Page 29

ALICE

T he camp is quieter today.

Not silent, just… softer. Like the trees are whispering instead of laughing. Like the wind knows it’s time to say goodbye.

I’m standing on the rec field, my clipboard clasped to my chest, even though the schedule’s already done. Checked. Re-checked. Highlighted. There’s nothing else left to plan.

We’re here.

The last day.

Around me, kids are hauling duffel bags toward the bus loop.

Ferix is dragging his with one hand and a smuggled jar of peanut butter in the other.

Rubi’s wearing three backpacks—one on her front like a shield.

Nolan’s tucked under the eaves of the crafts shed, sketching something furiously in his notebook, like he’s trying to press the whole summer into paper before it’s gone.

And me?

I feel like I’m balancing on the edge of something too big for my chest.

Jason walks up beside me, quiet, steady, like he always is when he knows I’m thinking too hard.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” I whisper back.

We watch the kids a moment longer.

Then he nods toward the amphitheater. “Closing ceremony’s starting soon. You ready?”

I nod. But I don’t move.

Because if I move, it means it’s almost over.

And I’m not quite ready to let go.

The amphitheater is buzzing when we get there, but it’s the kind of buzz you feel in your ribs. Not loud—just full. Full of emotion. Full of unsaid things.

Hazel’s on stage, of course. Delivering a farewell speech like a seasoned politician.

“Next year,” she declares, “I want a bigger potion shelf, less cabin curfews, and an ice cream golem. Make it happen.”

The crowd laughs, and behind me, Julie’s quietly wiping her glasses.

One by one, each cabin gives their goodbye. The youngest kids sing a song that dissolves halfway through into giggles. The werebat campers perform a synchronized swoop, wings flapping proudly. Nolan steps up and reads a short poem—soft, stumbling, but honest.

My throat tightens.

I glance around at the other counselors. Zak’s dabbing at his eyes with a leaf. Ryder’s actually smiling. Jason’s standing still beside me, arms crossed, eyes glinting with something quiet and proud.

Then someone hands me the mic.

I blink. “Wait, me?”

Julie nods from the back row. “You’re one of us now.”

I step up on stage, hands trembling a little. The sun’s angled low over the lake, catching in the trees, setting everything on fire with light.

“I…”

I clear my throat.

“I didn’t know what I’d find here,” I begin, voice a little too small for the amphitheater until it isn’t. “Honestly, when I showed up this summer, I didn’t even know who I was anymore.”

A few kids nod. Julie tilts her head, watching me with kind eyes.

“I was hurting,” I continue, swallowing thickly. “I was trying to outrun something that had broken me. And I thought if I just... stayed quiet enough, small enough, I could sneak through the world without getting hurt again.”

My eyes flick to Jason for just a second. He’s watching me like I hung the stars.

“But something happened here. I started laughing again. And trusting. And I learned that being small doesn’t protect you. It just keeps you from seeing how big your heart can get.”

My throat catches. I keep going anyway.

“You all showed me what it means to grow. To mess up and try again. To be scared and still keep reaching out. And somewhere along the way… I realized I wasn’t just running from something.”

I pause, blinking fast.

“I was running toward something better.”

A soft hush fills the space.

I speak it just for me:

“Camp Lightring gave me a second chance.”

I don’t need to say more.

The silence wraps around us like a hug.

And I know, in that moment, that this isn’t just a job.

It’s home.

I hand the mic back and step down.

Jason’s there waiting.

He doesn’t say anything.

He just takes my hand.

After the ceremony, we help load the buses. There are tears. Hugs. Screams. Half a dozen last-minute confessions and two accidental love spells that Julie has to undo on the sidewalk.

Rubi clings to me, arms wrapped tight around my waist. “You’ll still be here next year, right?”

“Absolutely,” I say, brushing her curls back. “You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”

She grins, then runs to board the bus, waving through the window like she’s trying to cast a summoning spell with her whole arm.

I turn to see Nolan hanging back. He’s got his sketchbook under one arm and something behind his back.

“Hey,” I say, crouching to his level.

He fidgets. Then thrusts a folded paper at me. “It’s you. And Jason. As wolves.”

I open it.

He’s drawn us side by side under a full moon, fangs out, tails curled around each other.

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper.

He shrugs. “You looked happiest when you were with him.”

I fold the paper carefully, tucking it into my pocket like a treasure.

“Thanks, Nolan.”

He nods, then sprints to catch his cabinmates.

As the last bus pulls away and the dust settles, I look around at the empty field.

It’s quiet now.

Really quiet.

Jason walks up behind me, slips his arms around my waist.

“They’re gonna be okay,” he says.

“I know,” I say softly. “But I’m gonna miss them.”

He presses a kiss to the top of my head.

“Me too.”

And as we stand there, the sun sinking into the trees and the wind whispering through the pines, I know we’ve built something worth missing.