Go. Now.
Aaron gently places a hand on Corey’s shoulder and nudges her offstage. There’s urgency in his touch and tension in his face. Corey stumbles, then walks off the stage and along the outer wall. When Aaron starts to speak, no one minds her anymore.
Aaron (to the crowd, loudly): Kyra was a good girl. She wasn’t a messiah. She was lonely, and she was ill. She needed more than the food you brought her. She needed help. She needed hope. She needed people to see her and care about her instead of her art. That was hardly the most important aspect about her. She needed a chance. She did not have to die. This wasn’t her story.
Aaron risks a glance at Corey before he turns to stare at the painting of Kyra’s death.
Sheriff Flynn and Mr. Henderson get up and walk toward the stage in perfect synchrony. Mrs. Henderson wails into the silence.
Aaron (turning to Mrs. Henderson): This is not a celebration. She wasn’t a star, and she didn’t burn up. She was a good girl, and she deserved more.
Aaron walks offstage, dignified but determined, then out of the building.
Chaos erupts. Sheriff Flynn swears and Mrs. Henderson collapses. Piper dashes forward to support her. Mr. Henderson stares at the door where Aaron left, his expression thoughtful and cold. The crowd whispers accusations, and there are more tears.
Corey holds her head low and edges toward the door, pulling her coat off a table in the back. Before anyone can stop her, she dashes out into the cold.
Darkness Falls
“Aaron!”
My voice echoes between the empty houses. Daylight disappeared while we were inside, and Aaron is nowhere to be seen. I scan the road for footprints, but the snow is trampled and dirty. From here, it’s an easy trek through the woods to the spa. If I were him, I wouldn’t go back to Lost. I’d go home.
I zip my parka and pick up a firm pace. Once darkness truly falls, it’ll be too dangerous to go through the woods alone, but Aaron is the only one with the answers I need. He all but said the town killed Kyra.
“Aaron!” I call again when I reach the tree line, but the only response is silence. That only freaks me out more. The woods aren’t supposed to be silent, not even in winter. Silence is a sign of danger, of lurking predators. We’re taught that from a very young age.
“Aaron!”
Nothing.
I continue along the path. I know it well—Kyra dragged me here so many times—and my footing is almost instinctive. Still, darkness falls fast around me, and with every step deeper into the woods, I feel like I leave safety farther behind. This is one of the few places in Lost where the sky grows midnight-dark as soon as the sun sets. And that’s when the wolves come out.
I know I should go back. I have no weapons, no flashlight, not even my phone to use for light.
I keep walking. Aaron looked distraught. Maybe he’ll tell me what I need to hear so I can go home.
The trees close in around me. The silence lengthens, until the wind picks up. It’s an eerie sound, the wind through the trees, and just as oppressing as the silence. Yet there’s no rustling of leaves or pine needles. Instead, it sounds like the same tune, over and over again. Always.
Endless day, endless night.
Come to set your heart alight.
Endless night, endless day.
Come to steal your soul away.
Endless night, endless day.
Come to set your heart alight.
Come to steal your soul away.
The last light shifts and a shadow crosses mine. Off the path, something moves. I stifle a scream and leap out of the way. A hand? An arm? My heart beats double time.
A branch, nothing more.
Then I see the eyes.
Owl eyes first. Then cat eyes.
Yellow eyes.
Human eyes.
They’re all pinpricks of light in the darkness.
Only the owl is blinking, slowly. Everything else—everyone else—simply stares.
The wind hums Kyra’s tune and eyes are everywhere I turn. Watching me. Watching me, and waiting.
But for what, I don’t know.
Then, as if they’ve heard some signal I can’t hear or see, they drift closer, slowly but steadily. The lights—the eyes—bar my path to the spa. They surround me.
“Aaron?” My voice falters and breaks.
Whatever happened out on the ice, Kyra wouldn’t want me to die in these woods. So, as the eyes begin to tighten their circle, I back away. And I run.
A Backpack Full of Home
When I return to the Hendersons’, the house is still dark and empty. I don’t even care. I don’t want to see them. I don’t want to see anyone. I want to leave.
I never fully unpacked, so repacking my bag is easy. It’s too late to find a way to Fairbanks now, but first thing tomorrow morning, when the reception clears, I’ll call the airline to reschedule my flight. I’ve been to the memorial service. What more can I really hope to achieve?
Don’t go, she wrote on the walls of her room.
I’m sorry, Kyra. Maybe everyone who has called me an outsider was right; I long for the yellow light of the city. I long for my dorm room. I long for the border between worldly and otherworldly to be clearly defined.
I’ll leave a piece of myself here. And no matter where I go, even if Lost is no longer my home, I will still be an Alaskan. This landscape has shaped who I am, even if this community is no longer my own.
I put Kyra’s notes and drawings in my backpack, and with them, Kyra’s scarf. I couldn’t leave them at the spa. They’re too personal. I’m taking them, taking Kyra with me. It’s the least I can do.
Hers is a story that deserves to be told. Hers is a story that deserves to be heard. It’s the story of a girl who believed in heroes and wanted to be one herself. Who saw stories in the world around her, and who regaled an entire Alaskan town with them. And hers is a story of how they started to believe her.
The Smell of Smoke
My eyes burn. Arms heavy from sleep, I reach up and rub at my eyes. Blink.
My throat burns. I try to swallow and cough instead. I can’t stop coughing.
I gulp in air, but it’s acrid. Smoke. My brain freezes. Smoke.
I’m surrounded by a darkness deeper than any night I’ve experienced. I reach for my phone but come back empty. A trail of flames starts eating its way across the ceiling, through the doorway that’s now open to Kyra’s room.
I can’t breathe.
The building is on fire. And I’m inside it.
The Taste of Ashes
I have to get out.
I stand and buckle under the weight of the hot air. My face feels like it’s blistering. I have to get out. I have to keep my wits about me and get out. If not through the door, then the window.
I hold my breath against the smoke and try to pull up the sill. It’s jammed. Another coughing fit wrecks me. I grab the desk chair and hurl it at the window. It shatters, but shards of glass stick out from the frame.
My throat closes and my eyes have gone completely dry.
I grab my backpack and charge at the window, pushing away as much glass as I can. The heat makes it easy to focus on my priorities. I’d rather cut myself to shreds than get burned alive. Like a witch, Kyra once said.
The sudden influx of cold air burns my hands, but the flames feel like they’re at my back and crawling up my legs, so I dive forward using my backpack as a shield.
I let myself fall.
In the yard, the snow and the cold are at once overwhelming and welcoming. I sliced my palm and tore open my shin, but I’m out. I gasp for air. It hurts to breathe. My throat is raw from smoke and screaming. It hurts to be.
Kyra’s piece of home burns before my eyes. These walls held memories and happiness. We made plans here, and dreamed. We slogged through mountains of homework. We were together. We were together. And now, it’s going up in flames. I lost her, and now I’m losing this too.