And then she is standing by a great sea, mountains looming against a crystalline sky. The waves crash loud and sure against the beach, and Jem is beside her, his face as beautiful as the sea. She knows this moment has never been, yet here they are, together. I can’t believe this is real, she says, that you’re here with me.

Come back to me, Jem says.

But she is right here, with him.

Stay with me, Jem says. Please.

But where would she go?

He’s aging, right in front of her, skin sagging, hair graying, flesh withering from the bones, and she knows, she’s losing him, she will watch him die as she watches everyone die, she will have to learn all over again to survive in a world without love.

He says, Please, Tessa, I love you.

He is crumbling before her eyes, and she thinks of Rosemary, enduring so many years without the ones she loved most—knowing that her family lived, but could not be with her—and she is grateful, because Jem is here. Now. That’s enough, she says to Jem. We have right now. We have each other.

Jem says, Please, Tessa, stay with me, I love you, and she holds on to him, will keep holding, for as long as she can, unafraid of—

—Tessa woke to find Jem by her side, his hand warm in hers, his eyes closed, his voice low, urgent, chanting, “Stay with me, I love you, stay with me—”

“Where would I go?” she said weakly, and, as his gaze met hers, his face broke into the most beautiful smile she’d ever seen.

Everything hurt, but the pain was a welcome reminder of life. Jem’s lips were impossibly soft against hers, as if he was afraid she would break. Tessa didn’t recognize the room she was lying in, but she recognized the hooded figure who glided into the room upon Jem’s frantic call. “Brother Enoch,” she said warmly. “It’s been some time.”

He has been very worried about you, the Silent Brother said in her mind.

Tessa’s fever dreams were already fading, but she felt like she was vibrating with love—and despair. She understood the panicked relief in Jem’s eyes, because she had lived inside her own terror, watched him die again and again, and even now, awake, the dreams felt too solid, too much like memory.

She felt the traces of Rosemary in her mind, those last desperate seconds of life giving way to death, almost willingly, and understood: it was easier to die protecting the people you loved than to watch them die in your stead. What horrific choices mortality had to offer.