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“She’s gone to the castle,” Amy said grimly. “And I don’t know if she’s coming back.”

Overcome with guilt, Jordan had brought the box of Hannah’s records into Dr. Ager’s office and confessed what he’d done. Dr. Ager listened with cold fury, and then dismissed him from his internship.

After a few months, he was allowed to return to Belman during visiting hours. The nurses greeted him warmly, and Beatrix asked him if he’d work on a puzzle with her. But Hannah didn’t know who he was. Her body was on the ward, and her mind was thousands of miles—or hundreds of years—away.

He kept coming back, though. And once in a while, Hannah almost seemed to recognize him. But then she’d call him Joachim.Who’s Joachim?he’d ask. She could never answer.

But here Hannah is, in a downtown bookstore, standing before a small crowd of strangers. On the podium is a poster. It shows the cover of a book calledThe Girl in the Castle.

Her head is bent; her hands hold the book open in front of her. “My name is Hannah Dory,” she reads. “I am eighteen in the year of our Lord 1347, and God forgive me, I am about to do something extraordinarily stupid.”

Then she looks up, and she sees Jordan. At first there’s no reaction, but then her mouth drops open. A kaleidoscope of emotions flashes across her face. Surprise. Anger. Happiness. Regret.

Jordan doesn’t realize it, but his phone has slipped from his hand and shattered its glass on the floor. The years since he’s seen Hannah fall away. He’s nineteen again, eager, idealistic, and convinced he can be a savior to a girl kept inside a locked psychiatric ward.

The entire room goes silent. Everyone in the audience is wondering what’s going on—dimly understanding that something important is happening, but not having any idea what it is.

Jordan tries to speak, but his throat is closed up tight. If he could talk, though, what would he say?I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You were the girl I tried to save and all but destroyed. I never should have told you what I’d found out about your past. I never should have looked for it in the first place. Your history should have been yours to discover—or yours to keep locked away forever.

If I thought you haunted me back then, it was nothing compared to how you’ve haunted me ever since. I’ve dedicated my life to making up for how I hurt you.

He wants to tell her all of this. In front of all these people. But he won’t. His words have already hurt her too much. Instead he’ll imagine their conversation. His apology. Her listening.

Would you like to take a walk?he’ll ask. And since this is his imagination, anything at all can happen.

Yes, she’ll say.Yes I definitely would.

Their eyes are still locked. Neither of them notices the awkward silence, the dozens of New Yorkers witnessing this strange, improbable reunion.

Jordan takes a step toward her. Then another.

And Hannah smiles, and her whole face lights up like a lamp. Like a blazing fire.

CHAPTER 111

For a second, I didn’t know where I was in time. It was a feeling I knew well—but it’d never felt quite like this. The walls of the room wavered. My brain doubted my eyes. And my heart started banging in my chest, thumping against my ribs like they were a cage it could escape from.

Was that really Jordan Hassan, standing there gaping at me in the back of Greene Street Books?

It was.

Whether he was here because of coincidence, design, or miracle, I couldn’t begin to guess.

You’re here. You’ve come back.

I stared at him, cataloguing the changes made by seven years of life. He seemed taller and broader, but his hair still fell over his face and into his agate eyes. And his smile, when it emerged, was exactly like I remembered it.

“I’m sorry,” I said, realizing that everyone in the crowd was staring at us while we stared at each other. “It’s not every day that a person’s past suddenly pops up in their present.” I glanced down at my book, like I was about to start reading again.I should, shouldn’t I?But then I realized this was a moment I had to reach out and grab on to.

“Everyone,” I said, “this is Jordan Hassan. He knew me when I was down—way down.” I laughed nervously. “He was my friend and my confidante. And, to be honest, he really messed me up, too.”

Jordan was walking haltingly toward me, but then he stopped, with a look on his face like he wanted to say something. But the stage was mine and I meant to keep it that way.

“I wrote about Jordan,” I said. “And it’s almost like he leapt out of the pages of my book and into this store.” I shook my head in wonder. “I can’t believe it,” I said. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

“Me either,” he says. He throws up his hands. “And I can’t exactly explain it.”

“Like scientists still can’t explain the muon,” I said.

And Jordan laughs.

I knew he had wanted to save me. And I had wanted him to be able to.

But being mentally ill wasn’t like drowning, even if it sometimes felt like it. Because the thing about drowning is that someone else can save you, whether you want them to or not. And the thing about struggling with mental illness is that you have to be part of saving yourself.

“Anyway, why don’t you take a seat, Jordan Hassan,” I said lightly. “Listen. I think you might like this story.”

He did just as he was told. And then I smiled to the crowd of people who had come to hear me read from my book, and I started again from the beginning.