Page 12 of May: Bloom & Bane

“Eden?” I whisper, my voice cracking.

She doesn’t wake.

But the twitch was enough. It was the first word in a conversation that has been one-sided for nearly two hundred days.

I will never sleep again.

You moved.

CHAPTER 6

a piece of me for a glimpse of you

Day 201: The world ended in white light last night.

The Iron Frost didn’t creep in as I hoped; it slammed down like a prison door. Outside our woven home, the snow piled so high it has buried the bronze skeletons completely. There is no color left.

Except for you.

Inside, the air is thick and still. The heat of the glass box is battling the frost that creeps through the gaps in the willow walls. I spend hours huddled against the crystal. My wings, now a dull, brittle gray, wrap around the stone like a burial shroud.

Droot has become a tiny, vibrating ball of white fur. He barely leaves his nest in my elbow. But every time I start to drift into a listless sleep, he lets out a high, sharp pip that cuts through the fog.

Sage is cold, he chirps. The Sun is warm. Sage needs to stay close to The Sun.

He’s right.

I press my palm over the place her finger moved, and I stay there for hours. My eyes burn, waiting for another flicker.

“One more time, Eden,” I whisper, my breath frosting the glass. “Just one more time, mí’aelvára, so I know I didn’t dream it.” (My angel)

Day 215: The silence is the hardest part.

In the summer, there was the hum of bees. In the autumn, there was the clatter of leaves. But the Iron Frost has devoured all sound. It feels like the world has died and forgotten to take us with it.

I find myself talking to you more today, just to break the quiet. Droot still has Lunch warm in his nest. When you wake up, you will have to be the voice of reason. I still cannot bring myself to break his heart by telling him the truth. He loves you, you know. Even in the cold, he checks to make sure Our Sun is still warm.

My voice sounds like dry parchment, but the more I speak, the more the glass seems to glow.

Sage is a loud bird today, Droot chirps, peeking an eye out of my elbow. But The Sun likes the stories. See? The light is dancing.

He’s right.

Every place my breath touches the glass, the frost forms in the shape of petals.

Day 230: I’ve stopped counting the hours. There is only the cycle of the pip, and the steady warmth of each of your heartbeats.

Last night, the storm was so violent it threatened to tear our hut apart. I had to stand and brace my shoulders against the main root-arch. My feet burned against the freezing mud. But I stayed there the entire night, while the wind screamed like a banshee outside, so I could keep you safe.

By dawn, I was encased in a thick layer of ice, my skin as gray as the winter sky. But inside your glass, you stayed warm and cozy.

We are winning.

Day 242: The frost is a thief. Every time I blink, it crawls across the glass, blurring your face and turning the fire of your hair into a dull, frozen smudge.

I hate it.

It’s become a ritual now. Every hour, I wipe the crystal clean, scrubbing until the heel of my palm is raw and I can see the tiny pulse jumping in your neck.