The words choke me.
“Alistair failed,” I continue. “But we didn’t. There was truth in those tapes he left behind. A little hope, too.” My chest tightens. “And I know that when Emma grows up, she will be the version of us we never got to be.”
Emma starts to cry.
“Shhh,” I whisper, pulling her close. “I have no idea what the hell I’m doing.” A broken laugh slips out of me. “See you soon, Freckles. My time will come. And even if I won’t be in the same place as you, I know somehow our souls will find their way back to each other.”
I turn around.
Emma drops the daisy onto the frozen ground.
There is nothing left here now.
Only dust.
Souls stay around. They wait for the right person to come along. And even when we don’t get to stay with the people we want, things still fall into place in their own cruel way. It isn’t always the ending we hope for, but it is always a piece of the puzzle that fits somewhere larger.
Emily and I were pieces, too. Sharp ones. Pieces that never fit cleanly. A project meant to end. A file meant to gather dust.
But we were also given a lesson.
Just because something feels good for the heart doesn’t mean it’s good for the mind.
In the end, we are all a little crazy—some more than others. And while time keeps moving, we wait for the things we want, while the things we need quietly slip away.
Wake the fuck up!
Epilogue
Zayne
2019.
It’s the circle of life. Monsters come and go. People stay, then leave. And those who live the least always die first.
I cough into a white tissue. When I pull it away, a thin trace of blood stains the paper. My father was right. I do have an expiration date.
A pen rests in my hand as I stare at the piece of paper torn from a notebook earlier. I sit in the attic of my own house, surrounded by dust and silence, still clinging to fragments of a past I left behind in 2017.
A voice recorder plays somewhere behind me. The voice belongs to Dr. Alistair Cermer Morrell.
“I failed.”
I reach back and stop the recording. The room feels smaller when the voice disappears. I exhale and cough again. This time, the taste of metal coats my tongue.
My body reminds me of what I already know.
I am dying. It could happen at any second. Right here, in this attic.
Before I go, I need to write a letter. One last thing. For the little girl I am raising.
Emma Beckett Mercer. Our daughter.
My hand shakes as I lift the pen. The tip touches the paper.
“Dear Emma,”
I stop and breathe out slowly, my chest tightening. My eyes blur as I stare at the ink bleeding into the fibers of the page. Then I continue.
