The spirals spun.

And then came the flowers, bursting from the ends of the twigs. Pure white and startling in the darkness, they blossomed. Each one sent a jolt through Wunder, one after another, until the branches were covered, until the tree was full.

Then one flower fell.

It came floating down, coasting gently, as if on wings, petal wings, circling in tighter and tighter spirals until—

The flower landed right in Wunder’s outstretched hands.

The spirals stopped spinning. The tree stopped growing. It stood there, reaching up to the sky, reaching down into the earth. It stood there as if it had always been there, as if it was right where it was supposed to be.

Here among the dead.

Here in front of a living boy.

And suddenly Wunder understood.

Everyone was connected. The living to the living, and the living to the dead, and the dead to the dead too. And no one was ever alone. And no one was ever truly gone. And nothing ever ended.

Because love never ended.

And no one knew—no one could ever know all that was happening. In this life or after.

There were truths that couldn’t be measured. There were connections that couldn’t be traced. There were mysteries that couldn’t be unshrouded. There were ways to hold someone’s hand even when that hand was buried far under the ground, even when that someone was lying in a small white box.

There was sadness, there was never-ending sadness, sadness that left you motionless in your bed, sadness that chased you away from home day after day, sadness that could make your heart feel like a stone.

But there were miracles too.

There were miracles.

At the base of the tree, there was a hole. A hollow place. Wunder found it because instead of being dark, the hole was lit, lit by a soft, pulsing white light.

He climbed inside.

There wasn’t much room. He had to pull his knees up to his chest to fit. But it was warm in there. Warm and the wood at his back felt softer than he’d thought it would.

And waiting for him there was the feeling that he had felt in the DoorWay House. And something else—someone else.

She was there. He couldn’t see her, couldn’t touch her, but he knew she was there. The one he had been waiting and waiting and waiting for. The one he’d thought was never coming.

His sister, Milagros, was there.

And his heart, that stone that had warmed and rocked and shook and cracked, it split wide open.

Because it hadn’t been a stone.

It had been an egg.

And finally, finally, the heart-bird was reborn. It burst free and soared through him, feathers brushing his veins, his heart, the insides of his fingertips and the soles of his feet. It soared and sang, and it was different—it wasn’t all light and bright and lifted, there was loss and loneliness and darkness too—but it was beautiful all the same.