Kyr—no. I can’t keep hoping that she’ll appear. And whoever this was, they could’ve taken my stuff, they could’ve hurt me. Or worse.
I snatch my clothes off of the portable radiator and slip into them. The warmth envelops me. I pull Kyra’s letters from under my pillow and hug them close.
I head out to check on Roshan and Sam but come to an abrupt stop in their doorway.
I’d expected to find them in separate sleeping bags. Instead, they lie together on the raggedy bed. Roshan’s arm hangs across Sam’s shoulders, and their legs and the blanket are all tangled together. Sam snores softly.
As quietly as I can, I step back into the hallway. A floorboard creaks and Roshan shifts, but neither he nor Sam wakes.
So this is why the sheriff’s son smiles.
I walk back to the main hall and sit down on the steps. Emotion I haven’t felt in days courses through me. From the soles of my feet to the tips of my fingers, I feel joy. Pure, unadulterated joy. Still, even if some happiness comes out of these nightmarish few days and Kyra’s last nightmarish months, it won’t be worth it; nothing is worth the cost of Kyra’s life. But that doesn’t mean that this isn’t good.
An old sorrow blooms in my chest. Regret. I wish I could’ve given her that same happiness. I wish I could’ve given her more than friendship. I know well enough neither of us would’ve been happy if we’d tried to change for each other. I know love isn’t a magic medicine that can cure mental illness. But it might have treated her loneliness.
Still, I can’t change who I am any more than she could’ve changed who she was. I wasn’t in love with her, and as much as I wish I could’ve been, she deserved more than a lie. We both deserved to be true to each other.
And maybe I should’ve been more truthful more often.
I rake my fingers through my hair. Someone stumbles in the bedroom behind me. I rest my chin on my hands and stare out across the entry hall. I count the balusters. On the side of one, I find carved: Kyra was here. I trace the words carefully. I’d forgotten about that. We made these carvings, years ago. Kyra wanted to leave her mark, to prove that she’d been here, like others had done before us. On the railing upstairs, I’d carved my name too.
I hold on to the handrail, still remembering how her hands would trail the length of wood whenever we climbed these stairs.
Not much later, Roshan joins me. His hair is tousled, his shirt a mess of crumples. Worry lines his forehead when he looks at me, and I wince. He doesn’t know what to expect from me—he can’t know what to expect from me.
So I say, “Thank you for spending the night here. I managed to sleep soundly for the first time in days.”
He nods.
And I say, “I want you to know that I’m happy for you and Sam.” And that’s the truth.
“Thank you,” he says. His smile is soft and hesitant. “Kyra introduced us. We probably would’ve met sooner or later—Lost is certainly small enough—but I owe her that. What’s more, she accepted us without question.”
That same pang of regret flows through me. “She would.”
He holds out another sketch. Roshan and Sam, all tangled together. Sam’s arm hangs across Roshan’s shoulders. They’re in a different bed, but aside from that, it’s the exact scene I just saw.
“I think I believed her, you know,” he says. “Believed in her.”
I clear my throat. I don’t know how to respond to that. “Does your father—”
“My father knows,” he says. “Sam’s parents do too.”
“And the rest of Lost?”
“Not yet. We’re taking it slowly. Many people would be fine with us, but others… I’m an outsider. It’s going to take time.” He glances at me sideways, and I hear his unspoken question.
“I won’t tell anyone,” I promise. Besides, if Sheriff Flynn knows and approves, then the rest of the town will follow.
“Thank you.”
“Kyra wrote about Lost’s stories and Lost’s secrets in her letters. It sounded so sinister, but—you were one of them, weren’t you?”
He nods. “I have no idea if she drew us before she met me, or after, but…yeah.”
Acceptance explains why he helped her, and why he believed in her, but it still leaves a sour taste in my mouth. At least it’s a comfort to know that there was more to Kyra’s legacy than death; there was love too.
Top of the Morning
Ten Months Before
Kyra and I dropped by the post office before school to deliver some of Mom’s outgoing mail. We were the first customers, and Mrs. Morden opened a new bag of cookies and offered us some. She had a smile for Kyra, but directed all her answers to me.
Some days, Kyra would roll her eyes at that. Today, she scowled. “I’m here too, you know.”
She’d been in a mood when I stopped by her house to pick her up. She’d seemingly been awake all night painting, but all that was left were tattered shreds. I’d picked up one of the larger pieces—a piece of a mountain landscape—but Kyra snatched it out of my hands before I could look at it closely. “Leave it. It’s not important.”
Clearly her mood hadn’t improved.
Mrs. Morden’s gaze focused on a point past Kyra. “I know, dear.” And then she ushered us both toward the door. “The two of you should hurry. School’s starting soon.”
We were unceremoniously dumped on the sidewalk, where old Mr. Wilde passed us, muttering something about “the freak Henderson girl” before he pushed into the post office.
“Well, good morning to you too,” Kyra shouted after him. Her anger sounded like a growl.
With a sigh, I hooked my arm through hers. “Don’t mind them,” I said. “They mean no harm.”
Kyra pulled away from me. “I do mind them. I mind that they whisper about me. I mind that they won’t look at me. Why shouldn’t I mind them?”
“Because they don’t know any better. They don’t understand you.”
“I’ve only lived here all my life. They used to know me.”
“This is Lost. When Mrs. Lucas couldn’t remember her grandchildren’s names, your mom called her ‘a little absentminded,’ and Mrs. Morden took to writing the addresses on her letters when she forgot, rather than saying anything to her. We’re good at pretending that nothing is wrong.”
“You say that as if ignoring reality were a good thing.”
“It’s not, but it’s not ill-intentioned, either. You’re unpredictable, Kyr. But we know that you’re more than the tricks of your brain.”
“I know that,” she snapped. “But sometimes I don’t know if you do. You, this town—you love me despite my illness, while Lost hates me because of it. Did it ever occur to you that no one separates me from how my mind works? Love me or hate me if you want, I don’t care. But do it for all that I am, with all that I am.”
Her mouth was set and her hands were clenched into fists. On the other side of Main Street, people had stopped to stare and whisper at her outburst. And my cheeks felt hot. My vision swam. I didn’t know what to say.
Kyra waited, briefly, for a response. “Whatever. I’ll see you at school.” She stomped away from me.
But before she reached the top of the street, Kyra slowed to a halt. Her shoulders sagged. She was waiting for me. I ran to catch up. She didn’t say anything when I reached her side. She didn’t acknowledge me. Anger was still etched in the tense lines on her face. But still, she waited. Because even when we fought, we were all we had. It was us against the world. And we walked into school together.
The Art of Living
I can believe Lost thought Kyra was magic. I caught myself believing the same thing on many occasions. And I certainly have no other explanation for the garden. For Mr. Sarin arriving to invest in the mine, immediately after Kyra painted a prosperous town. For the drawing of Roshan and Sam together.
Or even for the painting that started it all, of a bird with a broken wing.