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wutheringmights · 2 months ago

Note

A humble request for chapter commentary. At your leisure. Because wow. That was a chapter.

One of these days, I will realize that I should write the commentary as I write the chapter so that it does not take me so much time/effort to make it. Alas, I am convinced that one day people will not want to read my ramblings, and I refuse to do any work that is not absolutely necessary.

As always, massive spoilers for the newest chapter below. Read at your own risk.

So this chapter took a massive chunk of time to write, which was not my plan. Last chapter, I was all gung ho about cutting down on my production time and going back to as close to a monthly schedule as possible. That was November. It’s February now.

I really underestimated how busy the holiday season was going to make me. From Halloween up until post-New Years, I think I had two weekends where I didn’t need to shuttle off somewhere or someone wasn’t shuttling up to me. Not a lot of writing time.

This could have been avoided if I didn’t stop writing mid-week. I’ve complained about this before, but in 2024 I stopped writing during the weekdays. I told myself that it was because I have zero time, but the real problem is that somewhere along the line, I told myself that if I didn’t have two hours to write, I couldn’t write at all.

Well, I’m over that. I’m squeezing in at least 20 minutes a night as much as possible. I will not let myself make excuses anymore, especially because my mood drops when I’m not able to write for a while.

I was also experiencing that classic “oh god why is my writing suddenly terrible?” panic, which I solved by forcing myself to slow down and stop trying to just the chapter. I wanted to actually take the time to make what I was writing good. Did this make the chapter take even longer? Yup, but I can’t regret it.

So here we are. No promises this time as to when the next chapter will come out, but I’m still aiming for a near-monthly pace. Sadly, this might mean that I won’t have the time to write an extra side story this year for the CTB birthday in April (yeah, I gotta really plan this out in advance). I guess we’ll see how I’m feeling in a few more weeks.

Now that’s out of the way, let’s talk this chapter.

You can tell that I was having fun trying to figure out what it would be like to have someone else’s emotions messing around with your head. As Jakucho suggested, Link is already so bad at handling himself that having to put in the work for two is a lot for him.

The way breath is used to cope with Proxi’s emotions is inspired by the way breath is used in, like, every yoga video I use.

I really hope that I’m properly portraying Link as “idiot white dude who is doing his best to be respectful of a culture he’s kinda fascinated by” and that it’s not the prose itself that is ostracizing the real world cultural practices that I’m putting under the Sheikah umbrella. Maybe the fact that I’m using a mismatch of things is already a bad sign.

The same can be said of my vague descriptions of Kabuki theater.

The play Link and Proxi see is inspired by two Shakespearen plays: A Merchant of Venice and The Twelfth Night. Merchant has a plotline where three suitors have to undergo a trial to prove their worth to a wealthy heiress, while Twelfth Night has the misadventures of the servants and the skeevy servant rising above his station to marry his mistress.

That later is meant to be a little world building nod to how deeply entrenched the class system is in Hyrule where the idea of a peasant trying to enter the upper classes is discouraged to outright mocked in classical art. If this play was real, the skeevy servant would be one of those comically disgusting characters the audience is meant to laugh at, like Malvolio from The Twelfth Night.

And of course, the foreign prince would traditionally be a Ganondorf caricature built on harmful Gerudo prejudice-- something akin to Shylock, to keep the Merchant of Venice allusion going.

Mostly, I imagine that the princess, hero, and Gerudo king are a set of narrative archetypes that appear over and over again in Hylian storytelling, for better or for worse.

This was a very long worldbuilding exploration for what essentially was an excuse to talk a bit about how the line of succession works in Hyrule, because I realized when I was writing about the role of women that I never actually explained this.

Side note: I have been so fascinated lately by the ways stories establish the presence of a patriarchy in their worlds. Legend of the Galactic Heroes has one of my favorites: using the way characters talk about Annerose as a litmus test. I will now refrain from elaborating on that because we are not here to talk about animes from the 1980s I am obsessed with.

The secret Sheikah techniques being Judo is 100% because I do Judo and I need to justify spending so much time at practice somehow.

The throw Ayane does is meant to be o-goshi-- one of the beginner throws that is excellent for a short person like Ayane to use on a bigger opponent. Because her hips would be lower than his, he would be pretty easy to tip over them.

Because o-goshi involves being flipped over your head, it’s kinda a scary way to be thrown in the beginning. Genuinely, poor Link for being thrown like that when he had just learned how to fall (here’s a demonstration of the side fall he would have learned, though he would have started from a squat as opposed to standing at full height).

All that’s to say that: do not throw someone who is not ready to be thrown.

Arlo, a character you may remember from that time everyone ran across a battlefield, was almost included among the gaggle of soldiers trying to navigate across Kakariko. The reason why has everything to do with Icarius.

For the sake of Icarius development, he assumed a role on the narrative of an unnamed, unremarkable soldier Link was going to have a short rendez-vous with. While that unnamed soldier was never going to be Arlo, I had toyed around with having Arlo be present as the soldier’s disgruntled roommate who got kicked out of the hotel room for the sake of the tryst.

It’s not plot-vital for Arlo to have met Link earlier in the story; in fact it would be kinda silly if Link kept on running into the same few people over and over again. But I have an impulse to try to use every character, even the more minor and impulsive creations, to the max.

I imagine the Teachings of Din as a cross between a socratic dialogue and the Art of War (though I’ve never read the latter), which is why it’s framed as a conversation between a knight and Din.

I also remember someone once telling me that old military strategy books like the Art of War has a lot of text dedicated to telling the upper class dudes reading it to treat their peasant armies fairly. I have no idea how true that is, but that factoid always stuck in my brain. I guess I’ll just hope that it’s true.

I like the idea that if you were to look just at the book, it would seem like Link’s past actions would have been completely rejected by the military as being too horrific. But in practice, despite everyone above him having read the book, no one thought what he did was out of pocket.

Link and Proxi’s conversation at the table was first referenced during the Fever Dreams in chapter 18. In that version of the scene, Link immediately confesses to Proxi what he did. Back in (checks date) 2022, that was my vision for their relationship. Finally writing it now, it was obvious Link was not ready so I pushed it off for him. That means that I retroactively made that moment in the Fever Dreams go from being a real memory to an idealized version of his past. I think it works, since one of his biggest regrets is his inability to truly confront his past quick enough.

There is also an early reference all the way back in chapter 9, when the Chain first passes through the refugee camp, that Link had helped built some of the homes there.

Link is someone who doesn’t quite understand who he is and what he wants from life, primarily because he has spent his whole life up until this point trying to be what others wanted. The way he clings to construction work has less to do with his actual enjoyment of it and more with him actually being given a choice in what he does with himself. If he didn’t have an ongoing identity crisis, I don’t think he would gravitate to it at all. After a few months, he would be sick of it and move on to something else, just like a child cycles through different after school sports and activities until they find their passions. It’s a part of growing up he’s never had access to before.

In a weird way, post-engineer Link’s story is some sort of coming of age story, which makes it a bit less compelling for me to write than literally anything that happened before it. But it’s important. I knew when I started this story that this latter part of the story was going to have a heavier emphasis on growth and healing; still, I really do miss getting to write Link being a horrible person and emotionally spiraling

If I really wanted to go for the dramatics, I would have Link turn the corner on his growth by having him argue with Proxi, or just be dragged into being a better person kicking and screaming. But that wouldn’t feel as sincere as him deciding for himself to be better.

And that’s the tragedy of it, isn’t it? Link decided to be a better person early on, but that desire didn’t get him far enough. Being better than he was isn’t the same as being the best version of himself. Who gets to decide when he’s fully improved anyway?

Ending with Link marching up the next half of the hill was a very heavy handed visual, as well as the reference to spring arriving soon. Connecting winter to depression and spring to happiness is so, so trite and I kinda stumbled into it by accident. But as cliche as it is, I love doing it. There really is something satisfying using old tropes and discovering why they became cliches in the first place.

Onto the present--

Fun fucking fact: I thought this chapter was going to be super short. Why? All my outline said was that I needed to a) do the Knights of Hyrule shit and, b) Kill Lincoln. I usually have to juggle twenty different plot points. I only had two, and it still spiraled out of my control!

Part of that is just that there were things I forgot would take time to explore, like how Warriors would win the Triforce back (which I will get to later), and the other times there just was a lot of plot machinations I needed to do to get to the important stuff.

And that’s been a theme with this last third of the story. Chapters 28, 29, 30, and 31 were all supposed to be a single chapter. Warriors and Spirit were going to have their Hot Mess, and the next chapter Lincoln was going to be dead in Castle Town. I just completely, severely underestimated how much plot machinations would be needed to get from A to B.

The Hot Mess all the way to now is about a year of my life. It took be a fucking year to cover one whole point on my story outline. Do you understand why I have been so frustrated about how long this story is taking me? Why I have been pulling my hair out? Does that put any of my feelings into perspective for you?

There was a lot of hubris involved. I think I have everything paced much more reasonably now that I shouldn’t need to add more than one or two, if any at all, extra chapters.

In massive hindsight, I should have realized that the plot to take control of Castle Town would be more than just a chapter. But I also think I was in denial about how much longer this story was going to be.

Ugh.

Anyway, the actual chapter. I should talk about that.

I am very amused by the idea that Endicott, for all of his faults, is the first person in the Royal Guard to truly take Warriors seriously. Warriors tells him about the black blood, and he not only believes him but is actually helpful. Kudos to you, Endicott. You’re not such a bad guy after all.

Endicott also had the lovely function of being a good tool for reminding the readers of some lore that they might have forgotten in the long stretch of story since we last dealt with the black blood stuff. I always prefer to have diegetic exposition over textbook narration.

Which then carried over to Warriors’s briefing while everyone else armored-up. Whenever I have Warriors make a grand plan like that, I always worry that there’s a glaring plot hole that I don’t see myself but a smarter reader would be frustrated by.

There is an extremely stupid bit in this chapter where Spirit puts his foot on the chaise in order to intimidate Warriors into agreeing with him, which Sky sees and copies because, hey, if it worked for Spirit it might work for him. Which Linkle mimics when she tries to convince Warriors to take her side. I tried to have Warriors snap at everyone to stop putting their feet on his chair, but I couldn’t make it work with the pacing.

Also, shout out to Icarius who has decided that Linkle is his enemy for shooting him in the leg and tries to hurt her with his words. Aka, the dictionary he uses to communicate.

I also enjoy that despite seeming like it would be the reverse, Warriors has turned into the doting older brother for Linkle while Spirit is the one who calls her a little shit. I wanted to subvert the expectations readers would have for their dynamic when first learning about how Linkle views both of them as her brothers.

I almost cut Time and Lincoln’s truce because I thought I was painting too big of a target on Lincoln’s back. But I kept it so that Time could have a moment of growth, and because I already shouted that Lincoln was on the chopping block by him making plans with Warriors for the future at the end of the last chapter.

I also enjoy Lincoln’s chapter-long thread of being utterly terrified of the black blood and still deciding to get involved anyways. It’s a quiet demonstration of his courage, and a bit of tragic foreshadowing (more on that later).

Spirit being snippy with Wild about sharing the horse is such a silly thing to use valuable page-space for, but I also knew that I could not state that they would share a horse without explaining how they got there.

Way later in the chapter, Lincoln asked Spirit why he never said anything about Rudeo not being under the black blood’s curse. But he did here before the scene with Remarque: “There’s a couple of dark spirits. Maybe three.”

Was he being super clear? No. If Warriors was any less stressed, he might have picked out the discrepancy. But as is, Spirit technically did say something.

One thing about this chapter is that we go in reverse of the Castle Town plot. We started at the Temple of Time with the wiseman Sevas, went to Colonel Remarque’s post at the wall, then ended in the castle with Endicott. And this chapter takes us in reverse. It looks like I did this on purpose, but as you can probably guess by the one year to cover one plot point debacle, I Did Not.

In the context of my long term plan for Spirit, giving him a moment to pure heroism now-- publicly renouncing his story to save Warriors --is just... he has a lot going on, and a lot of his previous moments of heroism haven’t been kind. This is truly his moment of selflessness, and it really is coming at the perfect time.

In terms of sillier moments in this chapter, I really like how much Warriors enjoyed making the soldiers squirm when they realized they were going to have to figure out how to handcuff a man with only one hand.

In meeting up with the Knights of Hyrule for the first time in actual years, I really wished a gave all of them more to say and do before the fight. Gaudin and Shigeo had plenty to talk about, but Faiza and Rudeo were kinda pushed to the side.

That being said, I had a lot of fun giving Lincoln a chance to confront Gaudin; it’s been a while since we’ve seen him with peak “I am someone you should not mess with” energy, even if it didn’t lead him far

In a political view, Lincoln is interesting in that he’s not particularly charismatic or likeable but he doesn’t need to be when his power is very secure; which is meant to contrast how Warriors has spent his entire career being likable in order to have a modicum of power

Sky was an interesting factor in this chapter in that he has this entirely separate grudge against the knights that is independent from what Lincoln and Warriors want; I had to make a decision as to how much closure if any I can give Sky

I landed on having Sky be at the head of the charge, particularly in terms of fighting Gaudin, but never giving him a real chance for revenge-- mostly because as angry as I think Sky is, his heroism streak is stronger than the average person. I don’t think he would allow himself the catharsis of revenge. He’s a master of repression, so give him a few years to realize he can’t ignore or repress his feelings about this.

I am really happy that I squeezed in a conversation with Shigeo, if only to better illustrate how much the black blood’s curse works with a person’s existing mind.

That being said, I think the effect would have been way stronger if I had featured Shigeo more prominently in the past like I had intended. Shigeo was meant to be the closest thing Warriors would have had to a friend or ally during his time in the war-- like an older brother figure. The relationship would have fallen apart when Warriors/Link started projecting his insecurities on Shigeo and perceiving anything he did to help as an underhanded attack. I cut this when I realized that Link’s downward spiral would be easier to sell if he was already extremely isolated emotionally without anyone but the engineer to rely on.

The protest outside the Temple of Time-- I had a good time writing that in that it was a little hard to nail. I wanted the protest to be motivated by anger, but I didn’t want to portray it as an act of violence in itself. I didn’t want the story to inadvertently paint protestors as aggressive, even if what they’re protesting is our hero.

I actually waited until the last minute to figure out their chants since I wanted them to be an emotional punch in the gut to Warriors without being too mean? My problem is that when I wrote the Turncoat Revolt, I was a little peeved that a lot of readers viewed the turncoats as evil because they tried to kill Link, the engineer, and the child despite the fact that politically speaking, the turncoats were right. Yes, you can like these characters but they are on the side of the government that’s ruining people’s lives.

Then I got over myself and remembered that I can’t really control what conclusions the reader draws from the story. So I kept the chants on the more viscous side.

This was a strangely hard battle to write. I usually can pop off a fight scene really quickly, but this one really gave me trouble. It took me way too long to string together what exactly I wanted each person in the fight to be doing and how to jump the narration from each pocket of the fight.

A lot of readers noted that it comes off much more like a in-game boss fight than any other fight scene in this story so far; I can’t say that was intentional, but it is convenient in emphasizing how out of a normal person’s wheelhouse the black blood is.

My favorite moments include Spirit tossed Sky his sword; once more, Spirit prioritizing getting the job done right over any petty grievance. A true MVP of this goddamn chapter.

Rudeo’s death... first, the Chekov’s gun of this story is establishing in Rudeo’s introduction scene that he will die if the sword in his neck is removed. Like, of course this guy is going to die by having the sword in his neck removed.

As I explored in the narration, Rudeo was meant to be another reflection of Warriors in terms of his struggles to maintain a footing in an oppressive power structure leading him to make bad political decisions. I wanted the irony of Warriors being unable or unwilling to realize that there was someone else in the same position as him. I needed Rudeo to linger in the background for this to have the thematic effect I wanted.

Nonetheless, I really wish I did more with Rudeo before this moment. Yes, he needed to be in the peripheral of Warriors’s life, but couldn’t I have thrown in one conversation before this about what he was feeling?

I was expecting at least one person to realize that Rudeo couldn’t have been infected since he didn’t eat meat, but no one did. I didn’t have any characters bring it up in-story because I thought it was an obvious plot hole but I guess I should have gone ahead and added it in anyway.

Okay, let’s talk the Triforce scene. Ooooh boy.

This was not in the original plan. I just wanted Warriors to get the Triforce of Courage back, and then move on with the story. But when I was writing that earlier scene where Lana talked to Shigeo, I suddenly remembered how significant the Triforce was and realized that I needed to make the moment Warriors got it back way, way bigger.

I fully believe that no matter how much or how little Legend of Zelda lore you know, there will always be one tidbit that is so bizarre that it boggles your mind whenever you remember it. Mine is the fact that the Triforce is sentient.

I can’t get over it. The Triforce is sentient and it means absolutely nothing. It rarely comes up, even in regards to how the Triforce judges its holder’s character (not for goodness or what not, but whether you are wise/powerful/courageous enough). It’s so wacky. I hate it, but my god, it made the basis for a really cool scene.

I love his conversation with the Triforce. I haven’t gotten to write a scene where reality is weird for a really long time.

The way the green woman couldn’t be looked at, messed with his memories, and put palpable “walls” around his mind and emotions-- it reminded me a lot of eldritch horror, but in the sense of a being from the 3rd dimension being pushed into the 4th or 5th. I like the idea that the Triforce’s realm had to be simplified for him to comprehend it.

Warriors being Farore’s tool is my favorite idea from this scene. It not only adds context to some of Zelda’s struggle with Nayru, but it upsets Warriors’s worldview. He is special, but he’s not loved. This is a man who wants to be appreciated and loved deeply, but even with Farore, he’s been denied that. But at the same time, he should be thankful that he has the freedom that comes with only being the goddesses’ tool.

Warriors’s declaration that he was going to become a better person no matter what put into words a theme I have been exploring throughout the story: what makes someone an idealized good person is not always realistic. And if it’s not realistic, how do we determine if someone is good or bad?

Plus, if heroes aren’t chosen because they’re morally good people, then what actually makes you a good hero? How do you define heroism when the gods themselves do not view it as a question of goodness?

In a related note, I also got a chance to acknowledge that Warriors being forcefully denied the “ability” to hurt someone isn’t character developement. It’s an excuse, and he still has to consciously decide to change his behavior.

So after I went through the whole emotional process of realizing that I have to hype up the Triforce way more, I then realized that I had to make a decision about what to do with Dark Link (because the black blood in the original LU comic is obviously him and I will not pretend otherwise).

My original policy was to not do anything with Dark Link. I wasn’t here to solve LU. I’m here to solve CTB. The black blood has been here as an excuse to propel the characters into the plot I actually want to solve. AKA: the war.

But I also realized that at this point, it would be weirder if I didn’t try to address what is going on with the black blood, especially if it’s been a subplot this entire story and is going to be the reason Lincoln dies. I could have left it alone. This is fanfiction, after all. You could go to the source material to find out about it. But... leaving it alone would have kept CTB very dependent on LU, which means that CTB will continue to fall apart as LU gets more specific with its lore. If I wanted CTB to stand on its own, I needed to provide my own explanation.

So now I was on the hook to try to explain the black blood, which would mean I would have to provide a Dark Link backstory.

He couldn’t be unrepentantly evil since that would go against the themes I’ve already established in CTB. But he still needed to have justification to, you know, possess people. And whatever backstory I come up with will have to be conveyed in the shortest amount of time and space possible.

I know I over thought this, and no one would actually care if I did this well or not. But now I cared, so I had to do this right. Luckily, Dark Link seems to care only about the heroes and not any other part of the lore, which provided a good set of parameters to work with

So I landed on him more or else being what remains of the First Hero after he’s reincarnated. Not only does this give him a very solid motivation to go against the heroes (just wants to have the other half of his soul back), but this explains an existing discrepancy in the lore: how could Time’s soul linger on as a living skeleton while the Hero’s Spirit was with Twilight. If the Hero’s Spirit was one half of a whole, where there would be something not reincarnated into the next hero, it could be possible.

I could also make Dark Link more morally gray by establishing that he was never just the dark parts of the First Hero’s spirit, but whatever parts of the hero Hylia didn’t like.

Actually, this is a bit of storytelling I am very proud of. As we know, the official-to-fanon lore is that there was a romance between Hylia and the First Hero. In my version, whatever romance they had was bordering on the unrequited. Whatever feelings the First Hero had for Hylia could not triumph over the fact he was already married. Even if it wasn’t a love-match, he was so chivalric that he would not betray his legal wife. So when he was reincarnated, Hylia left that part of him behind.

Side note: I have been listening to a lot of Noble Blood for months now, and I have a growing fascination with marriages based on politics that are affectionate, as opposed to love matches. I have been kicking around a lot of non-CTB story ideas that play around with marrying for any reason except romance, and it turning out perfectly.

I also just like how it’s a play on Arthurian legends, where chivalry, romance, and marriage seems at constant conflict with itself. This time, the knight chooses to remain loyal to his wife instead of the otherworldly beauty in pursuit of him.

And for the First Hero to have this torrid romantic affair while looking average at best? I love it.

I had Warriors not believe Dark Link’s story because I wanted to leave the door open for a later reader to insert whatever LU’s actual answer for Dark Link is. Officially, Dark Link in CTB is lying if you want him to be.

And finally, beheading him was such a good place to circle back to the whole Orlanda thing. Her death was this surprising moment where I feel like a lot of readers realized things were not okay (somehow?), and so I have been looking for a way to use it as a bookend for Warriors’s growth.

Did I want to do so much with Dark Link? No, and please do not expect any of this to be super relevant for this last half of the story. Everything here was an obligation.

Unfortunately, I also think all of this was interesting as hell and doing a full backstory will be added to the list of CTB spin offs I do not have time to write.

Also! One last note about the Dark Link scene I almost forgot about. There is an implication that Twilight's soul lingered behind like Time's did. That is because I headcanon Twilight being this ghost wolf that haunts the desert looking for shards of the Twilight Mirror (I think I wrote a drabble about it years ago). And that's how Wolfie managed to be in Breath of the Wild.

Now that all that’s out of the way, let’s get to the real meat of this chapter, which is killing off Lincoln. Yay.

Before I hop into what happens on page, there is a really fun bit of foreshadowing earlier in the story I want to point out. In chapter 19, the Chain minus Twilight, Legend, and Wind are at the Temple of Souls when Lincoln tells Lana about his plans to save the knights. And she provides this warning:

“You’re just a mortal man,” she said at last. “Careful not to trifle with what you cannot understand, Master Knight.”

This is, coincidentally, the first chapter to contain a character death warning, albeit for Clementine. But yeah, I mostly just wanted to point that out because it’s the first in-story suggestion that this subplot is going to spell his doom.

What kinda screwed Lincoln in the end was him jumping in to fight Gaudin and help Warriors when he knew he shouldn’t have. As Lana said, he trifled with what he did not understand.

I didn’t invent Lincoln to die, but as I was first drafting the plot back in 2021, I knew that I should kill him off. As I always do, I explored what the story would look like if I kept him alive, and I actually came up with an alternate ending to CTB that I can’t discuss right now because it contains a spoiler to how I want CTB to end.

So I knew from the beginning that he was meant to die, and I knew that I wanted to take the reader from hating him to liking him. This is why we meet him before chapter 5, which is the chapter that establishes how Link starts to fuck up the engineer. Link was a bit of an ass before that moment, but Lincoln’s dislike for him seems way more irrational.

The dual-timeline structure also became really helpful here since Lincoln’s harshest moment with Link, when he was rescuing the engineer in chapter 22, comes afters Lincoln’s proved himself by rescuing Warriors and carrying him across Hyrule. The reader is primed to like him at the same time they’re prime to hate Warriors.

To be fair, I think what made people like Lincoln the most was him being married to Ganondorf. If he had approval ratings, it would skyrocket.

As much as I was bitching about taking four chapters to cover one plot point, it did come with time for me to push Lincoln and Warriors’s reconciliation, going from tentative allies to family. Which in turn, made his death all the rougher.

Okay, back to the plot beats.

As a lot of you guys pointed out, the first sign that something was wrong with Lincoln was that he let Linkle run off to fight the curse. The second sign, was him calling Warriors son. As mentioned in story, that is a verbal tic that has never applied to Warriors before. If Warriors ever thought something could be wrong with Lincoln, that could have cued him.

I had a lot of different ideas for how Spirit would be involved with Lincoln’s death.

One version of the reveal I really liked was Lincoln having gone off to scout the area, leaving Warriors behind. Spirit would sprint in, demanding where Lincoln was because his spirit had disappeared while a new dark spirit was walking around. In the middle of the conversation, without looking, Spirit would raise his gun and shoot something off to the side. Of course, this would be Lincoln who would have moved out of the way just in time to only be grazed.

Lincoln’s possession really revealed how little he trusted Spirit. If Lincoln had a better relationship with him, he probably would have less readily believed Spirit had betrayed him.

Also, it is such a Spirit move to try to convince the curse to just leave Lincoln by promising to protect it from the others. As much as he wants to get the job done, the job went from “defeating the dark spirit” to “keeping Lincoln alive.” If he’s got to bend his morals a little to make that happen, then so be it.

And there is something sad about how Spirit ultimately does like Lincoln enough to betray himself a little to save him, but Lincoln did not like Spirit enough to not be easily swayed into attacking him.

My original vision for the duel against Lincoln would have been Spirit and Warriors teaming up like they did on the battlefield in chapter 23-- Spirit with the sword and Warriors with the shield. The problem is that I gave Sky the Lokomo sword.

I think Spirit is a great fighter, even if he had to be dragged into it kicking and screaming. I also think he relies heavily on being viscous over real technique. He could probably fight with an unfamiliar sword well enough normally, but he’s also really beaten up and weak at this point. There would be no way he could hold up against Lincoln no matter what I did.

So between that and the fact that Spirit and Warriors have already teamed up before, I decided to cut it. But now I’m starting to think I could have still included it but focused way more on Spirit getting his ass handed to him.

It’s really hard to sell an original character as being better at something than the canonical characters to the reader, which has always made Lincoln’s skills as a duelist a little interesting to sell. It helps that he’s a guy since there’s way less of a knee jerk reaction to label him as a Mary Sue. Nonetheless, I really wish I did a bit more to show off that Lincoln is one of the best fighters in the story.

You know that line Lincoln dropped around Marigold? Don’t worry about it. We’ll get to that can of worms eventually haha

I could not stop crying when working on Lincoln’s death scene. From writing to editing, I could not stop crying. This is not an exaggeration. I have been pumped to kill this man off, and I still found it deeply trigger.

One reason is that a lot of this scene was based on the emotions I experienced when my mother died. That description of helplessly staring down the inevitability of death-- I know what that felt like, and I splattered that experience across the entire scene.

I am also very close with dad, who is nowhere near young anymore (my parents had children later in life). Killing off Lincoln forced me to confront a lot of my fears about watching my dad die. When Warriors said that Lincoln couldn’t die because his mother was already dead-- the injustice that you will have to experience the grief and loneliness of losing your parents long before any of your friends ever will-- those are my feelings.

I know I have cracked jokes about Lincoln dying, but this scene inevitably became something very personal for me. I wanted this to be devastating because the very thought of having to experience a parent’s death again is paralyzing for me.

Every little moment of his death made me cry, but the biggest triggers were a) Hyrule saying “I’m sorry”, b) Linkle’s various pleading, c) Lincoln asking to wear his ring, and d) Lincoln admitting he’s scared.

The moment with the ring is my favorite. The small, quiet amazement when Lincoln realized that here, at the end of his life, he could wear his ring around his finger-- immediately crushing.

I was tempted to share the line “Can I Wear It” out of context as a “hahaha this is such a simple line but it’s gonna make you cry” post, but I decided to keep mum and not preemptively ruin my own moment.

I intended for one of Lincoln’s last lines to be an blunt realization on his part about where he went wrong as a father, but I cut it because even in death I don’t think Lincoln would be good at expressing himself.

The line is kinda important for, you know, the themes and stuff (I am so sorry that I keep talking about themes), but I think I can squeeze it into the next chapter.

So Lincoln admitting he’s scared... okay, let me get on my soapbox for a moment.

The older I get, the more I realize that everyone is terrified of dying. One day you are going to wake up and you are going to know someone who died very abruptly and far, far too soon. It will put a fear of death into you, and it will happen far sooner than you realize.

By virtue of having older parents and straight up bad luck, I had already been to a lot of funerals before I hit my 20s. Whatever fear I had got worse not only after my mom’s death, but also the deaths of other people in my circle. I had a college professor who died of an aneurysm. She was only in her 30s.

Everyone I know is at least 2 handshakes away from someone who abruptly died. I have had lunch dates with friends where all we’ve done is exchanged stories of really sudden deaths we’ve heard about from other parts of our social circle.

And there’s this point where you this that surely you’re going to get used to this, and death will stop being terrifying once more. But because my parents were older when they had kids, all of the adults in my life are also much older than average. They’re in their late 60s and mid 70s now. You would think they would be more comfortable with death.

But, no. They are also plainly scared of it. They have similar discussions around the dining room table about the people in their lives who have abruptly died, and the numbers rise every year. It scares them.

I think we invented this trope of the wise mentor who embraces death as a way to cope. We want to believe that there will be a point where we too will be so intelligent and world-weary that we could accept death with open arms. I’m starting to realize that I am never going to be prepared for death. That is not a fault of my character. That is the natural response.

Nonetheless, it’s still distressing to look at your own father who is only getting older and realize that he’s distressed by the thought of dying. He wants to cling to the world, even when he says he doesn’t. You want him to face it with grace because it will make his eventual death easier on you. But death is never going to be easy.

He’s not dead yet, but when he will, it’s going to hurt. And I just wanted to have a moment where Lincoln showed that fear of death because it felt real to life. Your loved ones will not go gently into the good night. They will rage, and it’s going to suck.

One last note about Lincoln’s death-- this scene contains one of my favorite uses of the “he lied” tag:

Warriors swallowed. He took Lincoln’s hand. “It’s like going to sleep,” he lied.

I love experimenting with this tag and finding the most effective ways to use it. This one is my favorite. It says so much about how Warriors views his actions, and it refrains his lying as an act of kindness. I love it.

Another really small moment I love is Lana kissing the back of Linkle’s head. I love that tiny moment of tenderness.

For killing off Lincoln, I knew it was going to be either Warriors, Spirit, or Linkle.

For Warriors, it would be a monkey’s paw moment for the reader who probably wanted him to kick Lincoln’s ass back when we all agreed he was being a dick.

For Spirit, it would have been another moment where he’s been forced to make another ugly, terrible choice because no one else will. Another moment of injustice.

But Warriors and Spirit were beat out very early on in my plotting process by Linkle.

I have tried writing my thoughts on Linkle multiple times, but I keep veering into a rant about the way people treat female characters that has absolutely nothing to do with Linkle. I’m going to try to stay on topic.

Linkle’s thematic (so sorry to bring up themes again) purpose is to give Warriors an opportunity to break the cycle. This entire story is about how maybe that whole system where we allow children to save Hyrule and solve everyone’s problems was not a good idea, and maybe allowing that to happen has devastating consequences. Yes, there’s Warriors and his fucked up bullshit. But there’s also the lowering of the draft age, Kat’s underage prostitution, and so on. Maybe the whole system is broken.

So enter Linkle: she wants to be heroic and fight. She’s very upbeat about it, and there’s a comedic bent to how Lincoln can’t quite stop her from running off and doing whatever.

My plan was for the reader to start out wanting to see Linkle be some kind of badass, only to slowly realize how badly that would go by virtue of learning more about Warriors’s past.

I don’t think that was successful. I think the desire to see Linkle do cool things outweighed any other argument. I don’t know if that is my fault or not.

On one hand, I think playing up Linkle’s desire to be heroic as comedic undermined the point I was trying to make. Plus, my desire to have Linkle involved in the plot meant that she had a lot of moments where she got to do very hero-esque things without consequence.

On the other hand... I don’t think I was subtle in establishing Linkle as both reckless and naive. Lincoln, Warriors, and the like all have moments where they outright explained to her (and the reader) why she needs to stay out of everything.

And most importantly, her pathologic need to be useful in order to earn love is a direct parallel to Time when he was a child.

I thought I was being heavy handed, but I don’t know. I guess time will tell if I actually did any of this well or not.

Warriors turned another really important corner in his growth in that he finally doesn’t fall back into his old patterns. Saving the kingdom, or even his political plans, are no longer worth the price of dragging another person into his mess like he did with the engineer and (to an extent) the Chain afterwards.

I almost named this part of the chapter “The Cycle Ends” because it’s such a significant moment for him. He’s clawing his way out, though it comes at the consequence of Linkle’s guilt.

As explained in the narration, she doesn’t get the luxury of having a grand purpose. She did this and, unlike Warriors, she can’t explain it away. She’s kind of speedrunning Warriors’s arc of realizing that your actions are your own and no divine pact can excuse them away.

I feel like I should have more to say about this. Like a final parting note about this tragic turn in Linkle’s story. Maybe I will in a few days, but I have already been working on this commentary for a week now. I need to be done with this already.

I don’t know. If you have any insight, let me know! You probably have more valuable to add to the conversation than the bozo who has been staring at these characters for too long.

#your bonus fun fact is that the bit about Warriors's favorite color being a cosmic joke is a repurposed headcanon I originally had for Wild #Amnesiac wild would have done all this self-exploration to realize his favorite color was green only to be disturbed to realize that it was #the original hero's color. I like the idea of the headcanon a lot but I am also never gonna write that wild-centric story idea I had back i #2021 so i figured the core concept could be reused here #me rambling #lu ctb #linked universe #ctb commentary #director's commentary #lu call them brothers #ctb lore #ctb spoilers #bonus bonus fun fact is that originally spirit was going to help Warriors with the necklace but i changed it at the last minute when #i remembered the bullshit going on in Spirit's mind right now. oh spirit... the things you are going to do....#ask

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cl0udy3 · 3 days ago

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ellie williams x dina's sister!reader wc: 16045 ✩ pt1 | pt2

You let Jesse lead you in, your hand resting lightly on the crook of his elbow. The music sounded like an old folk song—probably one someone had taught the band from memory, upbeat and clumsy in the best way. The lights strung from tree to tree swung gently in the breeze, casting warm shadows across the square.

Jesse tugged you toward the food stalls with a grin. “I’m telling you—Maria said they’re frying bread with actual sugar. Like, sugar. Not weird beet syrup.”

You snorted. “I didn’t even know we had sugar.”

“We don’t. That’s why this is a big deal.”

You let him drag you between booths strung with twinkle lights and old cloth banners. The makeshift signs leaned sideways—chalk lettering smudged, wood cracked from too many repurposings. Everything smelled like cinnamon and smoke and yeast.

“Okay,” Jesse said, stopping at a stall where someone was dropping dough into sizzling oil. “This is it. Prepare to be spiritually moved.”

The woman behind the stand handed over two paper-wrapped pastries, still steaming.

You bit into yours—and immediately winced.

“What the hell?” you said through a mouthful of hot air. “This is… weirdly chewy.”

Jesse choked on his own bite laughing. “You gotta get past the weird shell part. It’s crunchy, not chewy.”

“It’s definitely chewy.”

“You’re ungrateful.”

You grinned around another bite, because he wasn’t wrong—it was good, in that weird, undercooked comfort food kind of way. Sweet and greasy and warm in a way that made your stomach feel a little less hollow.

You moved from stand to stand. Tried roasted corn, laughed at Jesse when he got honey stuck in his hair from a too-eager spoonful of syrup, sipped cider from old glass bottles passed around by volunteers.

There was a little booth filled with handmade things—stitched coin purses, carved buttons, crooked little necklaces with beads that didn’t match. You ran your fingers along a strand of green stones, then let your hand drop. It was pretty. It just didn’t feel like yours.

Jesse watched you out of the corner of his eye. “You should get something. Treat yourself.”

You gave him a weak smile. “I don’t need anything.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t deserve something.”

You didn’t answer that. Just moved on.

Someone was handing out fried squash at the next booth—coated in something crunchy and salty. Jesse tried to get you to eat a whole piece in one bite.

“You first,” you said, already wary.

He did. Nearly burned his tongue.

You laughed so hard you had to lean against the stall.

“That was,” he gasped, fanning his mouth, “a betrayal of the highest order.”

“Justice,” you corrected. “That was justice.”

The night was warm and messy and a little too loud, but Jesse had a way of cutting through it—making you feel like the two of you were moving in a different rhythm than everyone else.

He nudged your elbow as you passed a stall where someone had tried to hang fairy lights shaped like stars. Half of them were burnt out. “You know,” he said, “if this was a date, this would be the part where I awkwardly mention how pretty you look and then immediately ruin it by tripping over something.”

You raised a brow. “If this was a date?”

He grinned. “It’s not?”

You rolled your eyes and kept walking. “It is now, apparently.”

But there was something warm in your chest for a second.

Just for a second.

And then the music changed—slowed into something older, softer, with a rhythm that pulled you gently toward the edge of the dance floor.

You hesitated. Just for a second.

Then Jesse turned to you, one hand already extended, that half-smile tugging at his mouth.

“Come on,” he said, eyes crinkling. “Just one?”

You looked at his hand.

At the soft glow of lights above. The blur of bodies already swaying in time.

And you nodded. “Yeah. Why not?”

Just one.

He didn’t make a big thing of it. Just took your hand, led you toward the edge of the makeshift dance floor, and twirled you once—not gracefully, but enough to make you laugh.

You found the rhythm together, swaying slowly as people danced around you. His hand rested light on your waist. Your head tilted just a little closer than before. And for a few minutes, it was nice.

Simple. Safe.

You weren’t thinking about Ellie.

Not yet.

Then, somewhere behind you, laughter rang out.

You turned your head—and there they were.

Ellie and Dina had joined the floor, already half-tangled in motion. Ellie was trying to dance, you could tell. But her timing was a mess, too stiff and awkward. Dina laughed, full and bright, reaching for Ellie’s hands to guide her through the steps.

“She’s terrible,” you murmured.

Jesse smiled faintly. “She’s trying.”

Ellie tripped, almost stepped on Dina’s foot, and muttered something under her breath. Dina leaned in to tease her, and Ellie’s mouth tugged into that crooked, sideways grin—the one that always pulled something out of you.

They moved together more easily now, settling into the music.

Still clumsy. But better.

Like they were finding the rhythm together.

Your feet stuttered a little.

Jesse’s hand tightened just slightly on your waist, steadying you.

You tried to focus on Jesse again.

Tried to smile. To stay in that soft little space you’d carved out for yourself. Warm hands. Familiar laughter. A boy who always showed up when he said he would.

But the air shifted. A subtle pause in the music. A ripple of movement near the far edge of the floor.

You glanced over.

And your eyes found them immediately.

Ellie and Dina, still swaying. Still close. Only now, they weren’t dancing anymore. Not really. They were murmuring something to each other, faces tucked close, noses nearly brushing.

Ellie looked soft in the glow of the string lights. Her expression was open in a way it rarely was. Vulnerable. Tender. Her eyes half-lidded, locked on Dina’s mouth like it was the only thing in the world that made sense.

And then—

Their lips met.

It wasn’t a question, or a maybe, or an accident. It was sure. Solid. The kind of kiss that feels like a decision.

Your breath hitched.

You didn’t realize your smile had dropped until Jesse’s hand shifted gently on your back.

“Hey,” he said, quiet. “You good?”

You didn’t answer.

Your chest tightened, too full and too empty all at once.

The music kept playing. The lights kept swaying. The crowd kept spinning around you like nothing had happened.

But you weren’t in it anymore.

You were just watching them—frozen in that second, in that kiss, in that look that said everything they hadn't said before now.

You stepped back from Jesse.

Not suddenly. Just enough.

He looked at you, confused, starting to speak—but you shook your head. Barely.

The air felt too thin. The lights too bright.

The whole space pressed in around you, too warm, too loud, too everything.

You needed to get out.

Now.

You turned and slipped through the edge of the dance floor, dodging past couples and hands and lanterns. You didn’t stop when someone called your name. Didn’t look back.

Didn’t breathe until the music was behind you, muffled by the trees and the walls of the nearest building.

And still, it wasn’t enough.

You pressed your hand to your chest like you could hold yourself together that way. Like you could keep from unraveling completely.

Footsteps followed—quick but careful.

Jesse.

“Hey,” he said, catching up. “Wait—hey. What happened?”

You didn’t turn around.

“Hey,” he said again, softer now. Closer. “Talk to me.”

You stood still for a second.

Then your voice cracked.

“I can’t.”

He didn’t touch you, didn’t crowd you, just stood close. Steady. A silent offer.

“I thought I could just—” You stopped. Shook your head. “I saw them.”

Jesse exhaled. Quiet. Like maybe he’d seen too.

“I’m sorry.”

You let the silence settle between you.

Then: “It’s not your fault.”

He still didn’t try to fix it. Still didn’t say something stupid like you’ll find someone else or you’re better off.

He just stood there with you. In the dark. In the cold.

While you tried not to fall apart.

You didn’t say much after that.

Didn’t need to.

Jesse walked you home in silence, hands in his jacket pockets, glancing over at you every few steps like he was checking to see if you were still breathing.

You weren’t crying. Not really.

BUt you looked like someone who wanted to disappear.

When you reached your porch, you fumbled with the key, fingers numb. Jesse took it from you without asking and unlocked the door.

He didn’t leave.

You didn’t ask him to stay, either.

He just stepped inside behind you and closed the door gently, like he was afraid it might break you if it slammed too hard.

You toed off your boots. Kicked them into a corner. Peeled off the dress slowly, folding it over your arm with more care than you had for yourself.

“Want tea?” he asked.

You shook your head.

“Water?”

Still no.

You just stood there in your room in an old hoodie and socks, arms crossed tight like they were holding you together. Jesse lingered in the doorway.

“I’m not going home tonight,” he said softly.

You didn’t argue.

He knew better. Knew that if he left, you’d sit there and spiral. Maybe wouldn’t sleep. Maybe wouldn’t eat. Might stare at the walls until your body gave out before your heart did.

So he made himself at home. Kicked off his boots. Grabbed the blanket from your bed and dropped it on the couch. Tossed you a pair of socks that didn’t have holes.

“You want me to sleep down here?”

You shrugged.

“I can sleep on the floor.”

You looked over at him. Finally. “Don’t be dumb.”

He smiled—just barely. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all night.”

You ended up lying down first, back turned toward the wall.

You didn’t ask him to join you. But when the mattress dipped behind you, when he laid down with enough space between your bodies to be respectful but not distant, you didn’t stop him either.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t try to talk. Just breathed slow and steady beside you. Just enough to remind you you weren’t alone.

You woke up before the sun.

You’re body ached like you’d been carrying something heavy all night. You stayed curled on your side, eyes barely open, staring at the soft edges of the curtain as morning crept in.

Your face felt tight. Sticky. You reached up and touched under your eyes, fingers coming away smudged with old mascara and salt.

You must’ve cried in your sleep.

Maybe not loud. But hard enough that it left behind the evidence.

Behind you, Jesse shifted.

He hadn’t moved much in the night. You’d felt the slow rise and fall of his breathing against your back, not touching but close enough to anchor you. Now he let out a quiet breath and sat up, rubbing his face.

“You up?” he asked, voice rough.

You didn’t answer right away. Just nodded against the pillow.

He reached over and gently pushed your hair out of your face, fingers brushing your temple. You flinched without meaning to. Not because it hurt—just because everything did.

Jesse didn’t take it personally. Just leaned back again and stared at the ceiling for a minute.

Then” “You look like you got into a fight with a raccoon.”

You huffed, weak and dry. “Thanks.”

“I mean it affectionately.”

You dragged yourself into a sitting position. Your whole body felt like it was underwater. The hoodie you’d fallen asleep in was wrinkled and damp at the collar. You wiped your eyes again, not that it helped.

“Bathroom’s still where you left it,” Jesse says gently. “Go clean up. I’ll make tea or… whatever you’ve got.”

You stood slowly, shoulders heavy. You didn’t want to see your reflection. But you went anyway.

When you looked in the mirror, you barely recognized yourself.

Your mascara was smudged halfway down your cheeks. Your lips were cracked. Your eyes were swollen.

You splashed cold water on your face, swiped away the worst of it with the edge of a towel. You didn’t look any better after, but at least you looked awake.

You reemerged to find Jesse sitting at the table with two chipped mugs in front of him, both steaming. He didn’t say anything when you sat down.

Just pushed one of them toward you.

You didn’t ask what was in it.

You just drank.

Jesse stayed for a little while longer.

Long enough to finish his drink. Long enough to make sure you didn’t go back to bed and stay there forever.

At some point, he leaned against the door frame, arms crossed, watching you stir what was probably over-steeped tea in your cup.

“You should go outside,” he said. “Get some sun. Or just walk around.”

You didn’t respond.

He waited, then pushed off the frame and grabbed his jacket from where he’d draped it over the chair.

“I’ve got patrol this afternoon,” he said, quiet. “But I’ll come back later, okay?”

You nodded. Still didn’t look at him.

He paused at his door, keys in hand. “You’re not alone, y’know.”

You gave him the smallest shrug. It didn’t feel like enough, but it was all you had.

He left without pushing.

The quiet that followed didn’t feel peaceful. Just empty.

You sat there until the tea went cold, your fingers wrapped around the mug like it might give you something back. It didn’t

The rest of the day passed in the same blur. You wandered from room to room like you didn’t quite fit anywhere. Tried to read. Gave up. Thought about putting the dress away, but you couldn’t bring yourself to touch it.

Evening came.

You were still in the same hoodie. Hair half-dried from your rushed cleanup that morning. The sky outside was fading to pink and grey when someone knocked on the door.

You didn’t think. Just moved to open it, assuming Jesse had come back like he said he would.

You didn’t hesitate. You pulled open the door—and there she was.

Ellie.

Hands stuffed in her jacket pockets. Hair a little messy. Eyes wide like she hadn’t expected you to actually answer.

You froze.

She blinked. “Hey.”

Just one word.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Your hand still on the door, heartbeat suddenly loud in your ears.

You didn’t say anything. Neither did she.

The silence between you buzzed. Not quite angry. Not quite anything. Just loud. Just there.

Ellie shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Her fingers twitched inside her jacket pockets.

You stood in the doorway, unsure if you were supposed to let her in or close the door in her face.

Eventually, she cleared her throat. “I—um.” Her voice cracked a little. “I didn’t think you’d answer.”

You still didn't say anything.

She gave a weak breath of a laugh. “Guess that’s fair.”

You leaned against the doorframe. Not to be casual. Just because your legs felt too tired to keep holding you up properly.

Ellie glanced past you, into the house. “Jesse here?”

You shock your head.

Eventually, she looked down at her boots. “I—I wasn’t sure if I should come,” she said. “But Jesse said you were having a hard time and…”

She trailed off.

You stayed in the doorway. One hand still gripping the knob.

Ellie rubbed at the back of her neck. Her voice dropped lower. “I saw you leave.”

You didn’t react.

She waited like she thought you might respond to that. You didn’t.

“I didn’t mean for you to see that,” she added, quieter. “Me and Dina. That wasn’t… planned. It just kind of… happened.”

Still nothing.

Ellie’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, but you didn’t hold her gaze. You looked somewhere over her shoulder, at the empty street behind her.

“You okay?” she asked.

That made your eyes flicker. Not in surprise—more like disbelief. She seemed to catch it.

“I mean—” she shifted again, flustered. “That was a dumb question. I know you’re not okay. I just—fuck, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

A beat. Another.

You opened your mouth like you were going to say something. Then closed it again.

Ellie took a small step closer, her foot landing on the threshold—but she didn’t cross it.

“I just wanted to check in,” she said eventually. “Make sure you were still here.” You didn’t answer. But you didn’t close the door, either.

She took that as something. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe you didn’t even know what it meant.

She let out a soft breath and gave you a sad, crooked smile—barely there.

“I’ll go,” she said. “But… I’m around. If you wanna yell at me. Or say something. Or nothing.”

You didn’t move.

Ellie hesitated, like she still had more to say. But she didn’t say it. She just turned, and walked away.

You watched her go until she disappeared around the corner.

Then you shut the door. And sat down on the floor

You didn’t move for a long time after Ellie left. You just sat on the floor, back against the door, staring at nothing.

Your ears still rang from the quiet. And then it hit you. Like a wave you couldn’t brace for. Your chest caved in.

You folded forward, arms curling around your knees as the sob burst out of you—raw and shaking and too loud for how small you felt. Like your ribs had cracked open and everything you’d been holding in poured out all at once.

You buried your face in your arms, fingers digging into your sleeves, trying to ground yourself in something, anything that wasn’t this.

But there was no stopping it. No biting back. No pretending it didn’t matter. It mattered. It mattered so much it hurt.

And that was the worst part. How much it hurt. That it had been real, even if it hadn’t been enough.

You cried until your throat burned. Until your body ached from it. Until there was something left but the distant, familiar buzz of grief curling itself around your spine.

When it finally passed, you didn’t feel lighter.

You just felt empty.

It was late afternoon when the knock came again.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t even look. The door opened anyway—slow and careful.

You heard soft footsteps.

“Hey,” came Dina’s voice. Quiet. Tentative. “Just grabbing some stuff real quick. Didn’t think you’d be home.”

You didn’t respond.

She moved past the entryway toward the closet in the back where she kept some things when she stayed over. You stayed where you were—on the floor, blanket wrapped around your shoulders, face puffy and red and streaked with dried tears.

Dina must’ve seen you as she passed through. She stopped in the doorway.

“Oh,” she said, softly. Like the sound hurt her.

You looked up at her. Or through her. It was hard to tell.

Her arms were full of folded shirts, a pair of boots tucked under one elbow. She opened her mouth like she was going to say something, then paused.

“I didn’t mean to bother you,” she said. “I just thought you might be out with Jesse.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t move.

The silence stretched between you again—different from the one you shared with Ellie. This had history in it. Weight.

Dina shifted the clothes in her arms, eyes darting between the floor and your face.

“I’ll be out of your way in a sec.”

Still, nothing from you.

She hesitated. Like she wanted to say something more. But maybe she knew better. She turned to leave. Then stopped at the door, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You don’t have to be alone, you know.”

You flinched. But you didn’t respond. And Dina didn’t push.

She left quietly. Jesse didn’t come back that night. You didn’t blame him though.

You had willed yourself to move from the floor to the couch instead, maybe if you got tired which you didn’t, but it hurt less than sitting on hard wood.

You didn’t do much the next day, either. Didn’t open the blinds. Didn’t brush your hair. Barely drank water.

You sat in the same hoodie, same socks, wrapped in the same blanket on the same corner of the couch.

The world felt too far away to bother reaching for.

And then—soft knock. Familiar. You didn’t answer. Jesse came in anyway.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just set something down on the counter. Moved around your tiny kitchen with easy, practiced steps he’d done it a hundred times. Because he had.

You watched him out of the corner of your eye.

He unpacked food from a cloth bundle, something warm, something that smelled like garlic and broth and cheap cheese.

“You gotta eat,” he said. Not like a demand. Just like a fact.

You didn’t answer. But when he handed you the bowl, you took it. Ate slow mouthfuls, heavy and tasteless but necessary.

He didn’t hover. Just sat beside you, eating his own, legs pulled up on the couch, toes poking out of socks with holes in them.

Later, he brought you water.

Later still, he placed something soft on the coffee table in front of you.

You blinked at it.

Your journal.

He didn’t say anything. Just slid a pen beside it and leaned back, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You used to write,: he said, voice low. “Figured maybe it’d help. If not, that’s fine too.”

You looked at it. The familiar cover, worn at the edges. Your name scribbled inside the front flap like it belonged to someone else.

You didn’t touch it.

It got dark again.

He stayed. You didn’t ask him to.

When the quiet stretched too long, he grabbed a pillow and collapsed beside you, head tilted back, eyes fluttering shut.

“I’m staying again,” he muttered. “Don’t argue.”

You didn’t.

Eventually, Jesse’s breathing evened out beside you.

His arm was slung across his stomach, one leg bent awkwardly off the edge of the couch. You could hear the soft hum of his exhales. The occasional twitch of a foot. He was really out.

You envied him.

The quiet wasn’t heavy anymore. Not like before. But it wasn’t comforting. Either. Just… there.

You shifted forward, pulling the blanket tighter around you as you reached for the journal on the table.

Your fingers hovered above it for a second. Like touching it might make everything real again. Not louder, just more.

Then you picked it up.

It still smelled like old ink and dust. Still creaked a little when you opened it.

You flipped through past entries. There were fragments—things you’d forgotten writing. A sketch of the greenhouse. A list of names. A grocery list from three months ago with a tiny doodle of Ellie’s boots in the margin.

You turned the page.

Blank.

You held the pen like it might shake out the ache in your chest.

It started with one line. Then another.

You hadn’t planned to write anything, not really. But your hand moved anyway, as if your body knew what your heart couldn’t say out loud.

The candle flickered on the table, barely enough light to see. Your vision blurred almost immediately, tears spilling down your cheeks and dripping off your chin. Quiet. Constant. You didn’t even bother to wipe them away.

The page beneath your hand blurred and buckled with the weight of them, ink bleeding in soft rivers.

But your hand didn’t stop. You couldn’t stop. The words just kept coming.

—

You stopped.

The pen clattered from your hand to the floor, landing with a soft thud against the wood.

You stared at the page—streaked with ink, warped with tears, full of things no one would ever read.

It looked like something that belonged in a museum or a seal box in a lover’s attic. Something tragic and important and irreversibly personal.

You didn’t feel better. But you felt emptied. That was something.

You woke up on the couch again.

Jesse was still there too—curled in the same spot he’d climbed last night, blanket slipping off his shoulder, one leg hanging off the edge like he’d lost a fight with gravity in his sleep.

You’d barely slept. Maybe an hour or two. Maybe none at all.

The journal sat closed on the table, pages still wrinkled from tears, your pen resting gently on top. You didn’t touch it this time. You just stared at it until the sunlight finally spilled in through the curtains.

Upstairs, everything was still. Your bedroom untouched. You hadn’t gone up there in days.

You didn’t know if you wanted to.

Eventually, Jesse stirred—stretching, groaning softly, blinking blearily in the golden light.

He glanced at you. Didn’t smile. Just looked.

“You sleep at all?” he asked, voice rough.

You shook your head.

He nodded, like he expected that. Still, he got up. Went to the kitchen. You heard him moving around—heating some water, rummaging through cabinets like he owned the place.

He came back with two mugs, handing one off without a word. You took it.

The tea was hot. A little bitter. Perfect.

He sat with you in the quiet, sipping slow, elbows on his knees.

Then he said it.

“Tommy came by this morning.”

Your eyes flicked toward him, but only for a second.

“Said they’re short for patrol. It’s an easy one. Just a loop through the fair west trail.”

You didn’t say anything.

He looked at you gently. “Not pushin’. Just letting you know it’s there.”

You nodded, barely.

Jesse stood. Stretched again, then moved toward the front food when a knock rattled it. You watched from the couch as he cracked it open.

“Hey,” came Tommy’s voice. “She doing alright?”

“She’s holding.”

A pause. Then another voice, quiet and familiar.

Joel.

“We don’t mean to crowd her. Just… checkin’ in.”

Jesse glanced over his shoulder at you—checking. You nodded once. He let them step in.

They didn’t go far. Just stood near the bottom of the stairs, looking like they weren’t sure if they were welcome.

“Didn’t mean to intrude,” Joel said. “Just thought maybe she’d want to see a familiar face.”

You didn’t get up. But you did speak. “Thanks for stopping by.”

Your voice was soft. Hoarse from disuse. But it was something.

Tommy gave a small, sad smile. “You ever feel ready to get back out there, you’ve got a spot.”

They didn’t stay long. Didn’t say much else. Just left the silence intact behind them.

Jesse returned to the couch. Sat beside you again, shoulder almost touching.

“You don’t have to,” he said after a while. “But it might help. You’d be with me the whole time. No pressure.”

You looked down into your mug. Your arms felt heavy. But your heart wasn’t caving in the way it had before. And for the first time in days, the idea of leaving didn’t feel impossible.

You didn’t go out the rest of the day. Not yet. But something had changed.

You stood up for longer than five minutes. Cleaned out the mug Jesse left on the table. Opened a window. Let the air in, even if it was cold and damp and smelled like smoke from someone’s breakfast fire down the road.

Jesse didn’t push you again. He just stood nearby—talked a little, made soup, fixed the loose cabinet hinge in your kitchen that had been bothering him for months. At some point he offered to bring a deck of cards or one of those dusty books no one ever finished.

You told him, “Maybe tomorrow.”

And you sort of meant it.

That night, you actually slept in your bed again. Alone.

The next morning, you woke up to soft sun pooling through the curtains. The air felt light somehow.

You didn’t feel good. Not even close. But you didn’t feel like a ghost anymore.

You stood, stretched, and wandered through the quiet hush of your room. Let your fingers graze along the dress, the mirror frame, the windowsill. Everything covered in a fine layer of dust like it had been waiting for you to come back.

You got dressed slowly. Layers. Warm. Worn-in.

The same way you used to dress before patrols. It felt strange, how automatic it was. Like muscle memory. Like stepping into a version of yourself that had gone quiet for too long.

You even braided your hair. It wasn’t neat, but it was off your face. Out of the way.

You stared at your reflection for a long time afterward. Didn’t look like yourself. Didn’t not look like yourself either.

You made your way to the closet where your bag sat, slumped in a corner—dusty, forgotten, straps tangled from how you shoved it in after the last patrol.

You crouched down and pulled it out, letting it fall open across your bed. You started packing. Slowly.

Water flask. Gloves. A spare rage. One of Jesse’s granola bars he stole from the kitchen.

Then your fingers brushed something familiar at the bottom of the bag.

You knew what it was before you even saw it.

You pulled it out. Ellie’s knife. You hadn’t realized you’d kept it in there. Maybe you’d forgotten. Maybe you hadn’t. The weight of it in your hand was familiar. Comfortable in a way that made your chest tighten.

You turned it over slowly. The handle was still scuffed. The initials she’d carved—small and almost invisible—still there.

Your throat closed. Your vision blurred. You sat on the edge of the bed, knife in one hand, fingers trembling. You could’ve cried. You almost did. But you didn’t let yourself. Not this time. You breathed through it. Gritted your jaw. Pressed the flat of the blade against your thigh. Just for the steadiness of it.

Then you slid it into the side pocket of your pack. Didn’t think about it too much. Didn’t assign it meaning. Maybe you’d return it. Maybe you wouldn’t. Maybe you just needed something to hold.

You stood. Grabbed your bag, headed downstairs.

Downstairs was quiet. Soft light streamed through the curtains. Your bag was by the door. Your jacket was folded over the arm of the couch. You still had time before Jesse came by.

You weren’t sure what made you do it. Maybe it was the way the knife sat so heavily in your pocket.

Maybe it was just knowing you were about to step outside again—into the woods, into the unknown, into whatever the hell was waiting.

But something made you move.

You went to the drawer beside the bookshelf and pulled out two sheets of paper. Folded in the corners. Yellowing slightly at the edges. The kind you used for notes, or lists, or reminders you never followed.

You sat at the kitchen table. Picked up the pen still resting on top of your journal.

to dina. to ellie.

You stared at the pages after they were finished.

Didn’t reread them. Didn’t edit.

You folded them, hands trembling just slightly. Slipped each one into an old envelope from the drawer. Wrote their names on the front. Nothing more.

You left them by your journal on the coffee table and stared at them.

Just in case.

The knock came a little after. Two short raps, one longer one after. Jesse’s knock. Always the same.

You didn’t move right away. Just stared at the envelopes for a second longer.

Then you stood slowly, grabbed your bag and slipped your jacket on. You didn’t look at the mirror in the hall. You already knew what you looked like—hollowed out, too pale, eyes too tired to lie.

You opened the door.

Jesse stood there, hands in his pockets, hood up, color drawn tight against the fresh morning. He gave you a small, tired smile.

“Hey.”

His eyes searched your face. You knew he saw it—the way your shoulders didn’t sit quite right, the way your mouth was pinched like you were bracing for something. But he didn’t ask. Didn’t say anything.

Just nodded toward the street. “Ready?”

You adjusted the strap of your bag. “Yeah.”

The walk to the stables was quiet. The town hadn’t fully woken yet—just a few early risers moving through the fog drenched streets, murmurs of conversation rising from behind windows.

You and Jesse didn’t speak much.

He asked if you’d eaten. You lied and said yes. He asked if you brought enough ammo. You said you checked twice. He didn’t ask how you were. He didn’t need to.

When you reached the gates, the morning light had turned from pale grey to soft gold of late spring. The trees stretched long shadows across the road, and the watchtowers above buzzed faintly with radio chatter.

You mounted your horse slowly. Every movement felt distant—like watching someone else war your skin.

Jesse swings up beside you. Adjusted his grip on the reins. “We’re headed toward the west ridge. Should be quiet. Just a sweep.

You nodded.

He looked at you again. Longer this time. “You good?”

You didn’t answer at first. Then, “I’m here.”

That was all you could give him. And he didn’t push.

He just turned his horse, clicked his tongue, and the two of you rode out—past the gates, past the last flickers of town, and into the trees where no one could hear your silence.

The road was damp with the morning dew, the hooves of your horses squelching softly through the mud. The morning air was crisp, tinted green with the promise of summer, and somewhere above the trees, birds called to each other through the early light,

You rode in silence for a long while.

The kind that didn’t ask to be filled.

Jesse rode just ahead, letting the reins slack in his hands, the rise and falls of his horse’s gait steady and sure. Every so often he glanced back to make sure you were still there, still upright.

You were. Sort of.

“Do you think,” Jesse said eventually, “if someone brought back a popcorn machine, Maria would let us install it in the town hall?”

You blinked. “What?”

He looked over his shoulder, grinning. “Popcorn. For the movie nights. Think about it—actual butter. Actual crunch. None of this dried beet nonsense.”

You snorted, quiet. “You just want to hear it popping.”

“That and I want to be Jackson’s first popcorn baron.”

“Popcorn baron,” you echoed, deadpan.

“Every empire has to start somewhere.”

You shook your head, but a small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.

“See?” he said. “I knew you had one in you.”

Don’t push it.”

The trees pressed in a little closer as you turned off the main road, shadows stretching long over the path. The horses moved slower now, navigating the uneven terrain. You adjusted your grip on the reins, watching Jesse as he pointed out the familiar markers—carved bark here, and old boot nailed to a tree post there.

“This trail used to spook the hell outta me,” he said. “First time Tommy took me through, I thought a clicker was gonna jump me from the moss.”

“You were like sixteen,” you murmured. “Right?”

“Yeah,” he said, glancing over. “You remember?”

You gave a slight shrug. “You were the only one who came back covered in mud.”

He laughed—really laughed—and the sound startled you, bright, sudden against the stillness. You didn’t realize how much you’d missed that sound.

The trail dipped. You followed behind him, the sun beginning to filter through the sharper slants. The ride stretched on—quiet, yes, but not lonely. There was something almost comforting in the stillness, in the way the wind moved through the trees and the world didn’t ask anything of you for a while.

Eventually, Jesse looked back this time slower.

“You’re doing okay,” he said. Not a question.

You nodded, even though your chest ached. “Trying.”

He gave you a small nod back. “That’s enough.”

You wanted to believe that. You really did. But something heavy still sat in your gut. Like the day was waiting for something. Like silence was only here to make room for the fall.

And deep down, you already knew. This wasn’t going to end quietly.

The path opened unexpectedly.

The trail led you into what used to be Teton Village—a scattering of old buildings nestled against the hills, most of them overrun with ivy and time. Sings hung broken in windows; COFFEE ROASTERS, SKI RENTAL, BOOKS FOR ALL AGES.

You followed Jesse toward the latter. The library.

You’d been through here before—mostly to check for any supplies that hadn’t been stripped clean—but neither of you had ever gone past the front desk. The door creaked when you pushed them open, and the smell of old paper and mildew greeted you like an old friend.

Shelves stretched tall across the room, half-collapsed, heavy with water-damaged paperbacks and discolored encyclopedias. Dust floated through the thin light trickling in from broken windows.

Jesse pointed toward the back wall. “I think this is it.”

You followed him down the rows of sagging shelves until he stopped near a corner with a display sign still barely hanging on: LOCAL AUTHORS AND POETS — SUMMER PICKS.

He pushed gently against the shelf beneath it—and with a dull groan of shifting wood, it moved.

Behind it, a narrow staircase leading down.

You both stared for a second.

Then Jesse grinned. ”Of course he hid his weed bunker behind a bookshelf. Nerd.”

You rolled your eyes, but something in your chest twitched. Curiosity, maybe. Nostalgia. Or just the faint hope of warmth at the end of a long, cold week.

You both descended slowly, flashlight beams cutting through the dark.

And there it was. Eugene’s grow op.

The lights were long dead, but the room smelled faintly of plant life and old smoke. Shelves lined with plants, baggies, tins, jars. Posters of half-naked women in crop tops with “420” written in sparkly green text. A stained beanbag in one corner. An ancient stereo with cracked speakers.

And that familiar little table with a gasmask attached to a dusty bong still perched right in the center. You stepped in and let out a breath.

Jesse gave a low whistle. “Dina told me about this. Thought she was exaggerating.”

You didn’t say it out loud, but you thought of Ellie.

Her voice echoing in this space. Her laugh. The way she probably sat on that ratty old couch with Dina and told stories they never told you.

You swallowed it down.

You wandered slowly, your fingers trailing across old porn tapes and burnt out incense. You found a tin tucked behind a pot—stlll full of dried bud. A little stale, sure, but definitely smokeable.

You held it up. “How desperate are you?”

Jesse raised a brow. “It’s either that or stare at this place and try not to cry. Hand it over.”

You laughed. Not loud. But real.

You rolled one with shaky fingers, half out of habit. Held it to your mouth while Jesse lit it with a match from his pocket. The first inhale was rough, catching in your throat. You passed the blunt to Jesse and he coughed so hard he wheezed.

“Oh yeah,” he rasped. “That’s the good apocalypse shit.”

You laughed a little harder this time, the sound echoing faintly off the concrete walls.

You took another puff and the smoke curled in the stale air, lazily, like it didn’t care about time.

You leaned your head against the edge of the grimy couch, the half-joint burning slowly between your fingers, the warmth of it not quite enough to reach your chest. Jesse sat close beside you on the couch, legs stretched out, arms draped over his knees.

It wasn’t silence between you. Not exactly. Just something thicker. Not tension. Not comfort. Just… heavy quiet.

He takes a puff and exhales slowly, passing you the blunt. “You’ve barely said anything since we left town.”

You didn’t answer right away. You watched the smoke drift toward the ceiling. Watched how it curled around the old dead grow lights like ghosts too tired to haunt anything.

“Not much to say,” you murmured.

Jesse looked over at you.

“I mean—” you started, then stopped. “What do you say when the two people you love most are in love with each other?”

It came out sharper than you expected. But Jesse didn’t flinch.

He took the blunt back as you let out another puff, stared at the smoke for a little while. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, I know.”

You glanced at him. “Do you?”

He didn’t smile. “Dina and I didn’t end ‘cause we stopped caring. We just… didn’t fit anymore. Not the way she needed.” A beat, “But that didn’t mean I stopped feeling it.”

Your heart gave a slow reluctant squeeze.

“I hate that it still hurts,” you whispered.

“Doesn’t make you weak.”

“It makes me pathetic.”

He finally looked back at you, the weight of it gently but direct. “No. It makes you honest.”

You looked away. The smoke in your lungs felt tighter now, like it didn’t want to leave. You took another hit. Let it sit. Let it sting.

Jesse’s hand brushed yours as he reached for the ashtray. Just a touch. Just enough for you to feel it. You didn’t pull away.

“You ever think it would’ve been easier if one of them just… left?” you asked, voice too soft.

He exhaled through his nose. “Yeah. All the time.”

You nodded. “I feel like I’m watching something I was never invited to. Like I’m outside the window, but I built the fucking house.”

Jesse let out a dry, quiet laugh.

You looked at him again. Your knees were almost touching now. You hadn’t realized how close you’d drifted.

“You’re allowed to be mad,” he said. “You’re allowed to miss what you thought you had.”

You didn’t answer. Instead you looked around at the basement—the empty chairs, the dusty lamps, the peeling posters on the far wall. This place felt like the inside of your chest: abandoned, once vibrant, full of the ghost of something that might’ve mattered.

You handed Jesse the half-joint again. “Do you think Ellie’s happier now?”

Jesse watched you. “I think she doesn’t know what she’s doing. Same as the rest of us.”

You blinked. Swallowed the lump in your throat. And then, barely above a whisper, “She was mine first.”

It slipped out. The truth. Raw and tired and bleeding. You didn’t mean to say it. But Jesse didn’t flinch.

“She knows that,” he said, almost too quietly.

You nodded, eyes burning. “I just wish she remembered it.”

You both sat there for a while longer. He didn’t try to touch you again. Didn’t pull you in or offer anything big. But when you leaned sideways—just barely—he let your shoulder rest against his. Let you breathe through it.

Just for a moment. Neither of you talked anymore. There was nothing else to say—not today, anyway.

Jesse stretched beside you, arms folded behind his head, gaze trained on the ceiling like he could read something in the water stains there.

Then— creak.

Your head snapped up. Jesse stilled.

Another noise followed—a dull thud, somewhere above. Muffled voices. Not clear enough to make out, but loud enough to send adrenaline slicing through your haze.

You sat up, spine straightening, that old familiar weight pressing in behind your ribs.

Jesse looked at you. Neither of you said a word. The moment tightened like a wire.

He stood first, moving with quiet purpose toward the table. You followed, already slipping your bag over your shoulder, heart kicking faster as your body shook off the warmth.

Jesse carefully stubbed out the still-smoldering joint in the ashtray, muttering under his breath. “Dumb,” he hissed. “Should’ve known better.”

You grabbed your rifle from the ground, slinging the strap over your shoulder.

The sounds overhead grew louder—movement now. Bootsteps across carpet. Something clatter—maybe a chair or a shelf knocked over.

You both moved toward the stairs, the flashlight still clipped to Jesse’s backpack casting a thin beam up ahead. He killed it with a flick, leaving you both in darkness, your eyes straining to adjust.

“Up slow,” he whispered, his breath warm against your ear. “Don’t spook ‘em if they’re armed.”

You nodded once. Step by step, you climbed.

The metal stairs groaned faintly under your weight, and each sound sent another spike of tension through your lips. You could hear them clearer now—three voices, maybe four. Low. Male, from the sound of it. One of them laughed. Another swore.

“...told you they had shit here. Look at this bag.”

Your chest tightened. They were going through your stuff.

Jesse tapped your shoulder, then pointed upward—toward the crack of light where the hidden bookshelf had been pushed open just a few inches. A sliver of golden sun bled into the stairwell, dancing faintly across your boots.

Jesse leaned close again. “We wait for a gap. Then move.”

You nodded again. Your fingers curled tighter around the grip of your rifle. You felt it then—that weird feeling.

The one that told you this was no longer just a shitty patrol gone weird. This was something else. Something that might not let you come back the same.

The sun outside was blinding after the low, musty dark of the bunker.

You and Jesse slipped out through the bookshelf gap like shadows, quiet and smooth, barely a breath between your movements. You stuck to the edge of the hallway, the smell of dust and decay thick as you rounded the corner into the main room of the library.

There they were.

Four of them. Dirty jackets, old boots, gear patched together from who-knows-where. Two were at your saddlebags, rifling through the contents like they owned it. One had a machete strapped to his back. Another a rifle too large for his frame.

Jesse caught your eye. Counted to three with his fingers.

One. Two. You moved.

The first went down hard—a clean hit from Jesse’s boot to the back of the knee, his knife at the ready before the guy could even scream. You followed fast, catching the second one off-guard, slamming the butt of your rifle into his temple with a crunch of bone.

But it didn’t stay quiet. The other two spun around fast, shouting.

“Shit—fuck!”

“Don’t move!” Jesse barked, rifle raised now, breath ragged.

You did the same, blood rushing in your ears. For a moment, no one moved. Just the four of you—two standing, two bleeding out behind you.

One of them had a pistol. The other had a knife in hand, grip twitchy.

“Drop it,” you warned, voice shaking just enough for them to hear.

The guy with the pistol flinched—but didn’t lower it. His friend’s eyes were darting. Calculating.

Then someone made the wrong choice. A flash of movement. The knife guy lunged—not at you, but toward the door like he might bolt.

Distracted, you and Jesse raised your guns to shoot him. You pulled the trigger and at the same time so did two other people.

In that half-second of chaos, the one with the gun fired.

The sound split the air. You stumbled back.

Heat bloomed in your side. Your vision lurched.

You hit the ground before you even realized you’d fallen.

Jesse yelled something you didn’t hear.

Your ears rang, the ceiling spinning above you. You felt hands on your coat, pressure against your side, someone shouting your name.

“I got you,” Jesse said, his voice distant, his hands so much pressure. “Stay with me, c’mon—hey! Stay with me.”

Your breath rattled. You coughed—wet, sharp—and tasted copper.

It hurt. A lot. But you were still awake. Still alive.

You looked down. The bullet had caught you near the ribcage, right side. Low. Too low to be your lung, you thought. You hoped. It burned like hell. Blood poured from between Jesse’s fingers as he knelt beside you, his face pale, wild-eyed.

“You’re okay,” he kept saying. “You’re okay. Just hang on, alright?”

You nodded, Or tried to.

Jesse slinked an arm around you and it never left your waist.

You barely noticed when he hauled you into the saddle, just that the pressure made you scream through clenched teeth, and the world tipped sideways so fast you nearly lost consciousness.

He pressed you forward, one arm tight around your middle, the other gripping the reins like a lifeline. You sagged against him, breath catching on every jolt of the horse’s gait.

“Hold on,” he muttered under his breath. “C’mon, just—hold on for me.”

The trees passed in smears of green and gray. The air was sharp and cold against your face, but your skin was burning. You didn’t know how long you’d been riding before you realized Jesse had started talking more—to you, or maybe just the space around you. HIs voice was thin, ragged.

“You’re good. You’re good. I think it missed the lung. That’s just what I think, anyway. It didn’t look deep. You’re gonna be okay. We’ll be back soon. They’ll fix you up—”

Your head dropped forward onto his shoulder. Your hands had gone numb

“Hey—hey, don’t you do that.” His voice cracked. He adjusted his hold, trying to keep you upright. “Stay awake.”

“I’m here,” you mumbled, barely above a whisper.

He let out a breath, shaky and uneven. “Good. That’s good.”

The road dipped, then rose. The sound of hoovers on the gravel echoed too loud in your ears.

You were drifting. The pain in your side wasn’t sharp anymore. It was something duller now. Like your body had started to accept it. Or give up.

Jesse cursed under his breath.

“I wrote letters,” you murmured, voice muffled against his jacket.

He tensed behind you. “What?”

“They’re… in my house. On the coffee table. Just in case.” “No.”

You blinked slowly, eyes barely able to focus on the blur of trees.

“If I don’t make it—”

“You’re not saying goodbye,” He sounded angry now. Desperate. “Don’t you fucking say goodbye.”

“I just… want someone to know.”

He didn’t answer. Just tightened his grip and leaned in close, his jaw clenched so tight you could feel it through his coat.

You weren’t sure how long passed after that.

You heard your name a few times—snapped, choked out. Maybe just to keep you awake. Maybe to make sure he didn’t forget it.

You felt the town before you saw it. The shift in the wind. The way your horse slowed, like it recognized the path. Somewhere far off, you thought you heard a bell. The signal they used when patrols came back hurt.

Your vision swam.

Then arms were pulling you down. Voices. So many voices.

You screamed again—couldn’t help it—when the pressure shifted. Jesse was shouting. Someone else was shouting back.

You caught a glimpse of a red jacket—Dina? Then Ellie’s voice. Sharper than others. Calling your name like it meant something.

They didn’t wait for a gurney. None of that fancy hospital shit The clinic—a converted house on the edge of town, walls reinforced with old steel and scavenged siding—flared to life in an instant. The door flew open, and hands reached for you.

“She’s been shot—low right side,” Jesse barked, stumbling through the doorway with you slumped against his chest. “She’s losing blood, she’s—fuck, I couldn’t stop it.”

Two people moved toward him—one older woman in a stained coat, sleeves rolled, hands already gloved. Another younger guy, barely older than a teen, scrambling to ready supplies.

“Get her on the table!” the woman snapped.

“I’ve got her—just—just tell me where—”

“On the table!” she shouted, already clearing tools from a steel tray.

Jesse lowered you onto the cot, your body limp, head lolling. You let out a low, broken noise when they peeled your jacket away from the wound. Blood smeared everything—your shirt, your skin, Jesse’s hands.

Your eyes fluttered open for a second. “Jesse—?”

“I’m here,” he said, breathless. “I got you here. You’re good now, okay?”

The doctor pressed gauze hard into your side. You screamed.

“Vitals are dropping,” the younger medic said, reading off a salvaged machine. “Heart rate erratic.”

“We don’t have time,” the woman muttered. “She’s going into shock.”

Jesse leaned over the cot, but someone shoved him back by the shoulder.

“You need to leave.”

“No—I’m not—”

“Now!”

“I can help—”

“You’re in the way, son. If you want her to live, get out.”

For a second, Jesse didn’t move. Blood was smeared down the front of his coat, sticky and drying. His eyes locked on yours—your face pale, mouth parted, barely conscious.

And then you were gone—surrounded, swallowed up by the movement around you, by hands, by cloth, by frantic voices.

The door slammed shut behind him. And then it was just them.

Jesse, Ellie, and Dina sat in the quiet that followed—the kind of silence that made your ears ring. No one said anything for a long time. The porch creaked every time one of them shifted. Somewhere across town, a dog barked twice, then went quiet.

They’d cleaned what they could—Jesse wiped most of the blood off his hands with an old rag. Ellie sat stiff, her jaw clenched tight, arms locked across her chest. Dina leaned against the porch post, still pale, her eyes trained on the closed door like she could see through it.

An hour passed. Then—

“You should’ve done more.” Ellie’s voice was low, flat. But it hit hard.

Jesse blinked, slow, not looking at her. “What?”

“She got shot on your watch.”

His shoulders tensed. “You think I don’t know that?”

“You think I give a shit what you know?” Ellie stood. “You were supposed to protect her. That’s the whole fucking point of a partner. She was bleeding out—you let her get hit—”

“I didn’t let anything happen,” Jesse snapped, finally looking at her. “We were evenly matched. It happened fast.”

“You’re full of shit,” Ellie’s voice cracked. “She trusted you.”

Jesse stood now too. “Don’t act like I’m the only one who let her down.”

She flinched. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“You think she didn’t see it?” Jesse said, voice sharp and rising. “You think she didn’t notice how fast you changed the second Dina came back? You think she didn’t feel that?” Ellie’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.

“She never said it,” Jesse continued. “But I could tell. It broke her. And she still—god, she still gave a shit about you.”

Ellie’s face twisted—shock, guilt, something worse.

“You weren’t there,” Jesse muttered. “On the way back. You didn’t see the way she looked when she thought she was dying. You didn’t hear her tell me about those damn letters she left behind.”

Dina finally stepped in, voice taut. “Enough.”

Jesse turned away. Ellie looked down. She straightened up to yell at Jesse again but the front door of the clinic creaked open.

The older woman stepped out, sweat slick on her brow, gloves red and peeled off into a bucket beside her.

“She’s stable,” she said before anyone could ask. “We got the bleeding under control. Bullet didn’t hit anything vital, but she’d weak. Gave her something for the pain.”

Everyone stood and turned to her.

“She’s resting now,” the doctor added. “But she’s asking for someone.”

Ellie moved first. Then Jesse. Then Dina.

The room was quiet when they stepped in. You were pale under the dim glow of the lamp, but your eyes were open. Barely. Half-lidded and slow to follow movement. Your breathing was shallow, but steady. For now, at least.

Jesse was the first to move, stepping to your side with soft footsteps, like he was afraid to break the quiet.

“You back with us?” he asked gently.

You blinked. Swallowed. Your lips were chapped and dry, but the ghost of a smile tugged weakly at the corner of your mouth. “Barely.”

Ellie let out a shaky breath near the foot of the bed. “You scared the hell out of us.”

“Good,” you rasped. “Needed attention.”

Dina smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. “You don’t have to almost die to get us to hang out with you.”

You looked between them—Jesse’s tired smile, Ellie’s clenched jaw, Dina’s too-careful posture—and something in your chest ached in a different way.

“I’m okay,” you murmured, though no one looked like they believed you.

There was a moment of silence. Just the soft beeps of the monitor and the hum of the makeshift heater.

Then Ellie spoke. “Jesse said you… left letters.”

Your breath hitched.

Jesse shifted beside you. “She told me on the way back. In case she didn’t—”

"I didn't think I’d make it,” you cut in, eyes flickering toward the ceiling. “Just wanted to leave something behind.”

Ellie’s brows furrowed. “What’d you write?”

You didn’t answer right away. “They’re just….” You swallowed. “Thoughts. Things I didn’t know how to say.”

Jesse looked down.

Dina stepped forward, slightly, her voice quiet. “You gonna give them to us?”

“Depends,” you said, mouth dry. “Do I make it?”

Nobody laughed.

Ellie’s eyes didn’t leave yours. “You will,” she said softly.

You looked away. Your side throbbed beneath the gauze, a deep ache that reached bone.

Another pause. This one heavier.

“I didn’t mean for it to go down like that,” Jesse murmured. “I should’ve had your back.”

“You did,” you said, surprising both him and yourself with the softness in your voice. “I wouldn’t have made it without you.”

Ellie’s arms were crossed now, her jaw tight. She didn’t speak again, but the muscles in her neck flexed like she wanted to.

Dina hovered close, not quite touching her, but her presence still wrapped around Ellie like gravity.

You saw it. You always saw it. But you didn’t say anything. You were too tired.

You opened your mouth to speak, you wanted to, but your chest—something shifted.

The air in your lungs caught. Like it snagged on something sharp.

You coughed. Just once. But it was wrong. Too deep. Too wet.

Jesse sat up. “Hey.”

But your chest was caving inward. Not metaphorically—literally.

Another cough—harder now. Your whole body tensed with it. Your fingers curled into the sheets.

Ellie moved. “What’s—? What’s happening?”

You tried to breathe, but the air wouldn’t come in.

It was like trying to inhale through water. Your eyes went wide.

“Something's—” you choked. “I—can’t—”

“Get the doctor,” Jesse yelled, already moving toward the door.

You reached for him. For anyone. Your hand spasmed in the air.

“No—no—don’t—” you gasped.

Dina’s face drained of color. “Oh my god.”

Ellie was already grabbing your hand. “Hey. Hey, it’s okay. Just breathe—come on—”

“I can’t,” you cried, voice thin and breaking. “Ellie—”

Then your body convulsed. A harsh sound tore from your throat—part sob, part scream—and your back arched violently off the cot.

The monitor beside you flatlined.

A long shrill beep.

Jesse was yelling for help now. The door slammed open. But it didn’t matter.

Ellie’s hands were on your face.

Dina was frozen, lips parted in horror.

And Jesse—he was still screaming your name.

You were gone.

The infirmary had gone still—still in the way things only got when death took up space. No screaming. Just the stutter of a breath, the silence after, and the quiet shuffling of footsteps backing away from the bed like getting too close might mean catching the grief too.

Ellie’s hand was still on yours when your body gave out.

She didn’t feel it right away. Didn’t believe it. Not when your face had looked so soft, even in pain. Not when you’d been talking only minutes ago—soft and slow and full of things you never said until you were sure you were leaving.

Jesse stood across from her, white around the mouth. Pale. His knuckles were bloodless where they gripped the edge of the table.

You had just looked at him. You’d just smiled at him. You told them about the letters. You told them not to forget. You said it so softly it felt like a lullaby.

Now you weren’t saying anything.

The doctor rushed in then. Heard the change in rhythm. Tried to stabilize your heart, even though she must’ve known—it was too sudden, too final. And when she finally stepped back from the bed, sweat slicking her brow, she looked between Ellie and Jesse and gave the only explanation she had:

“Air embolism,” he said quietly. “It’s rare… happens sometimes after trauma. A pocket of air slips into the bloodstream. Once it reaches the heart—”

She didn’t finish. Didn’t need to.

It was quiet again. Too quiet.

The doctor had left. Dina too, finally—after kissing your forehead with shaking hands and walking out without looking back.

That left Jesse and Ellie.

Neither of them could bear the sight of your cold body laying on the bed. They stepped out into the hallway, narrow with barely enough room for two. The walls felt closer than they had before.

Neither of them spoke at first.

Ellie was still pale. Her fingers twitched restlessly in your, curling and uncurling like maybe it’d somehow bring you back.

Jesse leaned against the wall across from her. His jaw was tight. His shirt was still damp with sweat—some of it his, some of it yours.

Ellie’s voice broke the silence.

“You were supposed to protect her.”

It came out quiet. Not shouted. Not even angry. Just hollow.

But Jesse’s head snapped up anyway. “I did.”

“You didn’t.”

“You think I didn’t try?” “She died,” Ellie snapped, louder now. “She died, Jesse. And you were right there.”

“I brought her back,” he shot back. “I stayed by her side the whole time just like you—don’t you dare—”

“She wouldn’t have needed to been brought back if you’d done your fucking job.”

Jesse flinched like she’d hit him. The words hung in the air, rotten and sharp and poisonous.

Ellie’s breathing was uneven. Her hands balled into fists. “She wouldn’t have gotten shot if you had—if you had paid attention.”

“I was paying attention.”

“Not enough.”

“You want someone to blame, Ellie? Fine.” He shoved off the wall, eyes blazing now. “Blame me. Go ahead. I’ll take it.”

“I already am.”

That landed hard. The hallway suddenly felt too small. Too hot. Like the grief was pressing in from all sides, squeezing out the air.

Jesse’s voice dropped. “You think this is easy for me?”

Ellie looked away.

“I was there,” he said quieter. “I heard her breathing slow down. I felt her body get cold. I’m not gonna forget that. Ever.”

Ellie blinked fast. Like maybe she was trying not to cry.

“She told me about the letters,” Jesse added, voice barely audible. “This wasn’t about me. Or you. It was always going to happen.” “Then why did we even try?” Ellie snapped, voice cracking. “Why the fuck did we sit there and hold her hand and tell her she gonna be okay?” Jesse didn’t answer. There wasn’t one.

She turned her back to him, fists still clenched at her sides. Her shoulders shook—just slightly. The only sign that anything was breaking through.

“I told her she was gonna make it.” Jesse closed his eyes.

“And she believed me,” Ellie whispered.

Neither of them moved.

The silence was different now. Not still. Just hollowed out.

Grief settling into the walls like dust.

Jesse leaned back against the doorframe again. Wiped his face with the back of his hand.

Ellie didn’t look at him again.

They didn’t speak after that. They just stood there. Surrounded by everything that couldn’t be taken back.

—

The walk back to town was short. It felt endless.

Late spring in Jackson meant fresh evenings, colder shadows. The sun was starting to dip low behind the trees, casting long golden beams across the path. The dust on the road kicked up around their boots, catching in the light.

No one spoke.

Jesse walked a few paces ahead. Ellie trailed behind, her hands in her jacket pockets, jaw tight. Dina wasn’t with them. She’d left the clinic earlier, alone. No one had asked where she went.

The trees swayed gently in the breeze. Birds chirped somewhere far off, too bright for the moment. The world didn’t care what it had just taken.

When they reached the outer gates, Maria was already there.

She didn’t say much. Just nodded at Jesse. Gave Ellie a tight-lipped glance. Her eyes softened, just for a moment, when she realized what the silence meant.

“She’s gone,” Jesse said, voice low.

Maria didn’t flinch. Just nodded again. “I’ll… let the others know.”

No one asked who “the others” were.

They walked away from the gates like ghosts. People stared, but no one came forward. A few folks paused mid-conversation, watching them pass. A man with a shovel leaned on the handle. A girl froze with a half-cut apple in her hand.

They didn’t need to be told. They could see it. In Jesse’s face. In Ellie’s. In the silence.

By the time they reached the middle of town, the sun was almost gone. Lights flicked on inside the homes lining the street. Dinner smells wafted through the air—roasted squash, bread, garlic. Someone laughed from a porch. A dog barked in the distance.

Life kept moving. It felt wrong.

Jesse kept walking until he reached the corner where the path split. One way led to his place. The other—

To yours. He paused there.

Stared at your house in the near distance. The porch light still on. One of the curtains in the upstairs window had come loose. It fluttered in the breeze.

His hand twitched. But he didn’t go. Didn’t even take a step.

He turned. And walked away.

He came back the next morning. Not early. Not late. Just when the sky had settled into that bright blue haze Jackson got when spring started to lean toward summer.

The streets were mostly empty.

Your house stood exactly the same. Curtains still half-tangled in the open window. Porch light still on, even though the sun was up. The front step creaked when Jesse climbed it—like it always did. You used to say you liked the sound. Said it made the place feel lived in.

Now it felt like the house was holding its breath.

Jesse stopped at the door. He had a key. He’d kept the key in his pocket when you gave it to him weeks ago.

The night you cried over the dress. The night you couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. When all you could do was sit curled up in the corner of your couch with the lights off and this soft aching look in your eyes.

He didn’t leave. Not then.

Now he stood outside your house again, key in hand, chest tight.

The screen door creaked open, then drifted shut behind him with a familiar click.

He didn’t need to knock. But he didn’t go inside right away either.

The front door stood there like it was daring him to open it. He stared at it for a long time.

He could still picture the inside without even looking. The couch. The blanket you always kept folded over the armrest, the one he used when he stayed over. The old lamp with the crooked shade. Your only other pair of boots by the door. Your bag would be upstairs. Your journal—still sitting on the coffee table with the two notes you’d written before you’d left.

He couldn’t do it. Not yet.

His hand tightened around the key.

You’d told him about the letters on the ride back when you bled onto his jacket. You’d whispered so weakly, “Just in case.”

He nodded, swallowed the fear and said, “You’re gonna be okay.”

You weren’t. And now he was standing here, not even brave enough to collect the things you left behind.

The key scraped gently in his grip as he turned it over between his fingers.

He stepped back off the porch. Sat down on the top step. The wood was still warm from the sun, but the house behind him felt cold.

He’d stayed here. Slept here. Made you tea when you didn’t even see the sun rise. You laughed at him for over-steeping it.

Now the windows were shut. The rooms were quiet. And you weren’t in them.

Jesse dropped his head into his hands and sat there for a long time. No crying. Just sitting. Letting the guilt pile up in his chest until it pressed against his ribs like something solid.

He didn’t go in. He couldn’t. Not yet.

ELLIE

She didn’t go home that night.

She stood on the porch for over an hour, hand on the door, head tilted like she was listening for something. A sound. A sign. Anything.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

The kind that makes your skin itch.

She turned away. Ended up sleeping in the loft above the stables, jacket balled beneath her head, legs drawn up like she could fold herself into something smaller. Something less breakable.

The next day, she didn’t speak.

She cleaned her boots twice. Re-packed her bag, then unpacked it again. Sat on the porch steps of her house with a pencil in hand and a blank page open in her sketchbook—and didn’t draw a thing.

It had been days since she’d touched it.

Drawing used to help. You’d sit across from her, legs tucked under you, chin on your hand, watching her work with that soft, intent look. Sometimes you'd talk, other times you wouldn’t. Sometimes she'd sketch you without telling you, then wait for you to notice.

You always did.

Now she couldn’t draw anything. Her hands shook too much.

She tried once—started the curve of a jaw that might've been yours. Her pencil snapped halfway through.

She didn’t try again.

The sketchbook stayed face-down on the table after that. The pencil rolled off and disappeared under the bed. She didn’t go looking for it.

She still had your knife. The one you took on patrol. The one you were never supposed to need. It was tucked into the back of her drawer now, out of sight. But she checked to make sure it was still there every night. She never told anyone why.

She saw Jesse once—passing through the garden, shoulders hunched, face unreadable.

She didn’t speak to him. Didn’t trust what she’d say if she did.

She couldn’t look at Dina either. Not because she hated her. But because the space between them was too wide now. And it looked too much like you.

DINA

Dina didn’t cry at first.

She moved on instinct. Brushed her teeth. Fed the chickens. Took care of small things because it was easier than thinking about the big ones.

She tried to go to the market once—got halfway to the stalls before she saw someone wearing your jacket.

Not your actual jacket. Just one that looked like it.

She turned around and went home.

Your hoodie was still on her bedroom chair. She pulled it into her arms that night and slept with it balled against her chest. It didn’t smell like you anymore—not really—but she pretended.

She told herself she was fine. She wasn’t.

Every mirror felt like a betrayal. Every time she saw herself, she expected you to be standing beside her. You always had been. The winter dance. Late-night walks. Morning coffee. You were always there.

Now, when she looked, it was just her. And the absence. She thought about Ellie more than she wanted to.

Not like that. Just… wondering. Was she eating? Sleeping? Drawing?

She knew the answer. Probably not. They hadn’t spoken since the clinic.

Dina wanted to reach out. She did. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that if she called Ellie’s name, your ghost would answer.

One night, she stood in the kitchen and whispered your name, just to say it. Just to hear it out loud.

It broke her.

She collapsed against the sink and sobbed until her chest burned. She didn’t even realize she’d fallen to the floor until she felt the cold tile under her palms.

The next day, she didn’t speak to anyone. She cleaned the same mug twice. Watered a dead plant. Folded clothes she hadn’t worn in weeks.

Saw Ellie across the courtyard that afternoon. Their eyes met. It lasted a second. Maybe less. Ellie looked away. Dina didn’t try again. Because she didn’t know what she’d say. And she was afraid of what Ellie might.

—

It rained the night before.

Not enough to flood the trails, but enough to make the earth soft. Easy to dig.

Joel carved the casket himself. He didn’t speak about it. Just started one morning with a stack of weathered cedar and a knife he kept too sharp. By the second day, it looked like a coffin. By the third, it looked like yours.

The funeral was small. A dozen people, maybe less. Close friends. People who knew you in the day-to-day ways—the woman from the market who once saved you a jar of honey, the man who helped fix your roof last spring. Everyone else kept their distance.

They knew better than to crowd grief.

The casket sat under an old tree in the far corner of Jackson’s cemetery. A place you’d probably seen a hundred times on patrol and never really noticed.

It wasn’t special. But it was quiet. A wooden cross stood at the head of the grave. Joel carved your name into it with his pocket knife that morning. The lines weren’t clean. His hand shook a little. He didn’t try to hide it.

Jesse stood closest to the casket. Pale, arms crossed over his chest, jaw tight. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Because he hadn’t.

Maria said a few words. Soft. Kind. Practical.

“Hard to lose someone good,” she said. “Harder when you know they didn’t deserve it.”

No one disagreed. No one could.

Dina didn’t speak. She stood beside Jesse, hands clenched in the sleeves of your hoodie—the one she hadn’t taken off since the night you died.

Ellie stood apart from the rest. Not far. Just enough to feel it.

Her hands stayed in her pockets. Her jaw never unclenched. She didn’t cry during the service Not then.

It wasn’t until after—when the dirt had been shoveled in, when the crowd started drifting away—that she broke.

It happened slow. Quiet. Her knees buckled beside the fresh mound of earth. Her shoulders hunched. Her forehead pressed to the rim of the wooden cross. Her breath hitched once, then again, until the sobs came low and tight, like they were trying not to be heard.

Jesse looked back, but didn’t approach. Dina didn’t move either.

And then—a monarch butterfly drifted down from the tree. It fluttered once. Twice. Then landed softly on the cross above your name.

Ellie didn’t see it at first. When she did, she froze. Her hand twitched—like she wanted to reach out.

She didn’t.

The butterfly didn’t stay long. It fluttered its wings once. And flew. But it stayed with her long after it was gone.

A FEW MONTHS LATER

Nobody had counted, but it had been months.

Late summer now. Dust in the air. Light stretched long over the hills. Jackson breathed easier now—repaired fences, working crops, kids back to chasing each other through the fields like the world hadn’t just lost you.

But your house still stood untouched.

No one went near it, except to leave a few bouquets of now wilted flowers on your front porch. The curtains stayed drawn. The porch creaked in the wind, and the flowers you planted had long since withered into dry brown curls.

Maria let it be—for a while.

Then one morning, she cornered Jesse outside the mess hall.

“You’re going today,” she said, no room in her voice for argument.

Jesse blinked. “What?”

“The house,” she clarified. “We need it cleared. Inventory. Supplies. Storage if nothing else.”

“I can do it alone.”

“You’re not supposed to.” She crossed her arms. “You three were the closest. It’s only right.”

He looked away. Jaw tight. “They won’t come.”

“Then make them.”

She didn’t wait for an answer.

Joel talked to Ellie that same morning.

He leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, the way he did when he was trying not to sound like her father or someone who knew better.

“You’re going,” he said.

Ellie didn’t respond.

“Tommy’s already talkin’ to Dina.”

Still nothing.

“You don’t have to dig through her things,” he added. “Just be there. Help Jesse. He shouldn’t have to do it alone.”

Ellie’s hands stayed in her pockets.

Joel pushed off the wall. “Look, I know this ain’t easy—”

“Then stop pretending like it is,” she snapped.

That stopped him. Just for a second.

Then, quieter, “She deserves this. At least this.”

Ellie looked past him, out the window toward the street.

She didn’t say yes. But she didn’t say no either.

Tommy found Dina in the stables.

He didn’t use a stern voice—not at first. Just leaned beside her on the stall gate, watching her toss hay with a kind of distracted rhythm,

“She’d want you there.”

Dina paused.

He continued. “Maria’s sending Jesse over. You and Ellie are going too.”

“I know,” Dina said.

“You don’t have to stay long.”

She nodded, slow. “Okay.”

Tommy touched her shoulder once. That was all.

They met at your house a little after lunch.

The sun was already climbing high. The air had that dry, weightless heat Jackson hot when summer was starting to drift toward its end.

The three of them stood outside your porch, none of them quite looking at the door. Jesse had the key. Still the one you gave him.

Dina stood with her arms crossed, your hoodie knotted around her waist.

Ellie didn’t speak. Didn’t fidget. Just stared at the porch steps like she was trying to memorize them.

No one moved until Maria passed by in the distance—just walking, not watching, but her presence alone was enough.

Jesse stood up first. He unlocked the door.

The house creaked open like it had been holding its breath for months.

The air inside was still cool. Tucked in shadow. It smelled like old fabric, sun-warmed wood. Boots by the door. A sweater tossed over the couch.

The kitchen still smelled faintly like fresh linen and soil and whatever tea you’d kept buried in the back of your cabinets. Something earthy. Calming. Yours.

A broken pencil rested on the table beside a half-finished grocery list.

Eggs, soap, turmeric—

The rest of the paper was blank.

No one moved for a long time.

The front room was still. Sunlight filtered in through the curtains, catching dust in the air.

You’d always hated closed windows—said fresh air made a house feel honest. Now, it just felt empty.

Jesse stepped in first. His fingers brushed the edge of the coffee table, and there they were: The letters. Two envelopes. Names written on the front. He didn’t touch them yet.

Dina wandered into the kitchen. She opened a cabinet and blinked at the mug collection—mismatched, chipped, half of them probably stolen from the community center. Her favorite one—the one with the faded wolf paw—you’d always saved for her.

It was still there. She closed the cabinet. Said nothing.

Ellie hovered near the bookshelf by the stairs. Her fingers ghosted over the spines of books you never finished. A few dog-eared. One opened to a pressed flower you never told anyone about.

Then, slowly, she drifted toward the stairs. The floor creaked beneath her boots. Each step felt heavier than the last.

Your room door was half-shut, like it had been left that way on purpose. Like you meant to come back. Like maybe you were just running late.

The thought nearly broke her.

She pushed it open. The air was different up here. Stiller.

Your bed was unmade. Blankets half-draped like you couldn’t sleep that night. Or any night before. One pillow dented, the other untouched.

Another sweater thrown over the back of your desk chair. A broken mug holding pens. A crooked stack of notebooks. A book of poetry, spin broken from overuse.

And—

Her drawing.

Tucked behind a mirror. Not hidden, but placed like something fragile. Cared for.

She pulled it out.

Her own sketch—you, half-asleep in bed, hair mussed, shoulders wrapped in a blanket. It wasn’t even her best work.

But you kept it. Framed it.

The paper edges were warped—thumbed too many times.

She turned it over. Her handwriting, from so long ago, stared back at her: 'you looked so peaceful. i didn’t want to ruin it.'

Her chest ached.

She set the drawing down, gently, and looked toward your closest. She opened it. And there it was.

The dress.

Still hanging. Still waiting.

The one you made for the festival. For her. For the night she kissed someone else.

Ellie stepped closer, fingers brushing over the fabric.

It wasn’t perfect. The seams were crooked. The hem uneven. There were the faintest stains in places you’d tried to scrub out.

But it was beautiful, and so obviously you.

She remembered how you’d worn it that night. The way you smiled. Danced. Spun like the music was just for you. Like it came from somewhere inside your ribs.

She remembered not saying anything. Not asking Jesse to lend you to her. Not asking you to stay.

She remembered how you looked when you saw her kiss Dina.

How your smile didn’t fall all at once—but slowly. Like something unraveling thread by thread.

The dress. The drawing. All of it.

Ellie looked away from the closet.

Her throat tight. Her fingers trembling slightly as they traced along the edge of the dress in her hands.

Everyone was quiet.

Jesse found her in the kitchen.

Dina stood with her hands on the edge of the sink, staring down at a mug she hadn’t touched. The air inside the house was warmer than the outside—sunlight soaked through the windows and made the floorboards glow.

She didn’t hear him at first. Or maybe she did and just didn’t want to look.

He stepped forward anyway.

“I found these,” he said quietly.

She turned.

He was holding two envelopes and a worn cloth journal. Your name was on the front of the book. Hers and Ellie’s on the envelopes.

He offered one to her.

Her name. Just: to dina.

She stared at it for a second. Then reached out and took it with both hands—too gently, like it might tear if she gripped it wrong.

“She kept them on the coffee table,” Jesse added. “Been there since she… passed.”

Dina didn’t say anything. Just nodded once.

Jesse looked like he might say more. But didn’t.

He gave Ellie one last glance through the open hallway—still upstairs—then turned and walked out the front door, letting the screen creak shut behind him.

Dina stood in the sunlight for a moment longer, the letter shaking slightly in her grip.

She sat down on the floor. Right there in the middle of the kitchen, legs folded, head bowed over the envelope.

And then—she opened it.

i know you didn't mean to hurt me. i know you didn’t mean for any of this to happen the way it did. but it still happened. and i still hurt. there was never a day i hated you. not even once. even when i wanted to. i hope she makes you happy. i really do. just — please don't forget about me completely. someone should remember me for who i was before this broke me. before you both did. — your loving sister.

Her eyes didn’t even make it halfway through before they blurred.

She read it again anyway. Twice. Three times.

Until the words started to feel like something physical—something jagged being pushed deeper into her chest.

your loving sister.

Her breath left her in a sharp hitch.

She folded forward, pressing the letter to her ribs, and shut her eyes tight. A tear slid down her cheek. Then another. Then more, faster than she could stop.

The house around her was quiet.

Ellie hadn’t come down yet.

And Dina was glad. Because she didn’t want to be seen like this. Not when your forgiveness was the thing that hurt the most.

Dina ended up going out back, letter in hand, the door left open behind her like maybe she hadn’t realized she wouldn’t come back in.

Jesse found Ellie still in your room—exactly where he expected she’d be.

She sat on the edge of your bed, back hunched slightly, the dress folded in her lap like something she didn’t know how to hold.

The drawing lay beside her, untouched but not unnoticed.

She didn’t look up when he entered. Didn’t ask what he wanted. She already knew.

Jesse stood in the doorway for a second, the envelope and the journal heavy in his hands.

“These were downstairs,” he said quietly.

Ellie didn’t speak.

He stepped in. Held them out.

Your name sprawled over the journal’s cover. Her name on the letter.

to ellie

No flourish. No closer. Just the truth, pressed in ink.

“She wanted you to have them,” Jesse said.

His voice cracked a little at the end, but he didn’t try to cover it.

“She wrote about you. A lot.”

Ellie reached for them with both hands. Her fingers brushed the envelope first—slowly, like it might burn. Then the journal.

She didn’t look at him. Not right away.

Jesse lingered in the doorway like he might say more. Like he had more words that could fit the size of what he felt.

But he didn’t. He just nodded once. Barely. Then turned and left.

The door clicked shut behind Jesse, and Ellie was alone again.

Your room was quiet. Not silent. There was a faint creak of the wood beneath the bed. The soft hum of win outside the window. The gentle flap of the curtain against the sill.

But inside—her chest, her breath, her throat—it was all quiet.

She stared down at the envelope.

to ellie

Your handwriting.

She’d seen it before. On notes when you doodled in her sketchbook. On the corner of grocery lists. Etched into the spine of a sketchbook you once gifted her, awkwardly, like it didn’t mean much.

It always meant too much.

Her fingers hovered over the flap.

She opened it slowly. Carefully. Like it might tear it she breathed too hard. Then she unfolded the letter.

i don’t know if you knew what you were thinking when you asked her. i don’t know if you knew i’d see. maybe it wouldn’t have mattered. maybe i stopped mattering a long time ago. you were the first person who made me feel like i could be more. like i was allowed to want something. like love wasn’t some distant idea meant for other people. and i never told you, but god, ellie— i loved you in ways that weren’t quiet. i just kept them quiet anyway. i wanted to be the person you looked for in a crowd. instead, i was the one who stood still while you reached for someone else. i’m not giving this to you. not unless something happens. not unless i can’t say any of this out loud. but if you’re reading this— please don’t be sorry. just remember i was real. — the one who made you that stupid dress.

Ellie read it twice. The first time too fast. The second time too slow.

By the end, her hands were trembling. But she didn’t cry. Not yet.

She set the letter down on your pillow like it belonged there. Like it needed to rest.

Then her gaze fell to the journal. The one Jesse said was full of her. Of memories she didn’t even know she was part of. She ran her fingers over the worn edges before flipping it open.

The first page: a list.

fix the cabinet door pick up ration tickets get chores from maria try not to look at her like that

Her throat caught.

She turned the page. More lists. More notes. Scraps of pressed flowers. Pages of thoughts scribbled like you were writing just to get them out of your body.

She flipped to the middle.

And found it.

sometimes i think if i’d kissed you that night, nothing would’ve changed. but then again, maybe it all would’ve. maybe that’s why i didn’t.

She let the page fall shut with a shaky breath.

Then flipped through more till she turned to the back.

It was stuck there—almost hidden. A single folded sheet. Stiff with old tears. Stained like the paper had soaked everything you couldn’t say.

She unfolded it.

i never wanted to be the kind of person You forget to look for but here i am still dressed in things i hoped You’d compliment You kissed her like You’d already done it in a dream— like You missed it i watched You the way people watch lightning before they remember it can hurt and still, i smiled and still, i danced and still, i stayed You didn’t ask me to but You let me and that might be worse grief tastes like sugar left too long in the rain— sweet, but useless my name doesn’t sound the same when i say it out loud You hollowed it out when You stopped using it god, i wanted to tell You god, i wanted to scream but what would i have said? don’t fall in love without me? You didn’t mean to break me You just didn’t care if you did

The tears came then. Not all at once.

They started slow—one trailing down the line of her cheek, then another, catching on her jaw.

She didn’t sob. She didn’t fall to her knees. She didn’t punch a wall or throw the book or scream. She just curled into herself.

The journal in her lap. The dress clutched to her chest. The letter still folded beside her, full of all the things she would never get to say back.

She let herself cry the way you might’ve wanted her to.

The house was quiet still. Full of grief, but quieter now. Softer.

Ellie sat on the floor now, journal in her lap, fingers brushing the edge of a page she hadn’t turned yet. Her eyes were swollen. Her nose red. But she hadn’t cried again—not since the last entry.

She needed a second. Just one breath that didn’t hurt.

And that’s when she heard it. A soft thump. Then the faintest meow.

She looked up at the soft sound—small paws tapping lightly on the wood floor, just past the edge of the doorway.

It was a cat. Young, maybe a few months old. Grey fur, white belly, little pink pads on its paws that barely made a sound as it stepped into the room.

Ellie blinked at it. It blinked back, head tilted slightly like it was studying her.

It didn’t bolt. Didn’t flinch. Just crept a little closer with each passing second, ears twitching but eyes steady.

She sat still, breathing shallow.

The cat finally reached her side, tail brushing her legs, and sat like it had been there a hundred times before.

“Guess you’ve been here a while, huh?” Ellie said, voice hoarse.

It didn’t make a sound. Just looked up at her like it was understood.

She reached down, slowly, fingers brushing the soft fur along its back,

She sat like that for a moment longer, hand resting lightly on the small body now pressed against her shin, before finally standing—slowly, limbs heavy.

The cat followed without hesitation.

Ellie climbed onto your bed—careful not to mess with its original state—and pulled the journal close. Its edges were worn. The pages still smelled faintly like you.

The cat jumped up beside her, pawing softly at the blanket before curling into a tight ball at her side. Ellie rested her hand on its back again, grounding herself in the rhythm of its breathing.

And then she opened the journal to the next page.

The room was quiet, but it didn’t feel empty. Just a little less lonely.

Page 87 jesse says if he ever loses his left boot, he’s not looking for it. “I’ve lived a good life,” he said. “I’ll just walk with honor and shame.” i told him shame doesn’t cancel out honor. Page 89 the ceiling in the kitchen still drips when it rains. i put a put a pot under it. it makes weird music if you sit still and listen long enough. i think i like it. Page 90 ellie told me she used to draw when she couldn’t sleep. i wanted to say: draw me. but i didn’t. too risky. i think she would’ve though. Page 91 i heard someone call me pretty today. might’ve been by accident. might’ve been the wind. gonna pretend it was real Page 93 i miss the ocean. not that i’ve ever seen it. but i think about it a lot. what it would feel like. to be so small and okay with it Page 95 if i plant flowers now, will they still bloom if i’m not here to see them? (ellie would water them, she wouldn’t admit it, but she would.) Page 96 i hate when jesse’s right. he said i looked like i was falling in love. i told him to shut up. he grinned like he’d won a bet. (he did) Page 97 dina asked if i was okay. i said “yeah." we both knew i was lying. but she let me keep it. that’s love, too, i think Page 98 sometimes i think ellie’s eyes were carved from the same color as dusk. the part right before the sun disappears. the part no one talks about Page 99 - written messier, ink smudged if i disappear, i hope someone laughs at my notes. don’t let grief make me boring Page 100 there’s a little grey cat that keeps showing up in the living room. i don't feed her. but she comes anyway. i think she likes the quiet here. maybe she misses you, too. maybe she just wants my stale cereal.

Ellie closed the journal.

Her fingers stayed on the cover for a while. Not squeezing. Just… holding. Like she was scared the warmth might fade if she let go.

The cat stirred beside her. Curled tighter against her wrist, small and sure. Like it belonged there.

Outside, the sun had started to dip. Shadows crept along the walls of your bedroom—stretching toward the door, toward the desk, toward the space beside her that used to belong to you.

She didn’t move. Didn’t need to.

The air smelled faintly like cedar, old paper, and the faintest trace of something floral—something you probably didn’t mean to leave behind.

She could still hear you in the pages. Still feel you in the seams of the dress folded at the foot of your bed.

The journal was quiet now. But not empty.

Ellie reached down, scratching behind the cat’s ears. “You really just stuck around, huh?” She murmured.

The cat didn’t move. Purred like a brand new car. Blinks up at her with those wide, watching eyes—like it had always known how the story would end.

And then, quietly, almost to herself.

“...I think she would’ve stayed, too.”

A beat. Softer.

“I just didn’t give her a reason.”

No dramatic thunder. No cracking sky.

Just a girl. A journal. A cat that had no name.

And a silence so full of love and regret, it could’ve swallowed the world whole.

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