The mountain never changes, he wrote. But my ability to scale its jagged sides does. Some days, I’m young. Some days, I’m an old man. Some days, my boots are thick like tires. On others, they’re iron shackles made of everything that’s gone wrong. Even so, I’ve learned to move forward, if only an infinitesimal amount, known only to me. The breath in my lungs is infused with the same hope of green things, persistent, and ever-seeking even the finest dusting of sunlight. Tenacious as a seed that splits asphalt with its shoots, I will find the light, and grow, another word for: live. This is my destiny. Not suffering.

On Tuesdays and Fridays, she trudged through the snow to attend Hawthorn’s yoga classes. Afterward, they fell into the habit of sitting on bolsters by the expansive bay window, sipping tea and talking. Every week, he revealed a little more of his story.

He had a double Major in Philosophy and Psychology from UBC. Sequoia had studied Fine Arts at Emily Carr. During undergrad, they shared an apartment above an Asian grocery store. During the summer, they earned their tuition by tree planting in the backcountry of northern BC.

He wrote his Honours thesis on the efficacy of art therapy in the treatment of depression and addictions, a project inspired by Sequoia. In truth, it was his way of coaxing her to paint again during a period of rehabilitation she had taken between her third and forth year. When he visited her on the weekends, she taught him about the colour wheel, composition, and the importance of negative space. Over the course of the eight weeks she was in treatment, he noticed her paintings start to shift from dark abstract swirls to saffron-coloured koi fish, symbols of good fortune and prosperity. When her treatment was finished, she enrolled in an out-patient program, moved back in with Hawthorn, and spent the rest of the year exploring new subjects, and taking qualifying courses.

He graduated summa cum laude. Some of his friends were taking a gap year to travel. He wanted to join them but he was worried about leaving Sequoia behind. He asked her to go with him. She wanted to stay and finish her studies.

“Fly little Hawk, fly,” she told him.

Reluctant, he agreed to go without her, although only if her boyfriend—another outpatient—moved into his old room. At the airport, they hugged each, teary-eyed. Until then, other than the time she had spent in rehab, they had never been apart.