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.
Top of the Morning
Ten Months Before
Kyra and I dropped by the post office before school to deliver some of Mom’s outgoing mail. We were the first customers, and Mrs. Morden opened a new bag of cookies and offered us some. She had a smile for Kyra, but directed all her answers to me.
Some days, Kyra would roll her eyes at that. Today, she scowled. “I’m here too, you know.”
She’d been in a mood when I stopped by her house to pick her up. She’d seemingly been awake all night painting, but all that was left were tattered shreds. I’d picked up one of the larger pieces—a piece of a mountain landscape—but Kyra snatched it out of my hands before I could look at it closely. “Leave it. It’s not important.”
Clearly her mood hadn’t improved.
Mrs. Morden’s gaze focused on a point past Kyra. “I know, dear.” And then she ushered us both toward the door. “The two of you should hurry. School’s starting soon.”
We were unceremoniously dumped on the sidewalk, where old Mr. Wilde passed us, muttering something about “the freak Henderson girl” before he pushed into the post office.
“Well, good morning to you too,” Kyra shouted after him. Her anger sounded like a growl.
With a sigh, I hooked my arm through hers. “Don’t mind them,” I said. “They mean no harm.”
Kyra pulled away from me. “I do mind them. I mind that they whisper about me. I mind that they won’t look at me. Why shouldn’t I mind them?”
“Because they don’t know any better. They don’t understand you.”
“I’ve only lived here all my life. They used to know me.”
“This is Lost. When Mrs. Lucas couldn’t remember her grandchildren’s names, your mom called her ‘a little absentminded,’ and Mrs. Morden took to writing the addresses on her letters when she forgot, rather than saying anything to her. We’re good at pretending that nothing is wrong.”
“You say that as if ignoring reality were a good thing.”
“It’s not, but it’s not ill-intentioned, either. You’re unpredictable, Kyr. But we know that you’re more than the tricks of your brain.”
“I know that,” she snapped. “But sometimes I don’t know if you do. You, this town—you love me despite my illness, while Lost hates me because of it. Did it ever occur to you that no one separates me from how my mind works? Love me or hate me if you want, I don’t care. But do it for all that I am, with all that I am.”
Her mouth was set and her hands were clenched into fists. On the other side of Main Street, people had stopped to stare and whisper at her outburst. And my cheeks felt hot. My vision swam. I didn’t know what to say.
Kyra waited, briefly, for a response. “Whatever. I’ll see you at school.” She stomped away from me.
But before she reached the top of the street, Kyra slowed to a halt. Her shoulders sagged. She was waiting for me. I ran to catch up. She didn’t say anything when I reached her side. She didn’t acknowledge me. Anger was still etched in the tense lines on her face. But still, she waited. Because even when we fought, we were all we had. It was us against the world. And we walked into school together.
The Art of Living
I can believe Lost thought Kyra was magic. I caught myself believing the same thing on many occasions. And I certainly have no other explanation for the garden. For Mr. Sarin arriving to invest in the mine, immediately after Kyra painted a prosperous town. For the drawing of Roshan and Sam together.
Or even for the painting that started it all, of a bird with a broken wing.
Maybe it was coincidence? Sometimes strange things happen, and we have no explanation. But what defies explanation for me is how none of them tried to save her. Not Sam, despite his proclamation of friendship. Not any of the people who watched her grow up. Not even her parents.
Kyra’s paintings changed Lost for the better. It’s easy to see how happy Sam and Roshan are. Sam tells me that Mrs. Morden has taken to whistling while she works, and everyone who visits the post office is cheerier for it. People hold their heads high, and there seems to be a common understanding between them, even if I’m not part of it. They see each other and nod or grab hands in passing. They whisper stories about Kyra. About the stories she told. They share their own stories.
; They have hope. They’re happy.
Kyra would be proud to see this side of Lost, the changes she inspired. Kyra wanted to make the world a better place, and she started in Lost Creek. My Kyra was a wonderful, ordinary, lonely girl. Lost Creek’s Kyra was the girl of legends and stardust.
And she died.
Even if Lost treated Kyra like an oracle, their faith was never worth Kyra’s pain, her death. I don’t understand why Lost’s happiness didn’t start with helping her. They owed her that. They owed her community. They owed her life.
But as much as the town believed in her, they still didn’t value her enough to save her.
And I lost myself to the world outside the town’s borders. I forgot about her too.
• • •
I walk back to Lost with Roshan and Sam. I would have stayed at the spa, but the Hendersons still have my passport and my flight is in twenty-four hours.
Before we cross the tree line, I linger. “You two should go ahead. It won’t do either of you any favors to be seen with me.” I don’t want them to pay a price for their kindness.
“I don’t think there’s anyone left in town who doesn’t know where we spent the night,” Sam says softly. “Word travels fast here.”
“Will you get in trouble with your dad?” Sheriff Flynn wouldn’t let anyone harm Sam. They may not always see eye to eye, but the Flynns are fiercely protective of one another. And Roshan’s father will soon be bankrolling the entire town.
“Nah. Kyra would’ve wanted us to help you.”
Nevertheless.
“Please be careful,” I tell them.
Roshan hesitates. “It may not be my place to say this, but before you leave, I think you should talk to the Hendersons. I know you’ve been avoiding each other. But they care about you, like a second daughter. You should sit down and talk.”
I once considered the Hendersons my other parents. I thought they loved Kyra fiercely. That was before they let her die, and before they were willing to let me burn. “I’m honestly not sure if that’s a good idea.”
“Mr. Henderson’s talking to our fathers again today, so I’m not sure if he’ll be around. But Mrs. Henderson will be in the bakery. Go say goodbye. Don’t leave on these terms.”
My reply slips out before I can bite my tongue. “The only Henderson I want to talk to isn’t here anymore.”
Stealing in
Roshan’s comments help me clear my mind. I wait until he and Sam are well out of sight, then head to the Hendersons’. If Mr. H is talking to Mr. Sarin and Sheriff Flynn, and Mrs. H is in the bakery, then the house will be empty, which is perfect.
I know where the keys are. Kyra and I crept through the house many times on missions to find food after our nightly escapades. Like two years ago, on the longest night, when we stayed out to watch the aurora borealis and completely forgot the time. Or last spring, when we scared each other telling ghost stories out by the hot springs. We were too terrified to walk back through the woods to Lost, so we spent the night in a bed at the spa, sneaking back into her house after the sunrise. The only difference is that now I don’t want to be here. I double check that the street is empty, because I don’t want the neighbors to alert the Hendersons if they see me, then I slip the key into the lock.
The house is quiet and dark. I pass the photos of Kyra, but I try not to look at them. I climb the stairs. My two best chances for finding my passport are in Mr. Henderson’s study—a small office, opposite the master bedroom—or in the bedroom itself. Both were always strictly out-of-bounds for Kyra and me. I start with the study. But when I ease open the door, I gasp. Every inch of wall space is covered from floor to ceiling with bookshelves. I step closer to see what the books are. Unlike Kyra’s room, the shelves aren’t filled with stories. They’re filled with books on mining and minerals. On the history of Alaska. On his father’s research into the legends of the gold rush and the narrative history and current affairs of Alaska’s Indigenous peoples. On the desk lies what looks like a blueprint of some sort, folded at the edges, and a historic map of Lost Creek.
I never knew that Mr. Henderson cared this deeply about Lost Creek. I glance again at the books on minerals. It might not be the town he cares about, but its riches. Around these parts, the gold rush is recent history and only a memory away.
I look over the shelves to see if my passport is lying out before I turn to Mr. Henderson’s desk. It’s covered with stacks upon stacks of paper. Quotes from mining funds, in particular. I try not to shuffle the documents as I peek under them. Nothing.
The drawers. I feel a bit guilty going through those, but I need my passport back. I try not to read his letters as I leaf through to get to the bottom of the first drawer, and I ignore the checkbook in the middle drawer. I shouldn’t be here. I should take the mature route and go find Mr. H to ask him for my passport.
It’s just that I don’t know if he’d let me leave. I don’t know if he wants Kyra’s story told. And I will tell it. The story of a lonely girl in an abandoned spa and the town who came to revere her. Though I don’t think anyone will believe me. Even with Kyra’s letters and her writing on the walls, who would trust our words—an outsider and a bipolar girl—over her father’s word or the sheriff’s?
But still, I need to try. I owe her that much, and so much more.
The third drawer holds office supplies: legal paper, envelopes, and pens.
My passport isn’t here.
The front door opens and closes, and my heart slams into my throat. If Mr. Henderson finds me here, he’ll kill me. I don’t even know if that’s an empty threat anymore. And it wouldn’t be any better if Mrs. Henderson found me.
I slide into the hallway and close the office door behind me. On the landing, I avoid the creaky floorboards and slip around the bedroom door. Dim sunlight filters in through the window, and the deep blue bedspread glows.
Kyra once told me that there was a safe in here, and while I don’t know the code, I have to try it. When I find the safe, I start with Kyra’s birthday, then Lost’s zip code.
I go through the most obvious choices, but nothing works. The safe mocks me with its refusal to budge.
Another door slams—somewhere inside the house. The same person? I shake my head and focus on the safe again.
I was convinced that Kyra’s birthday would be the code, so I try it again. The lock doesn’t click.
I try the date Kyra died.
It clicks.
The safe swings open.
My passport lies on top of a stack of papers.
I grab it and slip it into the pocket of my jeans. Then I still. Kyra’s handwriting peeks out at me.
Corey
An envelope. Addressed to me. I pick it up as if the paper might burn me—or disintegrate at my touch. I don’t trust simple appearances anymore. But the envelope is thick and weighty in my hands. The top has been carefully sliced open, and it’s filled with folded papers.
My hands tremble and my heart pounds in my chest. I don’t have time to look at these letters here, so I fold the envelope and slide it into my waistband. I close the safe and sneak across the bedroom and into the hall.
Someone clears their throat.
My heart stops. I forget to breathe. All I want is to disappear where I stand.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Mrs. Henderson asks icily. She stands at the top of the stairs, flour from the bakery still dusting her clothes.
I haven’t seen her since the night of the fire, and she doesn’t even ask how I am. She doesn’t soften. Mrs. H, who was almost as close to me as my own mother. She is a stranger now. And I’m terrified.
The passport and letters burn in my pocket.
“Corey. I asked you what you’re doing here.” Mrs. H’s voice is flat.
“I came to see…” My voice wavers and those four words leave me out of br
eath. I try again. “The door was open. I came to see how you were—how you were doing.”
“And when you didn’t find me downstairs, you decided to wander around our house?”
I used to be at home here. I keep that to myself. I open and close my mouth, then aim for a half truth.
“My flight leaves tomorrow, and I needed my passport. I’d given it to Mr. H for safekeeping, so I came to ask for it. When I came in, I thought I heard a noise when I called, so I came up. I just… I wanted…” I’m rambling and I only stop when I run out of breath again. My cheeks feel red hot, so it must be obvious that I’m lying. Kyra used to tell me that I got too distracted by the details, and she was exasperated when I wanted to include them all.
“Your passport.”
I wet my lips and nod.
Mrs. H glances from me to the bedroom and the cabinet that holds the safe. I can see her adding up the details. She shakes her head. “Run then. My daughter wouldn’t have wanted you to stay here.”
I push my hands into the pockets of my jeans, and my fingers curl around my passport. “I want to go home, Mrs. H.”
“We take care of our own here, Corey. You wanted to lay bare our stories and share our secrets.” Mrs. H tilts her head to the side, regarding me. “Then you have to be willing to pay the price for it.”
I flinch. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Leave while you still can. You’re not welcome in my home anymore. You’re not welcome in Lost anymore.”
And with that, she steps aside to make room for me to pass her on the stairs. There is no warmth in her face. There’s nothing left of the kindness she’d showed countless times, baking muffins for Kyra and me, telling stories about Kyra’s grandfather and his escapades and travels, making tea and keeping me company on the days when Mom was at work and Kyra was ill.
She crosses her arms. “Leave, Corey. Now.”
I go.
The Art of Dying
EXT. LOST CREEK—MAIN STREET—DUSK
Before I Let Go Page 15
