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Claire

M arch arrived with a winter storm that blanketed Summerhurst with a fresh layer of snow.

No signs of spring yet emerged, but I didn’t mind.

I had a newfound appreciation for the coziness of sitting by a warm hearth, wrapped in blankets, reading my way through the Madigans’ small collection of books.

I started painting again, and my first work was of the farmhouse itself, set against the vibrant white of snow.

I was pleased and a little embarrassed when John insisted on hanging it in the front entryway, so it was the first thing people saw when visiting. Each time I finished a painting, he found a new place in the house to hang it.

With a horse of my own, I could visit people more often. Nimkii invited me for tea, and I met her rambunctious toddler as we discussed painting. I took Jenna up on her offer and joined her and her friend, Liam, for music practice. Jenna was delighted, and even more so when I sang for them.

“You sound great!” she trilled. “This is so exciting! You’ll have to sing with us at the next community dance.”

“Oh, I don’t know—” I stammered.

“You want people to fall in love with you or what, compound girl?” Jenna demanded.

I couldn’t help laughing. “Not sure a dance will do that, but I suppose I should try.”

Later in the week, I visited the Armstrongs and gave Allie her new books, which she showed a surprising amount of enthusiasm over.

Along with the vampire book, there was another called Help!

My Boyfriend is a Werewolf, and Allie giggled at the faded illustration of a wolf-boy and a teen girl on the cover.

“What’s a werewolf, Claire?” she asked. “Do you know?”

I launched into a brief explanation of werewolf mythology, along with a simplified history of how it’d been around for thousands of years.

“So, they accused real people of being werewolves?” she said, mouth hanging open. “That’s so stupid.”

I smiled. “Yes, but people back then believed all sorts of things that we might think of as silly now.”

“What kind of things?”

“The Fountain of Youth,” I answered with a giggle. “Just a small sip was enough to keep you young forever. Or eternal life, like with vampires.”

By the time Sarah checked on us in the living room, the afternoon was nearly over, and I’d spent the better part of two hours answering Allie’s endless stream of questions.

It felt good, like slipping into an old pair of shoes that fit just right.

For her part, Allie was intelligent, funny, and a good listener.

I thought she could be a good student, if she had a teacher who bothered to engage her in the learning process.

“Sarah,” I said, pulling her aside into the kitchen, “I’d like to ask you something.

I know school still isn’t running yet, and…

well, I’d really like to tutor Allie in the meantime, with your permission.

I used to be a teacher, and I think I could help her—and Jake, if you like—stay up with their studies. I’d hate to see them slide backwards.”

Sarah gave me a surprised look. “You’d do that? For what? ”

“Oh, nothing,” I hurried to say. “I don’t want anything. I just…I’d like to feel useful, and I think your daughter is bright; she just hasn’t been given the right opportunities.”

She still looked mildly baffled, but she smiled.

“That’s kind of you,” she replied. “But I’ll have to give you something for your trouble. I’ll send you home with dinner every day that you come teach them.”

I beamed. “That’ll be plenty.”

On a blustery winter afternoon a couple weeks later, I returned from visiting Isla and Noah to find the house empty.

John wasn’t working till that night, and the chores were done, so I’d expected he’d be home.

When afternoon turned to evening, I started to worry and went to look for him on the property.

Even as dusk fell over Summerhurst, I headed out into the snow.

The night was clear but as cruelly cold as ever, my windswept cheeks stinging.

Flashlight in hand, I ventured around the barn, the chicken coop, and the stable, but John was nowhere in sight.

I walked across the length of the homestead, searching, but didn’t find him.

Just as the shadows lengthened and I was beginning to worry, I spotted a faint light in the distance, nearly concealed by a copse of trees at the very edge of the homestead, near the woods.

My boots crunched through the thick blanket of fresh sparkling snow as I followed the light. The trees were strangely arranged in a nearly circular shape, which seemed deliberate. Only a sliver of light was visible through them, but as I approached, John’s voice, soft and sweet, reached me.

“We did it, old man,” he said with a mirthless chuckle. “Brought the PNCs back. We got even more than you wanted. That’s what you’d call rising to the occasion, huh?”

I peered around a tree. John was on his knees in front of a polished slab of stone, a large shovel beside him. A nearby pile of snow indicated that he’d had to dig it out .

Next to him sat a lantern, illuminating the text on the gravestone and casting long shadows in all directions.

Oisín Madigan. 2014-2095. Father, grandfather, soldier.

Aoife Madigan. 2012-2095. Mother, grandmother, healer.

He knelt on the grave of the only parents he’d ever known.

“I kept my promise,” John continued, his voice rougher. “Didn’t know, at the time, that you wouldn’t be here to see it, but…”

He paused briefly. “But we saved our people. Our home. I like to think you’d be proud.”

My throat constricted, and I was frozen in place. It felt like I was witnessing something deeply private, but I was unable to look away. This sweet, vulnerable John that so few people knew had always held my heart captive.

John gave another chuckle. “And while I was gone, I met a girl. Finally, right? I can practically hear Granny’s relief. I’m going to marry her in the spring.” Another pause, and then his voice broke as he said, “You’d have loved her.”

I couldn’t stay hidden anymore; my heart would burst. I walked toward John and dropped beside him in the snow. He didn’t seem surprised by my sudden appearance as I put my arm around him and lay my head against his shoulder.

We didn’t speak for a long moment. The flickering lantern light and the whistle of a winter breeze over the snow were our only companions.

Finally, I said, “I’d like to sing a song for them—taught to me by my father, long ago. Would you like to hear it?”

Swallowing hard, John nodded, never looking away from the headstone.

I felt his fragility in the rigidness of his body, in the way he didn’t return my touch.

I recalled the words of the song from a deeply painful place inside of me that I rarely visited.

A place where my father still lived, as vivid and real as he’d ever been, yet remained forever out of reach.

I am the sun that shines

The blue sky and shady pines

I am the deepest valley and highest peak

The glistening raindrop hitting your cheek

I am the wind that sings

In the sails of your ship

I am where your dreams go

The goodbye on your lips

Search for me in the snow as it falls

In the light of the meadow

My love, I am everywhere

And nowhere at all

Listen for me when you hear

The bluebirds sing, the raven’s call

The lush symphony of spring

There, I’ll wait for you

At the end of everything

My voice was soft but strengthened with each verse, and I remembered my father singing those same words to me. I couldn’t have known how prophetic they’d be.

The dead we love never leave us, Claire, he’d murmured to thirteen-year-old me. Take it from a man who survived the end of the world. They become one with all things.

“Beautiful,” John murmured, and when I lifted my head from his shoulder, his cheek was wet, sparkling in the dim lantern light. “He wrote that?”

“Not long before he died. Knowing what I know now, I wonder if he wasn’t preparing me for a life without him.”

I followed the tracks of his pain with my lips, gently kissing them away.

“They’d be so proud of you,” I said softly. “Like I am. Like we all are.”

He nodded tightly, jaw clenched. There was something he still held back. I waited quietly.

“How is it possible,” he said after a moment, “that after we do everything we set out to do, and everyone is safe, that I still feel…pain?”

He let out a long, ragged-sounding breath. “Don’t get me wrong; I’m so happy to be home. Even more happy you’re here with me. But today, it was like it hit me: none of it brought them back. I’m home now, but they’re still gone.”

“Oh, my love,” I murmured, wrapping my arms around him. “I know.”

“And now,” he continued, his voice barely a whisper, “home is different to when they were here—to when I was here. Since I’ve been gone, people have died, babies have been born, things have changed.

I wanted the home I had with them back, but that’s gone forever.

And some part of me still feels homesick. ”

My heart felt like it would break, but I only squeezed him hard.

“Hiraeth,” I said. “It’s a Welsh word that refers to a feeling of deep longing for a time or place that no longer exists. A kind of homesickness tinged with grief. I read it in a poem once.”

To my surprise, that got a small smile from him.

“Should’ve known that my smart fiancée would have just the word for my particular flavour of feeling sorry for myself.”

I kissed his cheek. “You’re allowed to grieve, John. Remember what I said about your bone-deep capacity for love? Your grief is just all that love with nowhere to go.”

He sighed shakily and kissed the top of my head, finally returning my embrace. He reached for the lantern and held it up to me, showing me the flickering candle inside.

“I light it every time I come here,” he said. “For them. Wherever they are.”

I nodded and kissed him. He clung to me, his hand coming up to cup my cheek, and kissed me back in a way that likely wasn’t entirely appropriate for a gravesite…but I felt the desperation and need in that kiss. He needed to know that he wasn’t alone, that we were in this together now.

“I’m not afraid of your pain, love,” I said when we broke apart, smoothing his hair away from his face.

He gave a small shudder, then pulled me against him again, resting his head on top of mine. Snow began to fall softly in small, intricate flakes, nesting in my hair and eyelashes—a cold kiss from winter itself.

We sat quietly, watching it float down to earth, until John finally said, “Want to get warm, baby? I’m ready.”

I nodded again, lifting my head. I pressed a kiss against my gloved fingers, then pressed them to the cold headstone.

John’s expression faltered at the gesture, but then he took my hand, and we stood together.

I carried the lantern as we headed back towards the house, making a brief stop at the woodshed for firewood.

John loaded my arms full of firewood before bending to pick up his own share. I was forced to awkwardly set down the lantern, blowing harshly to extinguish the candle inside, before heading out into the darkness of night.

“Sorry,” John said as we left. “I forgot the sledge up at the house last time I did this.”

“It’s alright,” I replied with a small smile. “I get to watch my handsome man hauling stuff, so it’s not all bad.”

That got a chuckle out of him. Only the light coming from the farmhouse windows was visible through the darkness, so we followed it like a north star to home and safety.

The darkness held within it the fathomless depth of both love and loss, of endings and new beginnings, of the thousand tomorrows we’d create together.