Chapter Seventy-Five. Daye
Daye
That night, Daye dreamed of flying. She had never dreamed before.
For as long as she could remember, her sleep had been a long stretch of darkness, earth-heavy and silent.
Though, ever since last autumn, since Rory gave her a voice, the darkness had not been as complete as it used to be.
Sometimes it felt like the darkness of dawn, graying at the edges.
Sometimes it was speckled with flashes of light, always just out of sight. But tonight, tonight she was dreaming.
She had been staring at the ceiling, as she always did, imagining that single step she would take.
It seemed farther away lately, the border vast and uncrossable, her foot too heavy to lift.
And then her eyes closed with exhaustion, and her feet were detaching from the ground, floating up, up, up.
A blink, and she was gliding past the border.
Another, and she was soaring into the sky.
Winter unfurled under her, bare trees and evergreens greeting her with a murmur of branches.
Snow dotted her arms and landed on her lips with a kiss.
Daye woke up in the darkness, breathing hard. She could still taste snow on her tongue.
Something had changed. This … this meant something.
But what?
The ground beyond the border was blanketed in white.
It was dazzling. Daye looked at it as she walked.
Looked, and didn’t think about her dream.
Didn’t think about the long minutes with her hand on the other side of the border, cupping snowflakes.
(Of course she noticed. She noticed each moment her hand remained beyond the border, whole and untouched.
She noticed, and then bent all her mind on not noticing, ignoring, letting go.) She didn’t think about what her hand, her dream, that single feather, might imply.
That tiny, budding hope. Didn’t think of what this snow must mean, how December was barreling toward its end, and then—
Maybe it will be different this time. Maybe Rory will—
She didn’t think about that, either. She simply walked the border as she always did, feet sinking in the muddy snowmelt.
Not looking at the feathers that seemed to have suddenly sprung up everywhere—strewn under trees, fluttering on the spring breeze, on the wings of birds calling a greeting from above.
Focusing only on thinking of nothing at all.
She had broken before. She didn’t know what would be left of her if she shattered once more.
She didn’t think she could take it again.
So she didn’t think of any of it.
At night, she dreamed of flying again.