Strong, yet vulnerable.
He’s guarded now, as though he’s waiting for something terrible, the other shoe to drop.
It makes me uneasy, and even though we’re together night after night, I feel him growing away from me. It’s enough to make me panic.
At dinner, he watches me.
During the day, he walks with me.
He sketches me.
He loves me.
But there’s always something in his eyes, something hidden, something he won’t share.
“It’s not time,” he always says when I ask. “But soon.”
I feel like I should be progressing.
I should be growing.
I should be recovering.
But I’m not.
And the more I think about, the more I’ve decided why.
So in my room, after I’ve sipped at my tea, I know there’s something I have to do. Something I’ve been putting off, something that makes my heart heavy.
“Finn,” I say aloud, and instantly he’s beside me.
He grins at me with his crooked grin, and my heart breaks with what I have to do.
“I can’t see you anymore,” I tell him sadly, and he looks away.
“I know.”
“How am I supposed to be without you?” I ask quietly, picking up his hand. It’s pale, and I know that freckle on his knuckle. He’s had it since we were five.
He shrugs, and he tries to act nonchalant, but this moment is huge and he knows it.
“I don’t know, Cal. What’s anyone to do without me?” He grins and I cry, because I can’t help it.
Because he’s my other half, but I have to be sane.
“Don’t cry,” he says softly and he pats my back. “It’ll be ok. It’ll all be ok.”
“It won’t,” I sniffle through my tears. “There are so many things I don’t understand, and I can’t work through it without you.”
He laughs now and stands up, his brown curls flopping over his eye. “That’s absurd,” he tells me and humor makes his voice thin. “You can do anything, Calla.”
“I can’t keep saying goodbye to you,” I tell him and he’s knows that I’m right. “Every time it rips the band-aid off, and you take a piece of my heart with you.”
“So quit talking to me,” he tells me simply, looking through to my soul. “You’re my sister and you’ll always be my sister. I don’t need to be with you for you to know that.”
I close my eyes.
“I can’t.”
His hand is on mine.
“You can.”
There’s silence, and his hand is cold.
His hand is cold because he’s dead.
“Good night, sweet Finn,” I whisper. “Good night.”
I see his headstone, the dragonfly, the grave.
His hand is gone.
I open my eyes.
I’m alone.
I take out paper and a pen, and I write yet another letter to my father. I don’t know why I continue because he never answers.
But I write and write, and when I’m finished, I give it to Sabine.
“You’ll mail it this time, won’t you?” I ask. She nods.
“It’ll go out in the morning. I’ll make you a cup of tea now, child. And I’ll bring it to you in the salon.”
I sit and I wait, and while I do, I have a visitor.
Father Thomas.
Jones show him in, and I smile.
“It’s good to see you, Father.” Because it is.
He sits with me in the sun, chatting and holding my hand. He’s a soothing presence, and I soak it in while I can.
He stares out the windows at the gardens, at the statues and flowers and paths. “Do you like it here?” he asks quietly, and I have to shake my head.
“No. I thought I might get used to it, but I find that I’m really not.”
Father Thomas smiles. “It’s a daunting place,” he agrees. “And it’s not for everyone. Maybe it’s time for you to leave, child.”
I look away. “I know. But I don’t know where to go.”
The priest cocks his head, the light shining in his eyes. “Go home, child.”
Home.
The place where memories plague me. Where Finn’s shoes and his journal and his unmade bed wait, the things he’ll never use again.
Home, a place surrounded by death.
“Maybe,” I whisper.