Chapter 72: The End

Chapter 72: The End

His phone lit up. A message from Seer: "He says—thank you."

Kyle stared at the screen. Typed back, "For what?"

"She said she liked it. She drew the face. You smiled. That's enough."

Kyle set the phone down.

When Kyle got up, the condensation on the windowsill hadn't dried yet. He walked to the window, fingers catching the edge of the curtain—the motion gentle, as if afraid to wake something. The street corner was empty.

The stairs creaked softly under his feet. The second-floor hallway was still dark. Amy's door hung half-open. She slept on her side, one hand slipped free from the covers and resting on the pillow, like a beached shell. Her new textbook lay open on the desk, two crayon stick figures holding hands on the title page, grinning wide enough to show their gums. The crayon box sat by the bed, lid snapped tight. The air held last night's quiet.

He stood in the doorway a moment. When he backed out, the lock clicked softly.

Downstairs. Irene stood in the kitchen doorframe, coffee cup in hand. Steam rose from the mug and dissolved. She didn't drink. Didn't look at him. Light from the window slid off her shoulder and pooled on the floor tiles in a small white square.

After dropping Amy at school that morning, Kyle received a brown paper package.

After the mailman left, the street corner was empty again.

Kyle stood at the door a while, the brown paper still in his hand, one corner softened by sweat. He walked back inside. Irene sat on the couch, knitting needle suspended mid-air. She glanced at him, then at the package in his hand. He said nothing. When he tore the paper open, the sound seemed loud in the living room.

The cover was deep blue with a raised gold key. His fingertip found a shallow groove when he pressed down. He opened to the title page. The line of text was cramped, each stroke rushed, like someone afraid they'd run out of time. "For your daughter. She drew it."

When he looked up, Irene was beside him. She took the book, fingertip tracing the handwriting like learning a route. "He had her drawings printed into a book?"

"Yes."

"Where did he get the drawings?"

Kyle didn't answer. Irene didn't ask again. She handed the book back, turned toward the kitchen, fingers wiping at her apron as if trying to rub off something invisible. The faucet turned on, then off. She just stood there, hands braced on the counter.

Kyle went upstairs and set the book on Amy's desk, stacked with her textbooks. He stood a while. Light from the window slanted in, making the key on the cover gleam. He reached out and pulled the curtain slightly closed. The light retreated to the corner.

That afternoon Amy came home, backpack tossed in the entryway, footsteps up the stairs faster than usual. She stood at the desk flipping through the book very quietly, page by page, slowly, occasional pencil marks smudging between pages. Her drawings printed on paper, colors deeper than crayon—the little figure with the sword, the person standing at the doorway looking back, the sword burning in flames. At the last page, her finger stopped on the line of text on the blank page. Read it twice.

Then she ran downstairs and stood in front of Kyle. Only the TV's blue glow jumped on the living room wall. She held out the book, cover facing up.

"Kyle. You keep it."

Kyle took it, opened to the last page and read it again. He folded the book and slipped it into his left sleeve, against those eight drawings. The paper touched his skin lightly, like someone pressing gently against his arm from outside the fabric. He smoothed the bulge in his sleeve, making it lie flat, the motion gentle, as if afraid to crease the pages.

"Kyle. Will he send more things?"

"No."

She nodded, as if she'd already known the answer. When she turned to run upstairs, her toe caught on a step, but she kept going. Soon the sound of pencil scratching on paper drifted down from the second floor—soft, intermittent.

Irene stood by the sink a long time, dishes soaking in water, unwashed. She reached in and lifted a bowl, then set it back down. Dorothy sat at the far end of the dining table, knitting needle passing through the red yarn ball again and again, stitches tight, not looking up. Kyle sat in his chair. The door was open. Summer wind poured in from outside, lifting one corner of the doormat. Occasionally someone passed on the street. No one stopped.

The book pressed against his arm inside his sleeve. The paper's temperature slowly matched his skin. He sat, didn't get up to close the door. Dusk crept in from the doorway bit by bit—the street corner darkening first, then the doorframe, then the light on his knees. He reached in and pulled the book from his sleeve, opened to the title page, fingertip pausing on that rushed handwriting—"For your daughter. She drew it."

He put the book back. The days went on.