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The scent of frangipani hangs heavy over the Angel Falls bridge, thick as the lingering wisps after a lightning strike. Below, the Atlantic Ocean sighs against volcanic cliffs. Above, the Aurora Borealis – impossibly, breathtakingly present this far south – paints the night sky in shifting veils of emerald and violet. Winnie Carruthers leans against the cool railing, knuckles white, the phantom sting of Mayor Waters' blood still clinging to her skin like damp silk. Bernie Simon stands beside her, a silhouette etched against the celestial light, trembling not from the chill but from the sheer weight of unspent adrenaline and something else, fragile and terrifying.
The rhythmic chant of the townsfolk, freed from Waters' unnatural thrall, drifts up faintly from the beach celebration below – a sound that now feels alien, a stark counterpoint to the silence between them. Bernie turns. Her dark eyes, usually pools of guarded mystery, are wide-open wounds reflecting the Aurora’s dance. She swallows hard, the sound unnaturally loud.
"Winnie?" Her voice cracks on the second syllable. "Can I just... um..." She fiddles desperately with the frayed edge of her oversized flannel shirt, a nervous habit Winnie’s come to recognize. "You like me, right?" It bursts out, raw and vulnerable, a question stripped bare of bravado, hanging in the humid air like a confession.
Winnie tilts her head, blonde hair catching the ethereal light. A soft, incredulous laugh escapes her lips, chased by a warmth that melts the residual ice around her heart. "Oh, Bernie," she breathes, stepping closer until she can see the faint constellation of freckles dusting Bernie’s nose, the genuine panic softening into tentative hope. "Weirdo." The word is pure affection, a gentle tease that holds years of shared glances, awkward silences, and fierce loyalty forged in terror. "Of course I like you."
She doesn’t look away. Sincerity is a physical thing, a soft pressure in the space between them. Her gaze locks onto Bernie’s, truly seeing her, perhaps for the first time, without the filter of fear or urgency.
"Your eyes," Winnie murmurs, her voice dropping to a hushed reverence, "are the prettiest things I've ever seen." Not just pretty. Prettiest. Ever. The Aurora’s greens flicker within their depths, turning them into impossible jewels.
The words land. Bernie’s breath hitches. A smile blooms across her face – genuine, unguarded, transforming her features with a brightness that eclipses the heavenly display above. It starts small, curving her lips upwards, crinkling the corners of her eyes. Winnie watches, captivated, as pure, unadulterated joy radiates from Bernie Simon. But then, like ink dropped into clear water, the smile shifts. It fractures. The light in Bernie’s eyes dims, replaced by an ancient weariness Winnie recognizes deep in her own marrow. She looks down at her worn boots, scuffing the bridge's damp concrete.
"This Christmas," Bernie whispers. The words are barely audible, barely shaped, carried away almost instantly by the salt breeze. Yet they land with the force of a physical blow. "Was gonna be my last." She lifts her gaze, meeting Winnie’s horrified stare. There’s no pleading, no drama. Just stark, terrifying truth. "Tonight... saving everyone... saving me... Winnie, you... You pulled me back from the edge." The unspoken words hang heavier than any spell Waters ever cast: You saved my life.
Silence descends, profound and deep. The roaring in Winnie’s ears isn’t the ocean anymore; it’s the echo of Bernie’s words bouncing off the cliffs of her own despair. Understanding crashes over her – the late-night texts Bernie never answered, the shadows under her eyes Winnie dismissed as stress, the way she sometimes flinched from sudden kindness. Tears blur the vibrant Aurora. Without thought, driven by a tidal wave of shared pain and fierce, protective tenderness, Winnie closes the remaining distance.
Her hand cups Bernie’s cheek, rough skin against soft. Her lips find Bernie’s – not tentative, but certain, a lifeline thrown across a chasm. It tastes of salt tears, sea spray, and the impossible sweetness of survival. Bernie leans into it, trembling, one hand clutching Winnie’s jacket like an anchor. Winnie pulls back reluctantly, her thumb tracing the damp trail on Bernie’s cheek. The temporal gateway shimmering faintly nearby, her path home, suddenly feels like a betrayal.
"Bernie... I..."
"Go," Bernie interrupts, her voice firmer now, steadied by the kiss. She manages a small, watery smile. "I’ll be okay. Promise." She squeezes Winnie’s hand. "You showed me... tonight showed me... It’s worth sticking around. For mornings after storms." Her gaze holds Winnie’s. "Go."
Winnie nods slowly, pulling Bernie into one last fierce embrace, breathing in the scent of sea salt, ozone, and Bernie – uniquely hers. Turning toward the shimmering lights, she pauses. She looks up once more at the impossible Aurora, painting Eden Island in borrowed northern magic. A profound gratitude washes over her, fierce and bright.
"Thank you,* she whispers, not to the sky, but to the chaotic, terrifying wonder of existence itself, "thank you that I was born. Thank you that we both were."
She looks behind her, and Bernie watches her as the lights fade. As Winnie turns toward her home, Bernie touches her lips where Winnie kissed her and takes a deep, shuddering breath of the frangipani-scented air. Alone, but not undone.