At least I’ve arrived with the sun. When Piper and I turn away from the airstrip, toward Lost, bright light peeks out over the horizon. Anticipation takes over and the churning in my stomach settles. I breathe. This is home. The zingy smell of ice in the air. The snow, layered over the permafrost, that crunches beneath our feet.
Amid the gentle hills and pine tree forests lies the town of Lost Creek. Our small, private universe. From our vantage point, it looks tiny, like a collection of dollhouses rather than a place where people live.
But it is home.
Welcome home.
Piper leads me as if I didn’t know my way around. We walk along the single road toward Main Street, one of a grand total of five streets in Lost Creek. It’s also the town’s busiest street.
On any given day of the week, Main would be crowded. Even in the middle of winter, this is where the gossip gets shared and the grocery store and the physician’s pharmacy are stocked, where fishermen return from their camps along the creek with their catch.
But today is different.
The grocery store is closed. The street is abandoned. Well-kept houses are the only assurance that people actually live here. Fresh paint makes the town look newer than I’ve ever seen it. When I left, the houses were weatherworn and lived-through, perennially smudged with sleet and mud. Today, they are pristine. A dash of color sidles up the wall of the old post office, though from this angle, I can’t make out the design. It’s as if, with Kyra gone, Lost had painted over all its cracks and creases.
“What happened here?” I ask.
“Hope,” Piper says quietly. She reverently touches a ribbon tied around a gate. “And remembrance.”
I raise my eyebrows. “What does that mean?”
Piper doesn’t answer, but now I notice the ribbons are everywhere, tied around every flagpole and every door handle. Bows in magenta and black—Kyra’s favorite color and the color of mourning. It’s like Lost is demonstrating its sorrow. But we’ve never made our grief public, beyond memorial gatherings. When Kyra’s grandfather passed away, the town honored him with a somber service. And he was liked by everyone.
It must be a coincidence.
“Look, I’m sorry if you thought I was being harsh before,” I try. “I just want to understand what happened to Kyra.”
Piper shakes her head. Her gaze searches Main. I have no idea what she’s looking for, but I glance surreptitiously over my own shoulder. We’re as alone as we were the moment we stepped into town. The street is empty, and the sunlight isn’t as bright here. The shadows are longer and darker.
“You’ll find out,” Piper says. “Someday, you’ll understand.”
The wind picks up, weaving around the houses and whispering.
Stranger.
Traitor.
Outsider.
The words float in the same tune as the girl’s at the airport, soft and out of reach. I swirl around, but no one’s there.
I pull at the straps of my backpack to cinch it closer and fall into step with Piper, who keeps a firm pace. She doesn’t seem to mind the wind. Or maybe she doesn’t hear it.
At the turn that leads to my old house, I pause. Piper grabs my hand and pulls me in the other direction.
“I promised Mrs. Henderson I would take you to her as soon as you arrived, but once you’ve settled in, you should walk over.” Her voice is neutral.
We follow a side street until we reach a large, nineteenth-century town house on the edge of the creek. It’s the biggest plot of land in Lost, barring the spa outside the town’s borders. When settlers arrived in Lost Creek, Mr. Henderson’s great-grandfather was the first to find gold here—and his grandfather, the last. Over the years, the Henderson family had built a legacy of industry and investment. And although Mr. Henderson hasn’t been able to reopen our mine, it’s only right that their house reflects their status.
But while the house may appear imposing to outsiders, to Kyra and me, it was home. And now it’s in mourning. I drop my backpack and gape.
The gate and flagpole are covered with black ribbons. On either side of the driveway, small flowers lie strewn across the snow. Bright pink salmonberry flowers. They’re the same flowers the girl at the airport held. They’re the same flowers Kyra used to scatter around town.
I squint. No, not blossoms, but flowers made of magenta ribbons, like the ones that hang on Main Street. They remind me of Kyra’s paintings from her manic periods—not quite real enough, but still too close for comfort.
Maybe, just maybe, life is still a little unpredictable here.
“He was right, you know.” Piper’s words are so soft, they don’t immediately register.
“Who?” I ask.
“The pilot. Not everything is as it seems. I’ll see you at the service, if I don’t see you before then. Come find me if you have questions.” She starts back toward Main.
“Piper?”
She pauses and turns. “Yes?”
My stomach roils. Wait. Don’t leave me. I can’t face Kyra’s absence yet. Let me cling for one more moment to the world I used to know.
I hesitate. “Tell Tobias that Luke said hi?”
At this, Piper smiles again, but I know it’s not for me. “Of course.”
Although Piper and I were friendly, we were never as close as our brothers. When Mom spent long days in Fairbanks and the surrounding towns seeing patients, I would often stay with Kyra, and Luke with Tobias. Luke had been furious when he found out that I’d made plans to come back to Lost to see Kyra without him. To see Kyra.
Before.
She knew I was coming. How could she not wait for me?
Note from Kyra to Corey sent, unanswered
Can you see the stars at your new school? I can’t imagine that the night sky there is as clear as it is in Lost. When you’re back, let’s go camping near the springs. Just you and me and a campfire and the northern lights. We’ll build a bridge. A bridge between us. I miss you, Corey.
Framed Moments
I push open the gate, which squeaks against the cold, and hesitate.
The steps leading up to the Hendersons’ front door are the same steps where Kyra used to wait for Mr. H when he came home from his business trips. Where she would wait for me those rare times when Mom, Luke, and I would go visit my uncle in Nome. She would sit on a stair, with a book or a notepad, which she’d drop as soon as she saw us, racing to meet us at the gate.
I want Kyra to run out to greet me, to tackle-hug me. But she doesn’t. She isn’t…
I am at Kyra’s house, and Kyra’s not here. I am home, and Kyra’s not. The weight of grief crashes over me like an avalanche.
The Hendersons’ door opens. Mrs. Henderson steps onto the porch and folds her hands in front of her. Her black dress makes her face gaunt. A bewildered look haunts her eyes.
I launch myself at her, and she pulls me close. When she disentangles, she puts her hands on my arms and peers up at me. “Look at you, you’ve grown taller. We missed you. Joe is at a business meeting, but he’ll be along shortly. Come, it’s cold today and you must be hungry.”
She steps aside to let me in. “You can stay in the guest room, if you want. Kyra’s room is still there too, of course, but it’s locked. We’d rather no one disturb it.”
“I understand,” I say. “Thank you for having me.”
Mrs. Henderson keeps talking. Kyra used to ramble whenever she was upset too. “If you’d prefer to stay somewhere else, I’m sure we can arrange that. The Mordens have a spare bedroom. And Mrs. Robinson would accommodate you too, I’m sure.”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. H. I’m fine.”
It’s a lie. I’m not fine. I want to turn and run, but I stand in the foyer. The house is silent. It feels wrong. I drop my bag near the coatrack and shrug off my coat. Mrs. H is already heading toward the living room, but I linger in the hallway.
The Hendersons never had pictures on their walls, and growing up surrounded by Mom’s photo albums, that was always odd to me. But now, pictures of Kyra hang everywhere. I wrap my arms around my waist and take in each one. Pictures of her as a small girl, of her growing up. Pictures of her drawing with charcoal, swimming in the hot springs, running around in costume. I remember each of those days.