And now it comes to me. The dream in the constellation. The voice in whispers.

And I notice now that he’s not a person. Or not a person how you normally think of a person. He’s sort of . . . there and not there. He’s sort of shimmering. His eyes are sort of every color green and every color blue and every color silver. They are the perfect color. And they are alive.

“But where was I? What was that . . . place?” I ask, thinking about the stone house and the made-up everything and the fire.

He shrugs. “Someplace that you weren’t supposed to be. Someplace you put yourself. But you never needed to, Daff. You never should have. Understand?” He nods.

“Supposed to—But what was it?”

“It’s a place . . . where you knocked on the door . . . and they invited you in. But it was a bad place. You were never supposed to be there.”

“But did it exist? Is it still—”

“Daffy.” He laughs. I love him calling me Daffy. “Do you really think any of that matters now?”

A glittering in his eye. A thought not said, but conveyed somehow: There is so much to learn, so much I can’t wait to show you. You and I. I found you.

And the thing, like a blast through every cell, unsaid, but still like a shock wave: A kind of giant love. World-overpowering love.

That moment at the Zipper, that moment at the microscope, that moment with the football game in the background, and the Crock-Pot, and the stolen kisses, and the blanket of snow on the ground. All those bright moments, big bright shining moments, all here now.

All in this moment.

Here.

The green canopy above seems to be surrounding only us now. As if the Earth, now, has sent itself to sleep.

“And now it’s time,” he says, soft.

“Time?” I ask. Maybe I’m just dreaming this.

“Time to come home.” He reaches out his hand, gently, and now there is nothing around us. Not even the grass below our feet. Not even the ground. “Have faith, Daffodil.”

The sunset light painting everything in gold. Gold, pink, lilac, rose, gold again. A master brush. A virtuoso stroke.

And this is the part I can’t tell you.

This part . . . this place . . . the beginning of this place.

If I could, if it were allowed. If I could, if there were even words to tell it. Oh, I would dazzle you with it.

They would be words made of diamonds, new words made of sapphires and rubies and pearls. They would be words made of emeralds. Words made of Christmas. Words made of sunlight. But there are not these words. For you. Not yet.

But if I could, I would tell you how, just how, it is light and it is shimmering and it is all the colors, every color, new colors, and it is so . . .