Luke nods. “He said it did get better some days. But some days, it got worse. He said it would sneak up on him out of nowhere. Every first, every milestone his parents missed, was like losing them all over again. I think that’s what the rest of my life is going to be like. Picking up my phone, only to realize he’s not there to call.”
Beatrix glances over at Theo. He won’t look at Luke, won’t look at any of them.
“We made the best memories together,” Luke says. His voice is hoarse. “I’m going to miss making more with him.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Zoë says, her own voice quivering. She raises her coffee mug and clinks it against Beatrix’s. They both drink.
All eyes land on Theo. He sits in the armchair next to Beatrix, his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze fixed on the worn floral rug beneath his feet. She waits for him to speak, to share some cherished memory of his brother with them; craves some new piece of Oliver to hold on to.
Theo looks at her. Oliver’s eyes, but not. “How did you get more time?”
Zoë tenses next to her. She shoots Luke a look Beatrix can’t read.
“I was scared, and I wished,” Beatrix says.
“In that case, I think Oliver has it covered. Don’t you?” Theo reminds her of William, of the way he sounded, the way he looked at her the night she died, all hurt and anger, searching for someone to blame.
“Theo.” There’s a warning edge to Luke’s voice.
“It’s fine,” Beatrix says. She understands what Theo wants, what he thinks she has. “You don’t want this life for your brother, Theo. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy, let alone someone I love.”
His shoulders sag. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just—” He takes a ragged breath. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without him.” He looks quickly away, his eyes shining.
“Haven’t you been listening?” Beatrix asks gently.
Theo’s throat bobs, but he doesn’t answer.
“None of us do.”
September 19, 2202Winchester, Massachusetts
Oliver fades.
The darkness pulls at him. He can feel it, knows as if he has always known. He is one tug away from unraveling.
The whispers pull at him, too. Hold him here. Keep him whole.
I’ll miss you.
I love you.
You can go.
He can’t. He can’t leave them.
His thoughts drift to Beatrix. The faint, floral scent that was always only her. Her eyes, impossibly old, one brown and one blue, that he swore could see into his soul. See the best in him, even when he couldn’t. Beatrix, who didn’t forget him. Who still loved him, even when it hurt.
He lets every thought slip from his mind, except for her. He starts at the beginning, with the dirty, beautiful thief who tried to steal his coin but stole his heart instead. Not that he realized it then. He remembers every smile, every laugh, every touch, every tear. Every memory of her that will die with him.
The whispers grow distant, the pull of the darkness stronger. Colder.
Beatrix clings to him, a desperate plea in her touch. The same plea she spoke to him that night in Barnbow. She doesn’t need words now.
Stay with me. Please. I don’t want to be alone.
He tries to hang on to her. To stay with her. But he can’t feel the warmth of her breath against his cheek. He can’t feel her tears splashing against his skin. He can’t feel her hand squeezing his.
He can’t feel anything anymore.
