The forest had never felt so wide.
Even with Hope beside her, Auri felt the vastness between the trees like a breath she couldn't catch. Their footsteps made no sound—just the hush of fallen leaves and the occasional whisper of wind through high branches. The pendant at her neck swung in slow rhythm, cool against her skin. Fly, even when I can't.
She kept her hand on it as if the silver feather were Lyra's pulse.
"I don't know where we're going," Auri murmured.
Hope glanced sideways, her hood slightly drawn back. "You're not lost."
"But I'm not found either," Auri said, quieter now. "Not really."
Hope nodded as if that made perfect sense. "That's the middle of grief. It's not where you started. It's not where you'll end. But it's real."
They stepped into a clearing where the sky opened above them in a vast blue-gray dome. There were no stars yet, but Auri could feel them hiding, waiting. The clouds had softened. The trees around the edge leaned inward as though listening.
In the center of the clearing stood a girl.
Not just any girl—Auri's breath caught. Her chest stilled.
She had Lyra's dark hair, but longer now, curling like ivy over her shoulders. She wore a dress Auri had never seen before, something stitched from dew and dusk, and her eyes were full of light, though they shimmered with something sad.
It wasn't Lyra.
And it was.
The girl didn't speak. She held out her hand.
Auri didn't move at first. Her whole body tensed like a dream on the edge of waking. "Is this a memory?"
Hope didn't answer. She simply stepped back.
The girl waited, arm outstretched. Wind curled around her like a second cloak.
And finally, Auri took a step.
Then another.
Until her hand slid gently into the girl's.
Their fingers fit perfectly.
Not like a storybook match. But like something earned—frayed edges and all.
The moment their hands touched, the sky above them bloomed.
Stars blinked into being, not one by one, but all at once, like a thousand soft awakenings. A soft hum pulsed from the trees, the ground, the pendant.
And Auri remembered—
—not just Lyra's voice, but the warmth of it when she sang;
—not just Lyra's smile, but the smirk she gave when she knew Auri was pretending not to fall in love;
—not just their final kiss beneath the firelight tree, but the first one, messy and too fast, when Lyra whispered, Oops, too early?
All of it returned in that touch.
The girl—this vision, this memory, this fragment of Lyra—squeezed Auri's hand.
And then, gently, she placed Auri's palm over her own heart.
There was no heartbeat.
But there was warmth.
Auri's tears fell soundlessly. One after another, until her vision blurred.
"I still don't know how to live without you," she whispered.
The girl tilted her head, like Lyra used to do. And her lips moved silently. No sound came out—but Auri heard it:
You don't. You live with me.
Then the girl leaned forward and touched her forehead to Auri's.
A rush of wind filled the clearing. The pendant glowed softly between them. A final light. A final goodbye.
And then—
She was gone.
Just like that.
Auri stood still for a long time. The stars above her pulsed, silent witnesses to what had passed. Her hand was still warm.
Hope came beside her again, silent. She didn't ask. Didn't press.
"She gave me back the piece I lost," Auri finally said, her voice small.
Hope nodded. "Grief takes. Love returns."
They walked home beneath the stars.
The path was familiar. Not because it hadn't changed, but because she had. And in her chest, where the hollow had been, something stirred. Not a full flame. Not yet.
But something like kindling.
At the edge of the glade, Auri paused and looked at her hand.
She could still feel it.
Her hand in mine.
Maybe she always would.