Understanding Dawns

Without my phone, I don’t know what time it is. Without daylight, it’s even harder to tell. Bleary-eyed, I reach for my makeshift pillow and cling to it. It’s morning. At least, I think it’s morning. I replay what happened last night. Friendship. A fragile sort of community. And the drama of the night sky.

I slept. Not enough to make up for all the nights without rest, but enough to make me feel halfway human again, enough to make me feel more at ease.

I switch on the bedside lamp, and the calm I’d found shatters. The sleeping bag is covered with pink salmonberry blossoms. I scramble out of bed to put distance between me and them. These flowers weren’t here last night. Someone spread them on top of me while I was sleeping, and I didn’t even notice. Sam? Roshan?

Kyr—no. I can’t keep hoping that she’ll appear. And whoever this was, they could’ve taken my stuff, they could’ve hurt me. Or worse.

I snatch my clothes off of the portable radiator and slip into them. The warmth envelops me. I pull Kyra’s letters from under my pillow and hug them close.

I head out to check on Roshan and Sam but come to an abrupt stop in their doorway.

I’d expected to find them in separate sleeping bags. Instead, they lie together on the raggedy bed. Roshan’s arm hangs across Sam’s shoulders, and their legs and the blanket are all tangled together. Sam snores softly.

As quietly as I can, I step back into the hallway. A floorboard creaks and Roshan shifts, but neither he nor Sam wakes.

So this is why the sheriff’s son smiles.

I walk back to the main hall and sit down on the steps. Emotion I haven’t felt in days courses through me. From the soles of my feet to the tips of my fingers, I feel joy. Pure, unadulterated joy. Still, even if some happiness comes out of these nightmarish few days and Kyra’s last nightmarish months, it won’t be worth it; nothing is worth the cost of Kyra’s life. But that doesn’t mean that this isn’t good.

An old sorrow blooms in my chest. Regret. I wish I could’ve given her that same happiness. I wish I could’ve given her more than friendship. I know well enough neither of us would’ve been happy if we’d tried to change for each other. I know love isn’t a magic medicine that can cure mental illness. But it might have treated her loneliness.

Still, I can’t change who I am any more than she could’ve changed who she was. I wasn’t in love with her, and as much as I wish I could’ve been, she deserved more than a lie. We both deserved to be true to each other.

And maybe I should’ve been more truthful more often.

I rake my fingers through my hair. Someone stumbles in the bedroom behind me. I rest my chin on my hands and stare out across the entry hall. I count the balusters. On the side of one, I find carved: Kyra was here. I trace the words carefully. I’d forgotten about that. We made these carvings, years ago. Kyra wanted to leave her mark, to prove that she’d been here, like others had done before us. On the railing upstairs, I’d carved my name too.

I hold on to the handrail, still remembering how her hands would trail the length of wood whenever we climbed these stairs.

Not much later, Roshan joins me. His hair is tousled, his shirt a mess of crumples. Worry lines his forehead when he looks at me, and I wince. He doesn’t know what to expect from me—he can’t know what to expect from me.

So I say, “Thank you for spending the night here. I managed to sleep soundly for the first time in days.”

He nods.

And I say, “I want you to know that I’m happy for you and Sam.” And that’s the truth.

“Thank you,” he says. His smile is soft and hesitant. “Kyra introduced us. We probably would’ve met sooner or later—Lost is certainly small enough—but I owe her that. What’s more, she accepted us without question.”

That same pang of regret flows through me. “She would.”

He holds out another sketch. Roshan and Sam, all tangled together. Sam’s arm hangs across Roshan’s shoulders. They’re in a different bed, but aside from that, it’s the exact scene I just saw.

“I think I believed her, you know,” he says. “Believed in her.”

I clear my throat. I don’t know how to respond to that. “Does your father—”

“My father knows,” he says. “Sam’s parents do too.”

“And the rest of Lost?”

“Not yet. We’re taking it slowly. Many people would be fine with us, but others… I’m an outsider. It’s going to take time.” He glances at me sideways, and I hear his unspoken question.

“I won’t tell anyone,” I promise. Besides, if Sheriff Flynn knows and approves, then the rest of the town will follow.

“Thank you.”

“Kyra wrote about Lost’s stories and Lost’s secrets in her letters. It sounded so sinister, but—you were one of them, weren’t you?”

He nods. “I have no idea if she drew us before she met me, or after, but…yeah.”

Acceptance explains why he helped her, and why he believed in her, but it still leaves a sour taste in my mouth. At least it’s a comfort to know that there was more to Kyra’s legacy than death; there was love too.