Malorie has spoken long with her dad about what he wants to do and how he wants to do it. Neither of them believes they ought to live here, in this home, in this community, forever. Sam often speaks of wanting to return to where Malorie was raised. It would be a long journey, one Malorie believes her dad can endure, one they both want to take, but neither of them has declared today the day to do it.

Now, six in the morning, the world still dark outside, Malorie takes the stairs to the first floor. There, in the kitchen, she dunks a glass in a wooden bucket of water and drinks.

On the kitchen table is the visor the people of Indian River fashioned out of Tom’s two-way mirror. Some of those people have come to the house, hoping to speak to Tom about his invention. It used to be that Malorie wouldn’t let anyone in. Now, she picks and chooses. When she denied Athena Hantz entrance, the local legend was offended. When she asked for an explanation, Malorie told her she got lucky. Lucky that Tom came up with what he did. Because if something had happened to him…

Malorie picks up the visor. She eyes it. She considers.

She puts it on.

She stands by one of the blanketed windows, facing the darkness for many minutes, before she takes her coat from the rack beside the back door, closes her eyes, and steps outside.

It’s autumn now. Malorie hears leaves crushed beneath her boots.

Her head is lowered as she waits for the heat of the sun to warm her. She likes standing here, beside Mary’s grave. She likes talking to her still. She repeats stories about Shannon, her head lowered, eyes closed.

She tells Mary about Dean Watts. She says that maybe, when they finally do head north, Malorie will make a point of checking Mackinaw City for the man who brought back the train.

And just when the sun prickles her neck, just as she senses that some semblance of light has begun anew, Malorie, for the first time in over ten years, opens her eyes outside.

It surprises her how familiar the colors are. Old friends, back again. At her feet is Mary’s grave; yellow, orange, and red with leaves. When she looks up, she sees a creature stands twenty feet farther into the yard.

Malorie does not move.

She senses a bird attempting to take flight somewhere in her head, a thing as black as her hair and as blue as her eyes.

But, despite the sound of flapping feathers, whatever is trying to get away doesn’t quite get there.

Malorie breathes in. She holds it. She breathes out.

She looks.

She sees.

Infinity considering itself. Eternity facing its own endless journey.

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