The boy who never smiled visited the lonely girl who lived in the abandoned spa. Unlike the others, he came just to be. And the girl was relieved. And she told him that sometimes the things we hope to find are things that must come to us instead. And not long after, a stranger came to town who brought the boy what he needed. And for the first time, the boy smiled.
There once was a lonely girl who lived in an abandoned spa. She spent her days waiting. Waiting for the townspeople to visit her, and waiting for them to leave again. Because while she’d hoped they would bring her the friendship she longed for, they brought her flowers and candles, and then left with her hope.
Let me tell you a story.
There once was a lonely girl who lived in an abandoned spa. The people used her, drained her of all she had to give, until she had nothing left.
I have nothing left.
I’m scared, Cor.
Come back to me.
History
A Year and a Half Before
“Do you believe in God?” I asked Kyra. We sat on the dock of White Wolf Lake, our feet dangling in the water, the summer sun hot on our faces.
“Yes. Sometimes. Maybe?” She shrugged. “There’s more that exists outside the borders of Lost, so why shouldn’t that hold true for the borders of this world and this life? Besides, what is religion if not a collection of myths and legends? Stories to help explain the unknown?”
I tilted my head a little. “Then what do you believe in?”
The corner of her mouth pulled up in a wry half smile. “I don’t know, exactly. I like the idea of a benevolent god. God is love? I can believe that. But I want my life to have meaning because I give it meaning, not because someone else says that it does. I want my life to mean something because I create. Because I love. Because I make the world a better place.”
“I believe in the universe.” I hesitated. “I believe in you.”
She turned to me, but her eyes strayed to a point far behind me. “Do you?” she asked quietly. “Do you believe in me? Or do you believe in my manic episodes?”
“Kyra…”
“I know we have our hero days, but it’s not my bipolar disorder that makes me want to change the world. It’s me. Do you believe that I can?”
“Life just seems a lot easier when you’re…”
“When I’m manic and bursting with energy? Have you ever not slept for days on end? All I hear are a million stories, but I can’t sit still long enough to write them down. All I see are images that demand to be committed to paper because otherwise they’ll claw their way out through my skin.” She spoke loud and fast, her words flowing from emotion, not mania. “Trust me, those episodes aren’t easier. I’m more productive, but it isn’t because I’m happier. It’s because I’ll burn up if I’m not busy. And I’m never busy with the work I really want to produce.”
I flinched. I’d never noticed that Kyra didn’t paint when she was depressed or between episodes. And I hadn’t considered whether or not she liked to paint. I’d never thought to ask. And I didn’t want to admit that.
Kyra sighed, and when she spoke again, her voice was soft and low. “It isn’t easier when life goes flat, either. When my moods turn dark and it feels like the sun won’t rise again.”
“I…” Kyra’s nights scared me. The idea of losing her scared me. Not knowing how to fix that darkness scared me.
“I have to be able to talk about my illness—my episodes—without you jumping to conclusions.”
“I don’t jump to conclusions.” I paused and shook my head. “I do. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not a puzzle to solve, you know.”
Her words hit me hard. “I know. I don’t want to solve you, I want to help you. I don’t want to see you hurt.”
“You’re my friend. All I need you to do is be here with me. I don’t want you to flinch away from me.”
I turned to her and stared directly into her hazel eyes. “I really am sorry.”
She nods. “I know.”
Allies
I make it through half the letters before I run to the bathroom and throw up the meager breakfast I’d eaten. My head is spinning. I need fresh air. I need to get out.
I head toward Aaron’s cabin. The closer I get to it, the stronger it smells of sulfur from the hot springs, although I imagine he’s used to it.
Aaron’s door stands ajar. Snow has blown in, dusting the floor. I frown. Weird. Knocking, I let myself in. “Aaron?”
The cabin is a small, square building, with tiny, square rooms. A living room. A kitchen. A bedroom. A bathroom. All for the keeper of the spa. And it’s quiet. Too quiet.
A breeze as light as a sigh caresses the back of my neck.
“Aaron?” I try again. My voice trips and breaks.
A small, half-built model airplane sits on the kitchen table. A tiny jar of paint is open, and a brush rests on top of it. I pick it up. The hairs have gone hard and the paint in the jar has dried out.
I saw Aaron yesterday, but it seems like he hasn’t been here for some time.
I walk to the coffee table and straighten a dust-covered magazine. The mug next to it is half filled with something entirely too green and fuzzy for coffee. There’s a phone with a rotary dial, like the kind you see in old movies, on a desk in the corner of the room. When I pick it up, there’s no dial tone.
I try Mom’s number.
Nothing.
“Aaron?” My voice is loud and shrill. Nothing. The rooms are empty, and the silence is too much for me.
Outside, the snow deepens.
Letter from Kyra to Corey unsent
Sometimes I wonder who they see when they visit me, Cor. Not Kyra. Not me. Because they’ve never seen me. Not even when I tried so hard for them to notice me, to get to know me. They see a girl who can help them, who will answer their requests and their petitions. (I can’t call them prayers. How could I?) But how can I deny them?
My art has worth to them. Even if it doesn’t to me. They see it as otherworldly, meaningful.
If they need someone to believe in, how could I take that away from them? At least what I do now makes Lost a better place. It may not be the same as understanding legends and myths, but together, we’re creating new stories.
It matters. I matter. I’ve never felt like this before.
How can I deny them?
I can do this, if it’s the only thing I can do. Nothing else was enough.
I’ll never tell them that I need something to believe in too.
Unexpected Friendship
I keep Kyra’s tattered notebook close. I’ve settled into one of the chairs near the fireplace again when a loud knock echoes through the entrance hall. I tense all over. Who’s here? Why is anyone here? What do they want? Sheriff Flynn made it clear that Lost wants nothing to do with me, and I want nothing to do with it.
But what if… What if they refuse to let me leave? I have little in the way of defense. I could flee the spa, but I can’t flee Lost until my plane arrives tomorrow.
I glance out a window and see Roshan and Sam standing outside, outfitted with backpacks and sleeping bags.
I open the door. “Hi?”
“Hi,” Roshan says. We’ve only crossed paths a few times this week, but he smiles like we’re old friends. “Can we come in?”
“Um, sure?” I step aside to let them to enter.
Roshan strides in, followed by Sam, who wraps me in a hug. He smells of woodsmoke, and the scent is so potent, so pungent, that I freeze. Immediately, he pulls back. He looks at my face, and realization washes over his. “I was burning waste,” he says with a catch in his voice. “I promise you, I would never.”
I manage to get my breathing under control. “I know,” I say, although I don’t. I really don’t. “The smell—I can still taste the smoke. I still can’t believe that fire…”
“That’s why we’re here,” Roshan says. He tosses a sleeping bag on the floor. “After last night, you shouldn’t be alone. With grief, you shouldn’t be alone.”
Sam nods. “I’m sorry. I should’ve changed.”