In the end, I roll out of bed again and get dressed. I pull my hair into a messy braid. I reach for one of our makeshift masks out of habit. And I sneak out of my room.

Wandering through the empty hallways offers me a strong sense of déjà vu. It’s colder. It’s different. But it’s also exactly like I did that night we found out what’s going on.

So maybe it’s meant to be that when I wander out into the garden, desperate for fresh air, I’m not the only one there. Emerson is sitting on the ground between the graves, a blanket around their shoulders, their violin resting on their knees, and a distant look in their eyes.

I can’t help but smile. “Weird.”

Twenty-six

Emerson

I breathe in deeply. Grace is quiet enough when she walks up to me, but everyone else here is quieter. I’ve spent so many nights in the garden, I’ve learned to separate the ghosts from real life. I play for them, sometimes, as quietly as I can. Other nights I let the silence be its own tune.

I wonder if any of this was meant to be. Us being here. Or me being me.

“What is weird?” I don’t bother to turn around.

Grace steps closer. “I was curious if anyone here sleeps at night anymore.”

“Probably not.” I wander around enough to see lights on in the rooms, hear the scuffling of feet, feel the restlessness of all around me. It’s why I come here now. The dark of night is peaceful. The air smells cleaner. The distant calls of birds and wildlife remind me that the world keeps turning. I spent Christmas Eve here, on my own, and I tried hard to ignore every second of it.

Grace doesn’t come closer, but she doesn’t turn around either. I want to tell her to leave me be, but I’m aching for conversation too. We haven’t really talked since the first time she came back from Sam’s Throne, and I’ve had ample time to think about her words.

I reluctantly pat the ground next to me. “Join me? No one else here says much.”

She huffs. “I would imagine not.”

Grace crouches down next to me, and after a moment’s hesitation, she folds her legs under her and sits. She hisses.

“I hope you brought a warm coat. The ground gets cold in the middle of the night.”

“I didn’t,” she admits.

“Amateur.” With my good arm, I hold open the blanket and let her get closer.

She moves with the same hesitation, and I understand why. It’s uncomfortable, at first, to be this close to another person. I breathe out hard when her arm brushes mine, and she laughs.

“This is strange too, isn’t it?” She purposefully bumps her arm against mine a second time. “That isn’t the broken arm, right?”

Something bubbles up inside of me. I giggle.

“I don’t hate it,” I admit. “But it’s probably dangerous.”

“It probably is.” She doesn’t move away. “But so is freezing to death.”