bodies swallowed in sync. “And I have his anger in me. I can feel it.” Her hands clenched. “So sooner or later I’m going to do what he did. Maybe not the same way. But I’ll do it. I’ll make everyone’s lives smaller. Like I started doing, even to Andy, that day on the bridge.”

Emi’s hands went cold. There it was in plain language: not “I’m worthless,” but “I’m dangerous.” The poison idea, sharpened into certainty.

Emi leaned in slightly. “Is that what you think?” she asked.

Laura didn’t answer fast enough for Emi to let her hide behind silence.

“You’re wrong,” Emi said, immediately—too blunt to be soothing, too urgent to be gentle. Then she **** herself to soften the edges. “I know you’ve been angry. I know you’ve hurt people.” She had been one of those people. She held Laura’s gaze. “You’re wrong because you keep confusing having a feeling with being your father.”

Laura’s lips pressed together. She looked unconvinced—almost offended by the distinction, as if nuance were a trick people used to get her to stop confessing.

Emi took a slow breath and let her voice wander again, back into the only terrain that didn’t feel like debate. “When we were little,” Emi said, “you used to steal Andy’s baseball cap and run down Twin Yews Road like it was a relay race and the whole world was cheering.” She smiled faintly at the memory, even as it hurt. “And he’d chase you, and he’d pretend he was mad, but he was never really mad. He was—he was happy. He would watch you run like the wind, and see you laugh, and know you were free for a moment.”

She let the memory drift into another. “You taught him to ride his bike without training wheels. You didn’t push him. You ran next to him until your lungs were on fire, and you still wouldn’t let go until he was steady.”

Laura’s eyes flickered, like something in the story snagged. Not comfort. Recognition.

“Remember when he taught you to drift? Your knees were all skinned, and his Dad had to twist the bike back into shape, but you were smiling, and you were proud of yourself, and Andy was so proud of you too. His mother brought you chocolate with the marshmellows, because she knew you loved it. And the snowball fights,” Emi continued, letting it meander. “You always aimed for the hat. Always. You thought it was funnier if the person wasn’t just cold, but offended.”

A tiny breath of a laugh left one of Laura’s mouths, then stopped as if it had betrayed her.

Emi didn’t pounce on it. She just kept going, gentle and relentless in a different way—anchoring by accumulation, not argument.

“Your first day of grade school,” Emi said, “I remember thinking I had to watch you both. I was in third grade and I acted like I was sixteen.” She shook her head. “You held Andy’s hand the whole walk, even though you pretended you didn’t want to. And when he got scared, you squeezed once, like a signal. Like you were saying, I’m here. You’re not alone.”

She paused. “Do you remember the time we got caught in the thunderstorm, and we ran to Andy’s garage?” Emi said, suddenly. “And your hair was so soaked you looked like a sea monster, and you chased me around the car for ten minutes until you slipped and knocked over the paint cans?”

Laura’s lips twitched, on both faces, and for a second the sadness faded. “Yeah. His mom was so mad, but Andy just laughed until he almost threw up.” She shook her head. “That was a good day.”

“They all were,” Emi said, and realized it was true. “Even the ones that were bad, they were good because you were there.”

Laura’s voice came soft, cutting through with no drama at all. “Because of all those good times,” she said, “you hurt so much when I died.”

Emi’s throat tightened. She nodded.

“And because of the stupid argument,” Laura went on, “you hurt before that. And you couldn’t be there for him after.” She didn’t ask it like a question. She said it like it was obvious. Like it was another line in the chain she’d already built.

Emi could have argued. Could have corrected the timeline, defended her younger self.

But she heard what was underneath it: Laura assigning blame. Sorting it. Making sure every wound had an author.

“I wasn’t there,” Emi admitted. “Not the way I wish I was.”

Laura’s mouth tightened—both of them, the same small twist, like she’d bitten down on something sharp. “And you weren’t the only one,” she said.

Emi blinked. “Laura—”

“No,” Laura cut in, not loud, just firm. “Let me finish.” Her eyes flicked to the photo in her lap, then past it, out toward the trees like she was seeing something that wasn’t here. “You told me earlier today that he was lonely. You said it like it was one word.” Both shoulders rose and fell with a controlled breath. “It wasn’t one word.”

Emi didn’t move. She let Laura have the space.

“It was sixteen years,” Laura said, and something in her voice made the number feel physical. “Sixteen years where it didn’t get better, he just… learned to wear a mask.” She swallowed. “He built things. He tried to be normal. He tried to love other people. And the grief still sat in his chest like a weight.”

Emi felt her hands go cold. She had seen versions of that Andy—quiet, polite, unreachable—but hearing Laura name it so cleanly made it feel like accusation.

“That hole,” Laura said, eyes fixed on the picture now, “it didn’t just hurt him. It wrecked everything he tried to put near it.” She nodded once toward Erin in the photo, a tiny motion, both bodies echoing it. “He loved her, when he met her.” Her jaw tightened. “And it still wasn’t enough, because he was always—” She searched, and her voice thinned with the effort of it. “Always missing something that was shaped like me.”

Emi inhaled slowly, steadying herself. “Yes,” she said, because anything else would be a lie.

Laura’s eyes snapped up to her, startled by the agreement.

Emi kept going, careful. “Yes. He was lonely. And yes, it followed him. And yes, it made it harder for him to hold on to good things.”

Laura let out a breath that wasn’t relief, exactly—more like grim satisfaction at being understood.

“So don’t tell me I wasn’t poison,” Laura said, quieter now. “I was the thing that happened to him. I was the before-and-after line in his life.”

Emi’s stomach clenched. She could feel the spark in her chest—the one that had pushed her into truth yesterday—stir again, not to **** words out of her mouth, but to keep her from reaching for the easy comfort.

“You’re right, I wasn’t there,” Emi repeated, softly, “not the way I wish I was. But I was there enough to see what you’re doing right now.”

Laura frowned, both heads tilting a fraction.

“You’re treating his grief like evidence that you were toxic,” Emi said. “Like the pain is proof that loving you was a mistake.” She shook her head. “That’s not what it means.”

Laura’s mouth twitched—almost a scoff, but tired. “What else could it mean?”

Emi glanced down at the photo again. The rain. The guitar. Andy’s bowed head. The cluster of them refusing to leave.

“It means he loved you,” Emi said simply. Then, because simple wasn’t enough, she added, “It means he got something with you that he never found anywhere else. Not because other people weren’t good. Because you were you.”

Laura’s eyes narrowed, skeptical. “And that makes it okay?”

“No,” Emi said. “But it makes it important.”

Laura looked away again, like the idea was too bright.

Emi leaned forward slightly, voice low, not trying to win an argument—trying to place something solid in the space between them. “When you were alive, you gave him joy. Not in a poetic way. In a stupid, ordinary way. He laughed. He relaxed. He had a best friend who didn’t make him guess.” She swallowed. “After you died… he still chose you. Over and over.”

Laura’s fingers tightened around the photo’s edge.

Emi nodded toward Andy’s guitar. “He learned songs. He played them. Two weeks ago, on your birthday, he came here in the rain.” She gestured, small, to the others in the frame. “And he let us sit with him. That’s not you destroying everything. That’s him refusing to let you become only the worst day.”

Laura’s throat worked. “He made an app,” she said, almost bitterly. “Aural. Like a memorial.”

“Yes,” Emi said, and didn’t flinch. “A memorial, but also a gift.” She met Laura’s eyes. “He took the thing that happened and tried to make it mean something that wasn’t just tragedy. He tried to make your name point toward helping people. Toward saving them.” She paused. “That’s not what people do with poison, Laura.”

Laura stared at her. The pushback didn’t leave her face. But it shifted—less “that’s wrong,” more “I don’t know how to hold that.”

Emi exhaled slowly. “You know what I believe?” she asked, softer.

Laura didn’t answer, but she didn’t look away either.

“I believe,” Emi said, “that if you offered him a choice—never meet you, never lose you, never hurt—he would still choose the version where he got to know you, even knowing how much it would hurt once he lost you.” She said it carefully, not as a declaration of destiny, but as a person describing someone she had watched for years. “Because the happiness was real. And because he’s the kind of person who would rather have one true thing and pay for it than live a safe life made of nothing.”

Laura’s breath hitched. Both bodies held it. She looked down at the photo again. “So all those good things…” she said, barely audible, “they brought him here, and he played. And everyone listened. And that hole in his chest…” Her voice thinned. “That’s the shape of what I did.”

Emi’s hands tightened on her thighs.

“No,” Emi said softly. “That’s the shape of what you meant. Laura,” she said, taking the nearer Laura's hands in two of hers, “I'm not saying grief is good, or useful, or anything like that. But it is the flip side of love. You won't grieve something you never loved. Andy's grief... it was extraordinary, because the way he loved you... the way he still does... is extraordinary, too. And every day since you died, he strove to make sure you wouldn't be remembered as the cautionary tale, like you said. Because he loved you, and it was the only way he could still show it.”

Laura’s eyes flicked to Emi, then away again, like the idea was too bright.

The trees breathed around them. Leaves shifted. Light stuttered across the bench.

After a long silence, Laura whispered, “If I had the choice, I would take it back.”

Emi looked at her.

“The dying,” Laura clarified, almost impatient with herself. “Not—” She swallowed. “Not him. Not the summers. Not the river. Not you.”

Emi held that carefully, like something fragile. “I know,” she said again, and this time it wasn’t agreement so much as recognition of the wish itself—clean, impossible, human.

Laura’s shoulders remained slumped, but the rigid tightness in them eased by a fraction. Her hands loosened around the photo, not letting it go, just… not strangling it.

They sat longer. No hug. No tidy closure. Just two people sharing air and memory.

Eventually, Laura shifted as if cold.

“Thank you,” she said, not looking up.

Emi nodded. “Anytime.”

Laura stood, both bodies moving at once. She tucked the photo into her hoodie, careful, almost ritual.

Emi watched her face for some sign of relief and didn’t find it. What she found instead was restraint—Laura keeping herself on a short leash, not because she felt safe, but because she didn’t trust herself to be.

But there was something else too, barely there: not hope, not belief—just a small hesitation, like Laura had been **** to admit that her conclusion wasn’t airtight.

They walked off the clearing together, side by side, quiet.

Laura didn’t say “home.” She didn’t say anything at all. But as they passed the next bend in the path, she glanced once—quick, involuntary—at the recreations ahead, as if the Walk might eventually show her the version of Warrenville she was afraid to see.

Dawn sat alone in the Banquet Hall, elbows on the table, head bowed like she was saying grace. Her bunny ears drooped forward, framing her face and casting thin shadows on the glassy wood beneath her. She had a mug of chamomile in front of her, both hands cupped around it for warmth she didn’t need. The Hall was mostly empty, lit by afternoon sun slanting in from the tall windows, making every polished surface gleam. Every now and then, she’d blink and shake her head, like she was catching herself daydreaming somewhere far away.

She didn’t notice Liesa until the other woman was halfway down the length of the table, hips swaying with their usual lazy confidence. Liesa wore paint-splattered overalls and a tight white t-shirt, and she looked every bit the off-duty art student that she was supposed to be in another, more normal life. She stopped just behind Dawn, one hand resting on the back of the chair.

“Hey, Dawn,” Liesa said, soft. “You look like you’re waiting for the last train home. May I?” She gestured at the seat across from her.

Dawn nodded, perking up just a little. “Of course. I was just—” she stopped, not sure what to say, then tried a smile. “Lost in thought, I guess.”

Liesa settled into the chair, folding her legs under herself in a way that was elegant and, somehow, suggestive without meaning to be. “What is it?” she asked.

Dawn shrugged, bunny ears drooping again. “I keep thinking about my brothers, about my dad. But mostly about my Abuela. She raised us after… well, after my mom died.” She wrapped her hands tighter around the mug, ears flicking. “It feels weird, being here, not being able to call home or even check the news. I know time is different here, but I keep worrying that they need me and I’m just…” She looked up, giving a small, self-mocking smile. “I’m just here.”

Liesa reached across the table, resting her hand lightly over Dawn’s. “You miss them, schat,” she said, her accent softening the word. “But you’re not ‘just’ anything. You’re everything to them, and you’re pretty important here, too.”

Dawn blushed, surprised at how much she needed to hear it. “Thank you,” she said, voice small. “I guess I keep expecting someone to need something from me. That’s always how it was, growing up. My Abuela said it was our mission to take care of people.” She laughed, a little ****. “She used to say, ‘Some people are born to be princes, some to be padres, but us? We keep the fire burning.’” She traced a circle on the mug, eyes distant. “She was pretty great. Strict, but great.”

Liesa squeezed her hand, then let go, sitting back. “What was she like?” she asked, genuinely curious.

Dawn grinned, the memory overtaking the sadness. “She was tiny. Like, five foot nothing. But she could throw a chancla and hit you from three rooms away.” She mimed the throw, and Liesa laughed. “She loved her garden, and she’d make the most amazing pasteles every Christmas. She’d drag us into the kitchen, line us up, and put us to work. We’d all end up covered in flour and oil, but she’d act like it was the highest honor in the world.” Dawn shook her head, eyes shiny.

Liesa was quiet for a moment, then said, “What happened, that you thought of her so suddenly?”

Dawn hesitated. “The night of my last date with Andy, we were on the terrace, and I was telling him about her. I always think of her when I cook, you know. And… suddenly, we both smelled the scents of her kitchen. And then…” she bit her lip, then continued, “I felt her near us, Liesa. She kissed me here,” she touched her forehead, “and told me she loves me, and she’s always watching over me. I thought I was dreaming.” She touched her brow, almost unconsciously. “It was so real, and Andy felt it too.” Dawn looked down, blinking hard.

Liesa’s eyes widened. “That’s incredible,” she said, and there was no skepticism in it, just awe. “I wish I had something like that.”

Dawn looked at her, surprised. “You lost someone, too?”

Liesa nodded, her sensual bravado dimming for a second. “My mother,” she said softly. “She was sick for a long time, and she… she took her own life. I was angry about it for years. I still am, sometimes. We never had a goodbye, not really.” She smiled, sad. “You’re lucky, to have that last word.”

Dawn reached out this time, squeezing Liesa’s hand. “I’m sorry.”

Liesa smiled, a real one this time. “Is okay. I think the world is full of unfinished stories. We just have to make the best of the chapters we get.” She squeezed back. “What about your brothers?”

Dawn shook her head, but she smiled. “Luis is probably driving Dad crazy. Sebastian is too smart for his own good—he’s probably running the house by now. I hope they’re okay.” She looked down, fingers drumming the mug. “I wish I could let them know I’m safe.”

“I think they know,” Liesa said, squeezing Dawn’s hand again. “Or they will, when we get home.”

Dawn nodded, hope flickering behind her eyes. She was about to say something else when the door at the end of the Hall swung open and Mildred swept in, black hair glossy as ever, apron spotless, carrying a tray of covered dishes. She stopped when she saw them, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion.

Mildred’s gaze lingered on the joined hands across the table, then traveled from Dawn’s mug to Liesa’s paint-flecked overalls, and at last to the slant of sunlight pooling across the table. Her lips curled in a parody of empathy, the way mannequins in department stores sometimes smirk when you reach for the last sale item. “Are you touching each other’s hearts?” she asked, voice syrupy and just shy of sincere.

Liesa blinked at the phrase, let go of Dawn’s hand and grinned up at Mildred. “Uh, we’re talking,” she said. “But you’re always welcome, even when you’re creepy.”

Mildred blinked. “Oh. I see.”

Dawn snorted into her mug, her bunny ears bobbing with the motion. She looked at Mildred’s tray. “Is dinner ready already?” she asked, voice small but hopeful.

Mildred surveyed the table, then swept into a half-bow so exaggerated it made the plates rattle. “Not unless you enjoy a cold amuse-bouche of melon and judgment,” she said. “The real meal is next. But I can come back later if you two want to bond more.” She slid a covered plate toward the end of the table—within reach, but not so close as to invite immediate eating. Then she straightened, hands tucked behind her back, waiting to be dismissed.

Dawn shook her head, ears perking up with new determination. “No, that’s okay. Thank you, Mildred,” she said, genuine but with an edge that made Liesa proud. “We’re just talking about home.”

Mildred gave a thin, predatory smile and glided away, her heels silent even on the hard floor. As she passed the archway, she called back, “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything, sweetums.”

Dawn watched her disappear, then slumped into her seat again, but this time the sadness was lighter. “She’s the weirdest,” Dawn said, not a question.

Liesa laughed. “You get used to her. She’s like the espresso back in Antwerp—bitter, but it wakes you up.”

Dawn’s lips twitched, and her hand unconsciously found Liesa’s again. “Thank you for listening,” Dawn said, voice small but grateful.

“I like listening to you,” Liesa said, honest and unpolished. “You make me remember what it was like to have a real family.”

Dawn’s eyes darted to her face, wary but hopeful. “What was your family like?” she asked, testing the waters.

Liesa took a deep breath. “My mom was the hurricane, my dad the umbrella. We lived in a tiny flat above a bakery, so I always smelled like bread and chocolate. But my mom—” she hesitated, then let the words spill, “she was sick for a long time. Sometimes she’d be so sad she couldn’t leave bed for days. And when she was up, she was magic. She’d paint my face like a leopard or let me dye her hair any color I wanted.”

Dawn’s bunny ears twitched, her eyes wide and intent. “What color did you pick?”

“Purple. Always purple.” Liesa smiled, but the shadow didn’t fully leave her eyes. “I still dream of her sometimes. Sometimes she’s laughing, sometimes she’s just… there. Watching me. I wish I could talk to her again.”

Dawn squeezed her hand, her voice trembling as she replied, “That’s what I felt. When Abuela kissed my head.” Dawn’s whole body seemed to relax, like she’d finally let herself admit how badly she needed that moment to be real. “Andy he hugged me so tight. It was like… like I finally let her go, but she wasn’t really gone.”

She took a deep breath, then she stood. “I think I want to make dinner tonight,” she said softly, “the way Abuela used to.” Liesa was already on her feet, and both women headed for the kitchen. When they entered, Mildred was already at the counter, glowering at a jar of olives.

“Are you okay?” Dawn asked, stifling a giggle.

“… Olives.” Mildred muttered. “… I will get dinner ready.”

Dawn shot Liesa a look, then grinned. “Actually, we were thinking of making dinner tonight,” she said, her voice brightening. “I want to do something special.”

Mildred blinked, thrown off by the challenge. “I’m required to inform you that you will be responsible for any damages to the kitchen, and that Management will not refund ingredients wasted due to incompetence.”

Dawn squared her shoulders. “Challenge accepted.”

Mildred’s face flickered, then settled into a satisfied smirk. “Fine. The kitchen is yours until nineteen-hundred. Clean as you go.” She glided out, her smile never slipping.

As soon as the door closed, Liesa doubled over, laughing. “She has no idea what she’s in for,” she said.

Dawn was already at the pantry, scanning shelves with the precision of someone who’d made more than her share of last-minute dinners for a hungry household. “I want to make abuela’s pasteles. Or at least, something close,” she said, pulling down cornmeal, cans of green chiles, and—after a brief search—banana leaves, vacuum-sealed in a neat brick.

“Is that like tamales?” Liesa asked, already digging through the fridge.

“Kind of,” Dawn said. “But it’s more work, and you have to do the masa just right, or it turns into concrete.” She set the ingredients on the counter, then looked at Liesa. “You sure you want to help? It’s messy.”

“I am Belgian,” Liesa declared, hands on hips. “I was born in a mess. Show me how to help.”

The next hour was a blur of flour, grease, and constant low-level chaos. Liesa insisted on doing the meat filling (“You want it spiced, you need a European”), while Dawn fussed over the dough, arguing with the stand mixer like it was a recalcitrant child. By the time the filling was done, Liesa had a streak of adobo down one cheek, and Dawn’s apron looked like it had survived a color run.

At one point, Liesa caught Dawn stealing bites of raw masa, and they devolved into a flurry of bunny-ear grabs and handfuls of flour flying through the air. The kitchen became a disaster area, but neither cared. When they laughed, it was the kind that started deep in the stomach and rolled up, unstoppable.

“Your brothers would be proud,” Liesa said, wiping her hands on a towel.

Dawn beamed, cheeks flushed with effort. “My abuela would haunt me for the mess, but… yeah, I think she’d be happy.”

They rolled the pasteles together, Dawn showing Liesa how to fold the banana leaves just so, how to tie them with twine so the filling wouldn’t leak. For every one Liesa made right, she ruined at least one, but she took the critique with good humor, muttering, “Next time, we do waffles.”

When the pasteles were loaded into the steamer, Dawn slumped against the counter, arms crossed and eyes shining. “Thank you,” she said, voice thick.

Liesa nudged her with a shoulder, leaning close. “For what?”

“For reminding me that it’s okay to be happy. Even when I miss home.” She bit her lip, then added, “Even when I’m scared I’ll never get it back.”

Liesa put an arm around her waist and pulled her in for a hug. “I am scared, too,” she said. “But I think if we are together, we can get through anything.” She kissed Dawn’s forehead, then, in a perfect mimicry of abuela, said, “And if not, we just throw the chancla.”

Dawn laughed so hard she nearly cried.

Sam stood at the edge of the cliff, toes balanced on a white pucker of stone, and watched the surf below. The wind was strong today; it shoved at her ponytail and pressed the salt-sweet air into her lungs until she was sure the taste of it would stay forever. The drop wasn’t as high as it looked from a distance, maybe thirty feet, but the sound the water made against the rocks was enormous, the kind that could drown out thoughts if you let it.

She didn’t let it. Her thoughts, as always, were louder than the world.

Sometimes, in the last couple of rounds, Sam would come up here just to see how far she could lean into the wind before the rest of her decided to follow. Never fell. Not once. She supposed there was some lesson in that, but right now she just wanted the horizon, the distance, and the simple assurance that nobody could sneak up behind her.

Except, of course, someone did.

There was a faint rustle from the brush at her back, then the snap of a dry stem and a muffled curse. Sam tensed—reflex—then relaxed a little when she heard a second, more familiar noise: the soft, airy laugh of someone who’d just embarrassed themselves but didn’t mind at all.

She turned.

Emily was extricating herself from the thicket with both hands, brushing off sand, leaves, and a collection of decorative twigs from her hair. She was, as always, completely naked, except for a strategically perfect curtain of pastel-pink hair, which managed to stay in front of the important bits even when she bent to untangle something from her ankle. Sam, who prided herself on not being easy to surprise, couldn’t help but stare for a beat: not at the nudity, but at what the hair barely covered.

“Nice view?” Emily said, voice dry.

“Of the ocean, yeah,” Sam shot back, but she grinned.

Emily snorted. “You mean the cliffs? Sure. That’s what everyone’s looking at.” She twisted, gave her butt a mock-pat, then looked up at Sam, blinking sunlight from her eyes. “Am I interrupting your brooding, or is it a group brooding day?”

“Open brooding hours,” Sam replied, shifting to let Emily share the edge. “I was just about to start overthinking.”

Emily padded forward, toes sinking into the moss. Up close, she smelled like coconut shampoo and something faintly metallic, like the memory of a hospital corridor. She squinted at the ocean. “Solid spot. The mist here is better than the spa.”

They stood in silence for a minute, the kind that didn’t need filling. Sam watched the way the sunlight cut through Emily’s hair, how the ends glowed translucent gold even as the roots stayed pink. Emily’s chest rose and fell in a slow, regular way, and after a while, Sam realized she was staring at more than the hair: Emily’s breasts were definitely bigger. A lot bigger. She didn’t mention it, but she caught herself staring and made a mental note to apologize if Emily looked embarrassed.

Sam stole a glance at Emily’s breasts, then at the ocean, then back at the breasts, as if the view itself could be compared. She had to say something; the silence was a dare.

“Didn’t those used to be, uh, less?” Sam asked, vague but not subtle.

Emily looked down, as if surprised by her own body. “Oh, yeah,” she said, holding her hands beneath them in mock support. “I, uh, asked Andy to use Coauthor. I got to see what it was like last round, so… yeah.” She blushed. “I can change it back. But… honestly, I like it?”

Sam grinned, warm and approving. “Looks good on you. Very, uh, ‘classic fantasy tavern wench’ vibes. In the best way.”

Emily laughed, the sound bright and a little embarrassed. “Thank you?” She swayed a little, as if weighing herself. “They don’t get in the way as much as I thought. Also, people are way less judgy here than back in the real world. Or at least, no one’s thrown a dollar bill at me yet.”

Sam let out a low chuckle, relaxing. “Maybe I should get an upgrade too. Like, the world’s best calves. Or abs you could grate cheese on.”

“You already have all of that.” Emily giggled.

Sam shrugged. “Eh. You can always go more shredded.”

“Is that your dream body?” Emily asked, genuinely curious.

Sam considered, then shrugged. “Nah. My dream body is pretty much the one I have now, plus maybe the confidence not to second-guess every damn thing I say.” She smirked.

They stood together, letting the wind slice through the space between them.

After a minute, Emily nudged Sam’s shoulder. “We haven’t seen you much lately. Everything okay?”

Sam deflected, as always. “Just thinking about the next challenge. Or maybe avoiding the next challenge by hiding out here. I dunno. Sometimes it feels like the show is just… waiting for us to let our guard down.”

Emily didn’t push. She just let the silence ride for a while, then offered, “If you want, you can come with me to the Tavern of Second Chances. I finished decorating. It’s cheesy, but I’m proud of it.”

Sam’s eyebrows went up. “You have a tavern now?”

“Technically, it’s my Sanctuary,” Emily said, sheepish.

Sam mulled it over. “Why not.” She kicked at a loose stone, sending it skipping down the cliffside. “Lead on, oh maiden of the mead hall.”

Emily laughed, then bounded ahead, her hair streaming behind her in a banner of pink and gold. Sam followed, rolling her eyes but secretly pleased to have something, someone, anything to chase.

The Tavern of Second Chances sat on the edge of the cove, its thatched roof and low, timbered walls looking like they’d been shipped directly from a Renaissance fair and reassembled by people who’d never seen a right angle. The windows glowed with a perpetual sunset light, and the air inside was thick with the scents of fruit, spice, and fresh bread.

As soon as they entered, Sam was hit with the memory of her undergrad D&D group: the battered pub they’d play in, the peanut shells on the floor, the way everyone there wanted to be someone else for a little while. The new tavern had all the best parts of that vibe and none of the grimy barstools or sports memorabilia. It felt instantly familiar, which was either comforting or a little unnerving, depending on how much you liked nostalgia.

Norah was already at the bar, sitting with her ankles crossed and sipping a tea with practiced disdain for the environment. She wore a flowy indigo jumpsuit, her hair in an elaborate updo with enough pins to skewer a small mammal. She looked up when they entered, one eyebrow cocked in expectation.

“About time,” Norah said, not unkindly. “I was starting to think you’d died of overconfidence, Sam.”

Sam saluted her with two fingers. “Only in the mornings.”

Emily did a little hop behind the counter and started fiddling with bottles. “What’ll it be?”

Sam eyed the shelves. “Anything with caffeine?”

“Coming up.” Emily got to work, the movements fast and graceful for someone with nothing on but her hair and a dorky sense of purpose. She poured an espresso shot into a shaker, added a generous amount of vodka, coffee liqueur, syrup, poured the cocktail into a martini glass and slid it in front of Sam. “It’s not a fancy one, but it’s got personality,” she said.

Sam slid onto the barstool next to Norah. “You always drink tea in a place like this?” she asked.

Norah gave her a side-eye. “The only other options are mead or some unholy liquor Emily made. I choose life.”

Sam smirked. “There's a whole wall of bottles there, Norah.”

Norah frowned. “Yeah, but I'm about as good at mixology as I am at reaching the top shelf unaided.”

Sam chuckled. “That’s fair. But it’s more fun if you play the part. Next thing you know, you’ll be calling the manager to complain about the Wi-Fi.”

Norah grinned, sharp and a little predatory. “I do have standards, Sam.”

Emily set the coffee in front of Sam, then leaned on the counter, her face earnest. “So, what’s up?” she asked Sam. “Is this about Liesa?” she asked. “Because, not to pry, but you two have been inseparable, and then suddenly… not.”

Sam went still, the muscles in her forearms flexing against the bar top. “I don’t know what to do,” she said. The words came out in a rush, raw and unfiltered. “I want to ask her. Like, really ask her. But every idea I have, it sucks.” She dropped her head, voice muffled. “I know it’s lame.”

Emily beamed, as if she’d just unlocked the next level in a visual novel. “You want to propose?” she whispered.

Sam’s ears turned red. “Don’t make a big deal of it.”

Norah leaned in. “That’s the biggest deal, Sam. You want to lock down the future with a woman who makes her own paint out of beet juice and has stolen t-shirts from half of us to use as aprons.”

Sam nodded, quiet.

Emily clapped her hands, the sound somehow not as perky as her smile. “I think that’s beautiful.”

Sam glanced at her, embarrassed but not angry. “I just don’t know how to do it. She’s the kind of person who’d hate, like, a flash mob, or something super public. But I want it to be memorable.”

Norah steepled her fingers. “Here’s what you do,” she said, dead serious. “You walk up to her and say, ‘Liesa, let’s get married.’ That’s it. No fanfare. No audience. If she loves you, she’ll say yes. If not, she’ll say no. It’s the most honest contract negotiation you’ll ever have.”

Sam glared at her. “That’s cold.”

Norah shrugged. “That’s business, babe.”

Emily shushed Norah, then leaned closer. “It doesn’t have to be a big thing,” she said. “But you should make it special. This place is magic, right? Use it. Make her a mural. Or take her to one of the gardens at night, and—” She caught herself, then blushed, the color visible even across her cheeks. “Sorry. I’m projecting.”

Sam grinned. “No, it’s good advice.” She stared into her coffee, swirling the foam with a spoon. “I’m just scared. I mean, what if she thinks it’s too soon? Or too much? What if she laughs?”

Norah grunted. “Better to get laughed at and move on than to stay in limbo forever.” Her voice softened, a rare show of solidarity. “You’ve got this, Sam.”

Emily nodded, her hair sliding over her shoulders like a curtain. “And whatever you say here doesn’t leave the Tavern.” She made a cross over her heart. “Promise.”

Sam looked at both of them, the tension in her shoulders easing. “Thank you,” she said. “I think I needed to hear it.”

Norah took a sip of tea, then gestured at Emily. “What about you? Any big plans?”

Emily hesitated, then shrugged. “I think I’m still figuring myself out. I mean, the last time I was in a serious relationship, it ended with both of us getting **** into an interdimensional sex game. Hard to top that. But... I don't know.” Her cheeks turned pink.

Sam snorted, almost spraying her coffee. “You win the trauma Olympics.”

Emily grinned. “Nah. I’m just learning how to like myself. Turns out it’s more complicated than just getting a boob job.”

Norah laughed, the sound dry but not mean. They drank, the silence this time comfortable, easy. As the afternoon light slanted through the tavern windows, Sam found herself thinking less about what she’d say, and more about the simple fact that Andy, Erin and these two had her back. She didn’t know if Liesa would say yes. But she was starting to like her chances.

They spent the rest of the afternoon huddled around the bar, plotting proposals and making fun of each other’s old dating disasters. At one point, Emily slipped into the back and returned with a “proposal kit” she’d made out of pipe cleaners, paper flowers, and a ring pop. Sam laughed so hard she almost cried.

By sunset, the three of them were perched on the tavern porch, watching the gold spill over the trees. Sam rested her chin on her hand, the other arm slung around Emily’s bare shoulders. Norah was stretched out beside them, eyes half-closed, utterly relaxed for the first time in weeks.

Sam caught herself thinking: This is good. This is enough.

She looked at the two women beside her, then out at the distant horizon. “I think I know what I’m going to do,” she said.

The meditation garden’s paths were set with rough-cut stones, uneven as old teeth and just as ready to bite you if you stopped paying attention. Laura sat cross-legged on the largest of the center stones, both her bodies positioned so perfectly in sync that if you stared too long, you might start to wonder which was the reflection and which was the self. The sunlight ran low, painting her knees in slow, syrupy stripes and casting both shadows at precise angles across the crushed gravel. She let her hands rest open on her thighs, palms up, the way she remembered seeing in a library book once: something about letting the universe find you rather than the other way around.

The world here was close to silent, but not the kind of silence that felt empty or alone. There were insect clicks and the half-murmur of wind as it ran through the thick hedges; sometimes, the rattle of a distant branch or a single, falling leaf that sounded important when it landed and then wasn’t. Laura focused on these noises and nothing else. The garden had been Riley’s suggestion, something to ground her, but it wasn’t grounding so much as clarifying. Like waking up from a fever and realizing the ache had always been there, you’d just forgotten the right words for it.

Her heads bowed in unison. Both mouths, closed. She tried to empty herself of everything—grief, confusion, anger—but of course nothing left. That was the real trick. She remembered reading about mindfulness, about the “gentle observation” of thoughts, and wondered if anyone who wrote those books had ever spent a single afternoon haunted by themselves.

So she watched the questions as they surfaced:

Am I poison? Is loving me—my kind of love—doomed to end in damage for everyone who touches it?

Does my presence, my return, actually help anyone, or does it just reroute their lives around an old, permanent wound?

If Andy had healed, and now I’m back, is it my job to stay, or to leave again so he can have a real future?

Is Emi right—does love matter more than what happens after it ends, even if the end is the only thing people remember?

They drifted up, changed shape, drifted down again. The garden didn’t care. The garden was perfectly, utterly itself, no matter how much you bled into it.

She didn’t look for conclusions. She just let the questions sit, a slurry of them at the bottom of her mind, like silt that maybe someday would turn into stone. She didn’t know how long she stayed like that, how many times her bodies unconsciously readjusted their posture, how many small, ordinary sounds marked time’s passage. It was enough to know that the world was still happening even if she couldn’t decide what she was supposed to be doing in it.

As the light slanted lower, both bodies’ eyes adjusted automatically, pupils wide, tracking the shift in hue from gold to blue to a faint, grainy lavender. She watched her own shadows overlap and then pull apart, neither one truer than the other.

When she finally heard footsteps—the careful, measured kind, the ones meant to be heard before arrival—she didn’t flinch. She just waited, curiosity and resignation blending perfectly in both faces. It was Marissa, of course, moving with her usual deliberate calm. She wore a soft blue dress and a white sweater, and she looked like she’d stepped out of a catalog for “Women Who Are Definitely Fine, Thank You Very Much.”

Marissa paused at the entrance to the ring of stones, making sure Laura could see her (not that you could sneak up easily on a person with double the eyes). She stayed there, hands loose at her sides, as if she were waiting for permission to approach. After a moment, Laura nodded, a short dip of both heads.

Marissa stepped onto the path, her shoes soundless on the gravel. She didn’t immediately sit; instead, she looked at both Lauras, then around at the garden, then finally at her own hands.

For a while, neither said anything. Marissa was the kind of person who could fill a space just by being present, but today she felt smaller, more cautious, like she’d run out of pages in her script and was improvising for the first time.

When she finally spoke, her voice was as soft and even as always, but there was a new edge: not sharpness, but maybe vulnerability.

“Can you sing?” Marissa asked.

Both Lauras blinked. The question was so odd that it broke the meditation, as if someone had turned on a light in a room you thought was locked.

“I don’t know,” Laura admitted, both voices at once. “I used to, when I was a kid. I never took lessons or anything.”

Marissa nodded, looking as if she’d expected the answer. “Most people don’t,” she said. “But sometimes you can tell. The way someone talks, the way they breathe. It shows up in other places.” She smiled, a little sad. “Would you come with me? There’s something I’d like to show you.” It sounded more like a plea than an offer.

For a second, Laura’s first impulse was to ask Marissa why she’d chosen now—why here, in the dying light, in front of both of her—to ask about singing. It wasn’t like Marissa to do things without a plan. But then, maybe it was. Laura was still getting used to the idea that all these adults, all these women who had years on her, were making things up as they went along.

But she stopped when she looked into the other woman’s blue eyes. With a shiver, she realized this was important. Both of her stood at the same time, legs unfolding in perfect unison. “Okay,” she said.

The two of them walked side by side out of the meditation garden, Marissa careful not to crowd, but keeping close enough that Laura never had to wonder where she was. They moved along the stone path, past the shallow pond, through the thin trees that lined the edge of the compound. The dusk was starting to gather now, and the sky bled blue into violet.