Chapter 25
The chapel was colder in the morning.
Lila hadn't moved.
Henry's body sat slumped beside her, still propped against her shoulder. His skin had already begun to lose its warmth, but she didn't flinch.
She had loved too many people into silence to fear what came after.
Her fingers remained tangled in his hair, his head cradled against her collarbone like they were simply resting—just another night in a motel, another haunted memory to pass through.
She didn't want to leave.
Because once she stood, the world would be different.
He'd be gone in it.
Not just dead.
But absent.
—
A single bird cried from the trees above.
It sounded wrong. Too sharp. Too alone.
Like it had flown too far and forgotten how to get home.
Lila pressed her lips to Henry's forehead and whispered something only she and the trees could hear.
Then, gently, she laid him down.
Not buried.
Not burned.
Just… placed.
He would stay with the chapel, the broken wood, the ivy-thick roof that opened into the sky. A cathedral of ash and memory.
"I'll come back for you," she promised.
Even though she wasn't sure if she believed it.
Then she left.
—
The walk was long.
Not in miles.
But in ache.
Her legs moved, but her chest didn't. Everything inside her was clenched. Suspended. Like she'd forgotten how to be alive without someone else breathing beside her.
She passed old roads now overgrown with white weeds.
She crossed a river that had once held their reflections, now murky and still.
Everything she touched felt wrong.
Like the world had reset without her permission.
—
By nightfall, she returned to the town.
Or what was left of it.
The buildings were still standing. The school. The diner. Even the church where James had once played the piano.
But no one was there.
No voices.
No footsteps.
No doors creaking open.
Just memory.
Folded into brick and window and shattered glass.
She stood at the edge of the playground where Olivia once pushed her on the swing. The rusted chains swayed gently in the wind, singing the tune Lila could never quite forget.
Push. Laugh. Fall. Bleed.
It came back in fragments.
Olivia's scream.
James's hand reaching for her.
Henry's shadow stepping between her and the edge.
They'd always protected her.
Now they were gone.
And she was still here.
—
She broke that night.
In the school bathroom where they used to sneak candy between classes.
She sat on the cold tile floor and screamed into her knees.
Not loudly.
Just enough to hear it herself.
Her grief didn't come like a storm.
It came like a heartbeat slowing down.
Like every part of her body quietly deciding: No more.
—
Then, hours later—when her voice was gone, and her body was empty—she saw the writing on the mirror.
Not carved.
Not scratched.
Written.
In Henry's handwriting.
"You are not alone."
She reached for it.
But it bled when she touched it.
Thick.
Black.
Alive.
—
And then she heard it.
The door behind her creaked.
She turned.
No one.
Just the mirror.
And the reflection of the stalls behind her.
But… in the last one…
Shoes.
Familiar.
Wet.
Barefoot.
"Olivia?" Lila whispered.
But she didn't answer.
She just stepped out, slow, head tilted, eyes wide and soft—just like she used to look before the fire.
Before the forgetting.
Before she became a god made of memory and flame.
"I missed you," Olivia said gently.
And Lila's mouth trembled.
"I miss all of you."
Olivia smiled.
And then?
She held out her hand.
—
Lila stared.
Then whispered: "Are you still in there?"
Olivia blinked. For a moment, her lips parted like she wanted to say yes.
But the silence between them was louder than the words.
And behind Olivia—flickering in the mirror—stood every person they had lost.
Not moving.
Just watching.
Waiting.
Because this wasn't just about death anymore.
It was about remembering.
And the price of it.
Lila didn't take Olivia's hand.
She stepped back.
Because she understood something now:
Grief was not just a wound.
It was a door.
And Olivia had come to open it.