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I’m supposed to know the man that sits beside me on the boat.

He said his name, but I wasn’t focused.

All I can think is…

How could I forget her death?

They showed me the space with her name on it in the mausoleum. This guy beside me walked me up the path, head bent against the snowfall. He wore a hat and gloves, a thick jacket. Boots.

I was in hospital-issued clothes, just a t-shirt, sweatshirt, and pants. Socks and slip-on shoes. But I didn’t feel the cold. The pain in my head was secondary to the stabbing in my chest. We stood in front of her so-called resting spot.

Elora Whitlock.

The darkness only makes you shine brighter .

The man next to me elbows me. “We’re here.”

Right.

I lift my gaze and focus first on the dock that comes closer, the boat’s motor now idling as we drift in, then the golf cart waiting on the path above.

“You’ll be okay,” he advises me.

I sigh. “Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

He shrugs.

We get off the boat, and I spot Artemis waiting for me, too.

I stiffen.

“You didn’t say she would be here.” My tone is accusing.

“I know.” He prods me forward. “But you both need to heal, so… get going.”

I don’t want her familiarity.

I don’t want whatever look is in her eyes.

I want Elora .

I want my life back.

But it turns out, the life I thought I just left, the warmth I can still imagine of Elora’s body, the dazzling joy of her laughter—it’s a cruel trick of my brain.

There’s no coming back from that.

TO BE CONTINUED…