And so, I return to the life I left behind. It’s waiting for me like I never left at all. There’s an empty glass I left on my bedside table the day I left, the stack of letters from Oliver tied with ribbon in the drawer, my same midnight-blue quilt, rumpled a little because Mabel did let the little girls sleep in my bed while I was away. I find one of their dolls shoved under the covers and deliver it back to Mabel with an eye roll. She gives it to little Flossie Maynard, who clutches it to her chest and mutters, “Sorry, Miss Hallowell,” like she’s not sorry at all.

It is good to be home. Even if I still feel a little hollow.

Nothing has changed except for me.

For the first few days I’m back, I walk through my life at Haxahaven like a ghost, haunting the halls of the school late at night when I can’t sleep. I wanted him gone, I got what I wished for, but every part of me aches like a broken bone that wasn’t set right. It’s healing, but in the wrong places.

I thought what happened in the catacombs was an ending. As it turns out, it was a beginning. This is my task now; I have to learn to live with it.

My brain runs in circles as I complete my daily routines. As I weed the garden, I think of magic and death and wonder if Finn flinging himself into the veil felt like drowning.

While I wander the dark halls on night patrol, I think of his love for me too, and try to untangle it from what he did, forever picking at the knots in my brain like a skein of yarn that won’t come undone.

My heart isn’t a traitor. It doesn’t love him, but it remembers loving him, and really, what’s the difference in the middle of the night? They say time heals all things, but waiting and healing have never been my strengths.

Three weeks later, Oliver comes home. I meet him at the docks with a sandwich from his favorite Lower East Side deli in my bag and a smile on my face so big it hurts.

He picks me up and spins me around as we collide on the docks. Then he pulls back to take in my face.

“How is it possible you’ve gotten prettier?” He grins.

I swat his shoulder, but he captures my wrist in his hand and extends it, admiring the way the small emerald ring he gave me glints in the sun.

“You haven’t changed your mind?”

“Nope,” I say, looping my arm through his. “You’re stuck with me.”