64. March 19, 2102 London, England
Beatrix knew this day would come. Every time she turned a page in Oliver’s journal from the future to the past—the past growing heavier, the future disappearing beneath her fingertips—her heart sank.
Every dotted page filled with her fine cursive served as a brutal reminder: Time is marching on, moving relentlessly, endlessly forward.
Knowing has done nothing to ease the ache in her chest, the burning in her eyes, the closing of her throat. Knowing doesn’t stop her tears from splashing across the open pages of his notebook.
The last pages.
She had seen wondrous sights and met amazing people, but she hadn’t found him. And now, watching her tears streak across the page, turning the black ink colors, it feels like he has left her all over again.
After Woodstock, she knew in her heart he wouldn’t come back.
She shoved that fear down, kept going, kept trying.
Each new page held the faintest hope that maybe this time she was wrong, that maybe this time she would find him.
And each time she was left alone, again; still, she thought she would stop.
But she didn’t. She couldn’t. So she traveled the world, looking for him.
Until she ran out of pages. Until she ran out of hope.
So she returned to London. To St. Paul’s. To somewhere old and familiar and hers. If not home, then something like it. Because now that her map is spent, she doesn’t know where else to go.
The gallery is quiet tonight. A handful of visitors sit around the edge of the dome, whispering and listening.
A few others peer over the high iron rail to the mosaic floor far below.
Beatrix settles against the wall, in the spot she always chooses.
She closes her eyes, and she listens, as if she might still hear Oliver’s whispers in the walls.
She wipes her tears away and swallows the lump in her throat. She turns the last page, moves it into the past with the rest of her memories of Oliver. An ending.
Not yet.
Beatrix pulls a discolored envelope from the pocket of her yellow peacoat.
Oliver gave it to her 137 years ago, under the stars of Lancaut, told her to open it when she was ready.
She couldn’t bring herself to read his goodbye when she still had hope she might find him.
Now that hope is spent, just like her map. His goodbye is all she has left.
She still isn’t ready, but opening it feels like the right thing to do.
The only thing left to do.
She slips her finger beneath the flap and carefully tears the envelope open. She pulls out a folded, dotted page with a rough, torn edge, Bea written across the front in Oliver’s familiar handwriting. The real last page of his journal.
Bea—
If you’re reading this, I guess it’s time for our goodbye.
I know you hate them. But I think I have tried to write this at least a hundred times and I can’t.
Putting into words everything you are to me is impossible.
I could never do it justice. So, I’m including an address, somewhere I want you to see.
Somewhere I want to see with you. For old times’ sake, I guess.
I hope you’ll come. I hope you’ll have a thousand new stories to tell me.
—Oliver
She scans the date Oliver has scrawled on the bottom of the page, a map through time, leading to him. She slips the paper into the journal with trembling hands, between her last entry and the cover, where all of Oliver’s chaotic wishes have faded with time.
Their last adventure together.
She closes the notebook and hugs it to her chest. She has a hundred years to get there. One hundred years with no plan, no guidance, no idea where to go or what to do next—untethered from Oliver and his journal.
One hundred years to live her life, however and wherever she pleases.
So she does.