Autumn in Nysa is always like some kind of golden era in a fairy world. The trees slip from green to the brightest reds and golds you’ve ever seen. When October hits, the days are suddenly shorter, the darkness gathering in pools along the main road. The four of us spent those chilly evenings in the diner or in secluded spots along the lake, sitting close to crackling fires, our arms around each other. I don’t know why, but when I think of that autumn before our final summer together, it seems like a quiet time, an era in our lives when we did more than our fair share of staring into the flames and not speaking, of looking out over the lake with our hands in our pockets, breath becoming visible in the cold air.

Winter followed fall, and while autumn’s short days had felt appropriate in a melancholy sort of way, winter’s darkness seemed like an affront. I could feel Mary withdrawing into herself even further, and a flat sadness glazed over her eyes as she stared off into the cold distance. We could spend an entire evening together in which she’d say barely a handful of words.

Only the snow snapped her out of it, and we got an unusual blizzard in early December. The four of us even went sledding on the hill behind the school, and Mary gave a real smile for the first time in two or three months. The little children sledding alongside watched us with amazement, surprised that teenagers could enjoy such a simple, childish pleasure.

Whenever I asked if she was okay, she gave a half-hearted attempt at consoling me, reaching across the table at the diner and forcing a smile that only had the strength to lift one side of her face.

“Oh, Paul, I’m in a blue funk. It will pass.”

There were three churches in Nysa: Our Lady of Nysa Catholic Church, Saint John’s Episcopal, and First Baptist. It wasn’t a full range of churches like most towns have these days, but it was enough. The parking lot of Our Lady was almost always empty, except for a green Ford pickup truck that I assumed belonged to the priest, even though it didn’t fit the image I had of what a priest might drive. None of my friends were Catholic; in fact, I didn’t know of a single Catholic on the entire island. But I always felt drawn there—maybe by the tall steeple that reached up into the sky, maybe by the way the gold letters of the name shone in the sun, or maybe simply by the emptiness. When it came to God, I wasn’t sure what I believed, but I preferred to explore his realm on my own, away from the crowds.

Saint John’s Episcopal Church was an old brick church with a bell and a fountain outside that I sometimes saw children playing in. The rector was a middle-aged man who, during the week, sat on a bench on the sidewalk and looked up hopefully at anyone who walked by. He was not a Nysa native and never would be, even though he had lived there for twenty years or so. Even being born in Nysa doesn’t confer legitimate Nysa status—for that, you need to have a couple sets of grandparents who grew up there, and preferably at least one set of great-grandparents as well.