Page 170 of Seven Lost Summers
It’s proof that Quinn was here.
I wonder if it was earlier this morning, yesterday, or whether we just missed her by mere minutes.
Both Nate and I stare at the photograph, caught in that frozen slice of time, until Nate finally moves. He steps forward, drops to one knee, and sets our flowers beside hers. The bright petals brush against Quinn’s bouquet, colors bleeding together against the grass.
Nate stays there for a long while, his head bowed, shoulders still.
The wind catches his hair, lifting it from his face. From where I stand, it looks as though he’s speaking to her, words too soft for me to hear. I wonder if he’s telling her goodbye. If he’s telling her he loves her, and that he’ll carry her with us no matter where we go. Maybe he’s promising her that it’s time for us to keep moving, even if we’re still taking her with us in everything we do.
Nate rises slowly, brushing his palms against his jeans before stepping up beside me.
He doesn’t speak, doesn’t need to. The silence between us is thick enough to say everything.
I move forward.
My hand slips into my jeans pocket, fingers brushing over the curve of metal I’ve carried for far too long. The angel wings rest against my palm. They still hold a weight that never seems to fade. I lift them into the light, and for a second, they glint in a way that makes my chest ache.
As I stare at the wings, her voice drifts back in fragments.
“I want you to be exactly who you are… spectacular, beautiful… all of it.”
I can still feel the brush of her knuckles against my neck as she fastened the chain. She made me feel seen in a way no one else ever has.
“Every time you feel yourself shrinking. Every time you want to fade. This is proof that someone fucking sees you.”
The words land heavier now than they ever did then, pressing into me until my lungs ache. Because I have been all of those things since—shrinking, fading, hiding in plain sight. And somehow, through the wreckage, I’ve found my way back to the surface.
My thumb drifts over the metal, following the gentle curve of each wing. The clasp comes apart easily beneath my fingers, and I work the broken guitar pick free before slipping it into my pocket. The wings rest in my palm, light but carrying every ounce of her weight. They were always hers. I was only keeping them safe until I could finally see myself the way she saw me.
I step forward until I’m close enough for my shadow to spill over her name. My knees almost give out before I make the decision to kneel. The still air here sits wrong, like even the wind knows it should keep its distance.
My thumbs follow the curve of one wing before I set them down against the base of the stone, the cord necklace pooling between my fingers. For a second, I keep my hand there. It almost feels as though I’m passing them to her, as if she might curl her fingers around mine and take them back.
My throat tightens until it burns.
I try to swallow, but it’s useless.
“You told me once that I’d give this back when I finally believed I was worth more than I thought,” I say, my voice low, scraped raw. “I guess this is me saying you were right.”
The words hang, heavy enough that I can’t move past them. I stare at the wings until my vision blurs.
“I’m not that scared kid anymore,” I manage, softer now. “When no one else saw me, you did. You taught me how to let someone in… how to love without hiding. And fuck, Bianca, you gave me more than I ever deserved.”
I stay there longer than my knees want me to, the ache working its way up my legs, but I can’t walk away yet. My hand hovers over the stone, close enough to touch, but I don’t. If I do, I might not let go.
“I’ll always love you,” I whisper. “You’re in every chord I ever play. You’re part of every goddamn thing that I am.”
The chord slips fully from my hand, pooling against the granite. The wings look small there. Fragile.
But I know better. They’re stronger than anything I’ve ever known.
I lean back on my heels, wiping at my eyes before the tears can spill all the way. But one still escapes, sliding hot down my cheek. I let it fall.
Finally, I push myself up, my fingers brushing the pick in my pocket, holding onto the last piece of her I can’t leave behind. I turn away before doubt can pull me back.
I move to Nate and stop beside him, both of us staring down at her name carved into the stone.
Without looking, he finds my hand, his grip strong, steady.
