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Never again.

Tears stream down my face as I finally allow reality to settle into my heart.

I’ll never stop hoping for a miracle. I’ll never stop dreaming about him.

But he’s gone.

I stand, a strange mix of sorrow and resolve bubbling inside of me.

I need to go say goodbye.

The clock on the desk says 5:40. Maybe the service is still going, maybe not.

It doesn’t matter.

This is for me.

I start for the door, then stop, slowly turning back to the shelf where my cherry tree sits.

I’m not sure if I can pick it up without falling apart, but I have to try.

I put my hands around the pot—the pot he brought me when we’d only just met—and pull it close.

The tree from grandma.

The pot from Marek.

If I’m going to live, it will be to honor them.

* * *

Walking from my room to the ship’s exit is a struggle, and I almost turn back multiple times. I finally reach the door and breathe fresh air for the first time in too long. It gives me a little life, even as my heart burns thinking about what I must do.

There’s almost no snow left on the ground, signs of that fateful storm fading from view. I walk along a path worn by people’s feet, the blood-red ocean coming into view just as my legs begin to ache from weariness and lack of use.

I’m relieved to find that no one is here. The ceremony is over and people are likely off toasting Marek and sharing stories in the woods where homes are being built. The thought brings a trembling smile to my face. Marek deserves every toast in the world.

Along the beach, people have left gifts and trinkets. Personal effects of value, religious relics to see Marek into the next stage of life. The most beautiful gift is probably the simplest: a piroshki wrapped in a small napkin.

I wipe tears from my cheeks, knowing more will soon replace them, and look for an empty spot of ground where I can plant my tree. It must be the perfect place, not too close to the water’s edge, not too far from the richest soil; where generations to come can sit under its branches while my grandmother and Marek watch over them.

When I find a suitable patch of dirt, I start digging with my hand. It’s painful, difficult work. The ground is cold and hard, but I’ll do this as long as it takes. I need to feel the soil where my tree will be planted.

I’m only a few inches in when I hear the sound of footsteps approaching. My heart sinks a little—I’m not prepared to talk to anyone and I certainly don’t want an offer of help. I just want to be alone with my tree.

My memories.

My pain.

“I thought we were going to plant that together.”

I imagine Marek saying those words. The thought brings a new flood of tears.

As I feel cold air hit my damp cheeks, my body comes alive. I feel my hands in the dirt. My knees on the ground. My hair moving in the wind.

It’s all real.

As real as the voice I just heard.