Page 86 of A Ballad of Phantoms and Hope

Ophelia stares ahead, unshaken, and says, “Your heart.”

My eyes widen and I look out across the park. Two familiar souls cross the grass, one small soul between them.

My cure.

I stand as if in a trance, desperate to run to them and tell them my stories. How happy I am. That I have found peace. I want to tell them about Ophelia and have them meet her and love her as much as I do. My hand rises, reaching for them and the visions I had for all of us.

But I know none of that can happen. And oddly enough, I’m no longer bothered by it. A strange feeling flutters through me as if carried on the wings of moths and butterflies. Peace.

My hand lowers and I remain standing by the tree, beside my love. Ophelia rises next to me, observing my expression carefully.

“Will you go to them?” she says softly.

A trembling smile spreads across my face, but my voice is smooth.

“No. I will not.”

“Why?”

I watch the three of them happily living their lives. Part of my soul will always be with them, but it’s time to say goodbye.

For good this time.

“Because we’ve all found our acceptance. We’ll meet again someday. And besides”—I shoot her a daring look—“I’ve got a train to catch with the most beautiful ghost I know.”

Ophelia smiles sadly at me, with eyes that are my home. “You’re sure? We came all this way.”

I take one last look at them, older now but as much the two best friends I’ve ever known. I no longer feel the need to linger.

“I’m sure.”

38

Lanston

Harlow Sanctum,now gone along with all the phantoms it once held, takes new life in the form of Never Haven. Stones meet neatly and the fresh gardens are bright with life around it.

It’s the first time I’ve properly seen it. The first time I’ve walked through the halls and watched the new patients cause trouble as I once had. The staff is caring, and the grounds are as beautiful as Harlow’s once were.

There is only one thing left I wish to do.

Ophelia wanders the halls beside me, our hands clasped, awe in her eyes. We stop by the greenhouse, where so many horrors occurred not but seven years ago. How far that seems now.

She picks a handful of poppies and roses, baby’s breath and mums.

I tilt my head and offer her my hand. She takes it and smiles up at me.

“Who are those for?” I ask.

“For all of us.”

We walk to the memorial, flowers and wishes in hand. A man sits alone, the sun at his back and the forest breeze whispering around him.

He stares at the stone pillar with engraved names, mine upon them.

Ophelia sets the flowers beside the man. He doesn’t notice because, of course, we are phantoms. She looks from his face to mine and realization dawns upon her.

“Lanston, do you know this man?”