L’Oiseau Bleu. Emily knew there was a copy of the seventeenth-century story in one of the boxes in the attic, but once again she had never thought to question why her grandmother had it. Emily had simply loved the ornate picture on the front, of a girl reaching out for a bluebird swooping down from the sky.

But why would she paint a pair? Emily’s eyes blinked back fatigue as she turned all the questions, all the possible answers, over and over.

She knew that bluebirds were only ever found in North America, and the males were possessive, protecting the nest, their mate, from any other suitors. Did it mean there was a link from the book back to both of the men Catriona shared that summer with? A book that seemed to have inspired a painting she kept close, one that she looked upon each and every day.

Emily’s head fell back against the seat as the train picked up speed, the constant motion forcing shut eyes that for days had been too anxious to properly close.

As she slept, her fingers twitched in perpetual movement and her mind filled with dreams of pictures both drawn and still to come. Pictures of all the places her grandmother wrote down and asked her to conjure up onto the page, filling blank sheets of paper with color and light. Memories too, that when awake she could not bring herself to remember. Memories of the two faces she missed most of all.

On the seat beside her, Tyler sat, reading her grandmother’s books, scouring the pictures, seeking out the treasures hidden in each and every one. He smiled at the roller skates hung over the wardrobe door, a Star Wars poster on the wall, or a brightly painted train set. Details from Emily’s childhood, tucked away in the corners of every story, details even she seemed not to realize were there—the faces of the characters, or the shoes they wore. A sleek, black convertible that once belonged to Tyler’s father, complete with GB sticker on its boot. A car that could never be driven again.

It was as if Emily had painted her past in order to take it from her mind, to free herself from the agony of remembering a life cut short.

He set the book aside and looked over at Emily, at the stillness of her face. Then he waited one moment more before reaching inside her bag and taking out a plain white envelope, inside of which were more sheets of palest blue.

5 September 1965

“Yes: I am a dreamer. For a dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.”

Oscar Wilde, The Critic as Artist.

It is late, or very early, depending on how you look at it. Either way, I am sitting on the rooftop of our tiny one-bed apartment, staring up at the moon. Thinking of how it is always there (silly, I know), of how no matter where you are in the world, you can sit and stare at it and think of someone you hope is missing you as much as you are missing them.