What remains

NATHANIEL It's probably best to forget it. In some respects, the worst part of Longnight is the aftermath. The empty doorways, darkened windows. Rain pattering on hollow houses. Nathaniel rarely ventures across the fields to visit his neighbors. Most of them enjoy the isolation as he does, and there is always work to do at home. But the first days of Flowerbirth are different. Checking in with the neighbors is a ritual, an important tradition, one he carries on now even though no one remains to force him to it. After so long trapped indoors, traveling across the empty fields is strange. Dead earth, rotten snow. The sky so high and far above him it feels as if he could fall in if only he stares long enough. Strange, too, being alone after spending a week in the company of the dog, her old joints no longer holding up to the deepest depths of the cold. Nate carries a light pack over one shoulder, a rudimentary first aid kit and some food, some spare clothes. Things he might need, but usually doesn’t. Those living out here are mostly Naturals, and they know what they are doing. Still, tragedy strikes everyone, and it strikes with abandon. He can almost feel it hanging like a fog over the Valair house, as if the darkness of the windows is a shadow cast. Not just an absence of light but a hole, still swallowing. He knows what he will find. And also what he won’t, but he thinks he hears a voice, someone calling, high and distraught. A woman. Maybe a survivor, maybe another neighbor stopping by. He descends anyway, down the slope of a shallow hill toward the gaping doorway. “Hello?” he calls. His voice is a slow boom in the shadowed space. It smells cold. How long has it been vacant? There would have been children. All of them — He swallows around something in his throat. They are not his people, but it’s still a bitter thing to find. Slowly, Nathaniel steps forward, the floor settling under his weight. He doesn’t see the girl at first. She’s so quiet — a slash of white light like a lost dove on the floor. But then he does, and he stills, tension running up and down his back. He doesn’t know the white-haired girl, not well, not any better than he knows most people. But he feels suddenly intrusive, wishes he hadn’t come or could run away. She won’t want him here — he feels this like a tangible force pushing him away. But he cannot leave. He steps forward instead. Once. Giving her space. “Maea.” He hopes that is her name, hopes he isn't remembering wrong. “I’m sorry.” He can’t think of anything better to say. It's probably best to let go.