“It has its qualities.”

Hall’s eyes find me, playful yet solemn. “Do you hear what I hear?”

A lonely train whistle, boxcars rumbling across a stone viaduct. I catch snatches of curling white print on the train: Wish Come True Express.

I wish he’d stop making the world feel as magical as he sees it, but I’m resigned.

“I bet it’s pretty here in the spring,” Hall observes, lifting a hand toward the bare trees. I like what the shadows do to his face when he tips his head back; they close in on either side like dark fingers of a glove, and I visualize him in a twilit bedroom, palms pressed to a windowsill as he gazes down upon a lively street. Then, without even shifting his gaze, he’d be seared with awareness of me, knowing intrinsically that I moved into the room. Somehow I already know exactly how his muscles will tense: with equal parts restraint and longing, because he draws out every moment that gives him pleasure and will make himself wait until he can’t any longer. Those gorgeous eyes would look like moonless nights, hands reaching for me, bringing me flush against him. I can see the rise and fall of his chest, the anticipation. I can hear his steady breathing in that quiet, faraway room, even from where I stand in the road inside a timeline that won’t ever let us have that moment.

It’s painful, how badly I want it.

Some trees fill with pink blossoms before our eyes, others pale green. Birdsong begins to chirrup from somewhere hidden, and I can smell it—earth and rain and that uniquely spring scent, like wet sticks, a doused fire.

I watch the pink blossoms blow away as green leaves unfurl and grow, a warm breeze shuddering through. Even though it’s dark out, sunlight warms my face, rebounding off the umbrella. As quickly as summer arrives, it gives way to autumn. The world is crimson, copper, gold, with pumpkins on doorsteps and scarecrows hanging from shadowed doors. Hall watches the progression with contemplative eyes that are, I notice, more brown than they are green.

When his hand falls, the trees are snow-laden, skeletal once more.

“You could see it,” I tell him. “If we’re careful, you can stay long enough to watch the seasons change. You could stay forever.”

“I need you to be more responsible with your money,” he replies, out of left field. “Okay?”

“Hall.”

“I’m serious. Please listen—I’m going to be upset if I see you struggling, and there’s nothing I can do. My magic works differently up there.” He lifts his chin. “I can only wrap you in feelings, not things.”

“I don’t like this. Don’t talk about going away.”

“I am going, though. There’s nothing we can do to stop it.”

“There has to be.”

He steps close, that golden, comforting warmth encircling, making me briefly close my eyes. “It’s every time you catch me looking at you,” he says so quietly I barely hear it. His breath hitches. A slow blink, eyes darkening. “It’s every time I laugh.”