67. September 19, 2202 Winchester, Massachusetts
The faerie pulls the tangled thread of Beatrix’s life. Unspools her, a moment at a time.
She sinks through darkness.
No goodbyes?
Through whispers.
I love you, too, Bea. Always.
Through memories.
I will do everything I can to get back to you.
They dance around her like shadows cast by firelight.
Happy birthday, Bea.
Flickering and fading.
Memories are real. The love that made them is real.
She can’t keep them, can’t hold on to them.
We still have now, Bea.
Until there is no more sinking.
I don’t want to go. You know that, right?
No more falling.
Don’t change a thing.
No more shadows.
I think I’m lucky I found you.
Until the whispers fade.
I’m Oliver, by the way.
And there is only