Page 90 of Her Alien Neighbor

Axil clears his throat as I hold Aunt Franny’s urn. He doesn’t read from a letter. He speaks from the heart.

“Lady Norton, I am not sure the words exist in the English language to properly convey my gratitude,” he begins, looking up at the moon.

At first, I find it odd for his gaze to land there since her ashes are in the urn I’m holding. But when he continues speaking about the power of her friendship, the way she used to laugh with her entire body, and her breathtaking generosity with the few people she truly loved, I understand. Aunt Franny was a force. She was magnetic and bold and never wasted a second worrying about what other people thought.

I don’t know what happens when we die, but I know Aunt Franny’s essence is not in the small pile of ash trapped inside a box. Whatever form she’s taken, it’s bigger than that. Way bigger. With how much she loved her people, and how vigorously she rooted for those people to find happiness, she might as well be the moon.

“I shall never forget the moments we shared,” Axil says in closing. “Sweetest of dreams, Aunt Franny.”

He takes the urn from my hands, and instead of spreading some on the ground, he takes some into his gloved hand and opens his palm, letting the wind carry her ashes away.

“Your turn,” he says with a warm, gentle smile that makes me melt.

I’ve been dreading this moment, even before I found the last letter. I had no idea how to say good-bye, or where to even begin. How do you say good-bye to the person who, not only gives you a house, but a life you never dreamed possible?

I blow out a breath and lift my eyes to the moon. “My Dearest Aunt Franny,” I start. “I didn’t realize it until just now, but…this isn’t good-bye. I know it was part of your plan to have me say good-bye so I could move forward with my life. I’ve learned that I don’t need one in order to get the other. Because, with you, it’s never going to be a good-bye. I’m going to keep talking to you, even when you don’t want to listen. Even when you’re too busy floating in a pool of chocolate with Bruce Lee,” I say, giggling.

“What?” Axil asks, his brow furrowed.

“Never mind.”

“What I’m saying,” I continue, “is that as long as I live here, which will be a very long time, I think, I will still feel your presence. This place is not mine, and no longer yours. It’s ours.”

My eyes sting with tears, and I don’t hold them back. I don’t even try. I just let them fall. “I was too focused on my own misery, my own lack of success, to leave room for anything else. Until you brought me home. Thank you,” I say, a sniffle breaking through my words, “for bringing me home, and for making it a place I never want to leave again.”

Axil pulls me into his side, rubbing my back as I tell Aunt Franny how much I’ll always love her. He holds out the urn, and I take it, turning it on its side, and letting the rest of her ashes fall from the box and into the wind.

I take one last look at the moon and turn to Axil. “Should we dig?”

“Indeed,” he replies.

The steel box we discover is not buried deep. It’s maybe two feet beneath the ground. Without Axil’s inhuman strength, we never would’ve made it that short distance with the ground still very much frozen.

He grunts as he pulls it out and drops it next to the hole. I stare at the top of it, wondering if this is truly the treasure. If this is really the end of Aunt Franny’s game. What if I open it and it’s a bunch of animal crackers and a letter that says, “Ha-ha! Dumbass!”

That’s not really her style, though.

“Open it,” Axil nudges.

“Okay, okay,” I say, more to myself than him. With shaky fingers, I use one of the faded, bronze keys on her keychain to undo the lock, flip the latch, and lift the top. There’s no letter. And no animal crackers.

Just fifteen thousand dollars in cash.

EPILOGUE

VANESSA

A MONTH LATER…

“Hey, no running on the stage, guys!” I remind the group of seven-year-olds who are too focused on a game of tag to put their costumes on.

“Van! Look what I brought,” Willa shouts upon entering the auditorium, carrying a giant cardboard box.

“What is that?” I ask, meeting her halfway.

“Aunt Franny’s hats!” she says, opening the top flaps and pulling out a ridiculous-looking maroon top hat with feathers. “I thought they’d be good for the lost boys.”

“And girls,” I correct her, leaning forward, lowering my voice, “because we don’t have enough boys to fill all the roles.”

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