I slip the discman and CD into my bag, their weight a quiet reminder of the boy who will always hold a piece of my heart. But I'm not staying here, frozen in the past, waiting for someone to come back to start living my life.

I'm moving forward—toward the future I've chosen for myself, toward the person I'm becoming.

Life goes on.

And so will I.

Not just surviving, but thriving.

Not just existing, but living.

Not just accepting what life gives me, but choosing what I want from it.

For myself, and for all the people who need me in their story.

This isn't an ending.

It’s my beginning.

TO BE CONTINUED…

EPILOGUE

NICK

2 months later

The world feels quieter now, though the echoes of the last few months still hum in the back of my mind. It's been two months since the accident—since the night I had to pull Nate out of that pit at Monty's.

Two months since everything came to a head, and in some ways, it feels like years have passed between then and now.

I'm standing on the porch of Kat's place, the same one that's started to feel like home in a way few places ever have. She's inside, likely re-arranging the kitchen for the third time this week, humming to herself like nothing in the world could shake her. And for once, maybe nothing can. We're in a good place, her and me. A steady rhythm that feels like it could go the distance.

Kat has decided to stick around Eden for a while longer, and I'm not sure I've ever been so grateful for someone staying put. She mentioned opening up a private practice here for the disadvantaged who don't have health care. That woman's heart could light up the darkest corners of this town.

But even with her here and the storm finally feeling like it's passed, my thoughts still drift. Back to the night it all changed. The smell of sweat and stale desperation in that drug den haunts me—metallic and sour, like hope left to spoil. Nate slumped on a half inflated mattress, barely recognizable as the brilliant kid whose music could make time stand still. His fingers, usually dancing across guitar strings or piano keys, lay limp and blue-tinged against the filthy floor. Remembering what it was like dragging him out of that hellhole, my chest constricts with a familiar ache.

Not again.

The words pulse through me like a second heartbeat.

Not him.

Not when I know what he could become if he just gave himself the chance.

Nate and I have been through a lot these past few months. It started slow—conversations that lingered past closing time at Sonder, his eyes always restless, always watching the door like he was waiting for someone who never arrives. Working side by side, I watched his mind constantly creating, constantly worrying about everyone but himself.