The sky today is pale blue dotted with the fluffy harmless-looking type of cloud. A weak, watery type of sunlight leaks into the forest. Without their leaves, a lot of the trees look skeletal. The air is crisp and refreshing and smells faintly of smoke. When we reach the creek, I dart out in front of Cora.

“It’s fine, Quinn. It’s not storming. I’ve crossed it so many times by myself.” She points at the water. “Look, it’s so low. It hasn’t rained in days.”

“I know, but—” I hop out onto the first rock. I turn around and hold out my hand. I stare at the faint bruise by her temple. It’s faded, but it’s still there. “It’ll make me feel better. Can we please do it, together?”

“Okay,” she says, taking my hand.

We cross, hand in hand, step by step, and both stare at the tree. At its long branches, at its thick trunk. Even after everything that has happened, I still don’t think I was wrong about it being magical.

Standing here, on this day, with Cora feels like proof of that.

I reach into my pocket where I’ve stashed my letters to Parker. Pulling them out, I crouch down near the base of the tree. I run my hands over the bump of its root, and search for a place where the soil is soft enough to dig. The cool air makes my fingers stiff, but I keep digging.

Beside me, Cora has already started to create a tiny hole. She scatters a packet of violet seeds into the soil while I bury my letters. Grams apparently warned her that the seeds aren’t likely to take, but Cora told her she had a good feeling they would grow. Cora says she wants to see Mabel’s favorite flower growing in an unlikely place. That’s the closest I’ve gotten to hearing her say that she also still thinks the giant oak tree is magic.

We keep digging our holes side by side. One of us is letting something go; the other one is asking something to grow. Right now, I’m not sure there’s that big of a difference between those two things.

Cora’s pushing dirt on top of the seeds when she says, “Do you think you’ll play soccer next year?”

I look up at the pale blue sky. There’s a small flock of birds fluttering overhead. “I don’t know.”

“I do,” Cora says with a small smile.

The birds chirp. Life. I glance at the giant oak tree. Sunlight glints off The Eyeball. And then I see it. Not the wormhole, but another kind of magic. Cora and me. Me and Cora. Coraandme.

I smile back at her. “Eureka.”

Author’s Note

Stories have always been how I make sense of the world. Within the realm of stories—as both a reader and a writer—I am able to examine and grapple with the parts of life that I find the most difficult. Stories can be conversation starters. They can help break the ice about things that feel too scary or too hard to talk about.