Page 5 of Endo

2

LENA

Dancing With Your Ghost - Sasha Alex Sloan

The cemetery is cold,the kind of cold that seeps into your bones and settles there like a bad memory. I kneel in front of Cruz’s grave, fingers tracing the smooth edges of his name etched into stone. The granite feels foreign—like a stranger that doesn’t belong in my world but somehow lives here now, unmoving and final. I shouldn’t be here again, not this week, not this soon. But I can’t stay away.

The bouquet of sunflowers I brought sits in stark contrast to the muted grays around me. Cruz hated flowers, but he loved the sunflowers I used to tuck behind my ear after a day at the center. I whisper his name, my voice breaking. “I don’t know how to do this without you.”

Tears burn tracks down my face as I pull a worn photograph from my pocket. It’s my favorite: Cruz and I on his bike, his arm wrapped around me, his grin wide enough to light up the whole street. He was always larger than life, and now he’s nothing more than this image frozen in time. I press the photo to mychest, hoping for some kind of sign—anything to tell me he’s still with me, that I’m not as alone as I feel.

The silence answers me.

Sliding into my car, I let out a shaky breath and rest my forehead against the steering wheel for a moment. My phone buzzes in the cupholder, the screen lighting up with a message from Bexley.

Bexley: Hey, you okay? Haven’t heard from you. Want to grab dinner tonight?

I bite my lip, guilt twisting in my stomach. She’s been checking in on me every day, but I haven’t had the energy to respond most of the time. I toss the phone into the passenger seat without answering, the thought of making small talk over food makes my skin itch.

The drive to the ocean rehabilitation center is short, a straight shot through downtown Tampa. The city bustles around me—pedestrians weaving through traffic, the faint hum of live music from a street performer on the corner. I glance at my reflection in the rearview mirror. My black leggings and cropped tank top are clean, but the oversized charcoal hoodie I’ve thrown on feels like armor. It’s Cruz’s, and despite being washed a dozen times since he’s been gone, it still smells like him.

The parking lot at the center is half-empty when I arrive. I tug the hoodie tighter around me as I step out, the heat making the fabric cling to my skin, but I don’t care. The automatic doors slide open, releasing a gust of cool, sterilized air, and I’m greeted by bright smiles at the front desk.

“Morning, Lena!” Ashley chirps, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. Beside her, Dani glances up from her computer and waves.

“Hey,” I reply, trying to muster some enthusiasm.

“You’re just in time,” Dani says, her tone excited. “We got a new rescue last night. A green sea turtle. Poor thing was tangled in fishing line. The boat crew found it in Clearwater and brought it in early this morning.”

I nod, grateful for the distraction. “How bad is it?”

Ashley grimaces. “Not great. Its flipper was cut up pretty badly. Dr. Meyers thinks it’ll heal, but it’s going to take a while.”

The familiar wave of sadness and anger washes over me as the girls at the front desk finish describing the injured turtle brought in last night. No matter how many times I hear stories like this—nets left to drift, trash carelessly discarded, propeller blades carving through the water—it never gets easier.

“I’ll go check on it,” I say softly, my voice barely louder than a whisper, heading toward the back.

The hum of the tanks wraps around me as I step into the main room, a soothing symphony of whirring filters and splashing water. The faint salty tang of the ocean lingers in the air, grounding me in the one place that still feels like home. Soft blue light spills from the tanks, casting gentle ripples on the walls. The rhythm of this space, steady and alive, always has a way of steadying me—until it doesn’t.

Before diving into my usual routine, I make a beeline for the quarantine area where the newest rescue is being held. The tank is smaller than the others, kept separate to ensure the animal’s stress stays as low as possible. I crouch down, peering through the glass at the little green sea turtle resting at the bottom.

“Hey there, little guy,” I murmur, my breath fogging the glass slightly. The turtle doesn’t move much, his dark eyes dull with exhaustion. It’s always heartbreaking to see them like this, battered and bruised by human carelessness. I reach for my clipboard, jotting down notes about his condition. His flipper is wrapped in a bandage, and I can see faint scratches where the net must’ve dug into his soft skin. Since Dr. Meyers has alreadyexamined him and is optimistic about his recovery, there’s nothing more for me to do for him besides keep him calm and comfortable.

“I’ll take good care of you,” I whisper. “You’re safe now.”

The hum of the tanks calls me back to the main room. I slip into my routine, finding solace in the motions. Feeding schedules are carefully followed, portions measured and prepared with precision. My hands move with muscle memory, sprinkling food into the tanks, scrubbing away algae that threatens to cloud the glass, jotting notes for Dr. Meyers on the animals’ conditions. Each task feels vital, no matter how small, like I’m doing my part to set things right in a world that feels relentlessly broken.

Mo, the old loggerhead I’ve been working with for months, nudges the side of his tank with his massive shell. I’ve nicknamed him “Mo” after his slow, deliberate movements that remind me of a lazy grandfather. His deep, soulful eyes follow me as I crouch down to check on him.

“What’s up, buddy?” I murmur, reaching out to tap the glass lightly. Mo responds with a gentle splash, drenching my arm. For the briefest moment, a tiny smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. He’s a tough one, surviving a near-fatal collision with a speedboat that left scars across his shell. But even with his injuries, he’s a fighter.

Next is Cleo, a vibrant queen angelfish who was rescued from a damaged coral reef after a storm. Her delicate fins, once torn and frayed, are slowly healing, the bright blue and yellow hues regaining their brilliance. She flits through the tank with cautious energy, weaving between the coral pieces we’ve provided for her. “You’re looking better every day, girl,” I murmur, sprinkling her specialized food into the water. She darts up immediately, her movements sharp and precise, and for a moment, I feel a flicker of pride watching her resilience.

The manta rays are last, their graceful movements hypnotic as they glide through the water. One of them, nicknamed Ray, was rescued after washing ashore tangled in plastic. He’s been here for weeks now, and though his wounds have healed, he still seems skittish. I watch as he circles his tank, the gentle undulation of his fins like poetry.

The ocean has always felt like home to me. Its endless, unpredictable expanse, its ability to soothe and terrify, mirrors everything I’ve ever felt in my own life. Growing up, when the foster homes and the loneliness became too much, I’d run to the shore. The sound of the waves crashing against the sand was the only lullaby I knew. It was Cruz who encouraged me to make it more than just an escape. He used to sit on the rocks with me, listening as I rambled about turtles and coral reefs, telling me I had a heart big enough to hold the whole ocean.

It was one of the few times I felt truly seen.

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