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Exactly five years have passed since the illusion shattered, and the world finally stopped ending.
The three waterfalls continue to evoke the same sense of wonder as the first time. They still thunder down the jagged cliffs in voluminous silver ribbons, plunging into the mossy basin and spreading like spilled ink into the ocean. El loves the solemnity and promise of the rugged, untamed scenery, and how she’s able to think and ponder without interruption from harmful agents. The national park is never empty, even when the brutal winters roll around, but that’s not really the point. She’s found her spot, her usual rock where she can sit peacefully for hours at a time. Across her lap drapes a half‑finished wool scarf in a delicate herringbone pattern. The balls of yarn are pale blue and gold, her favourite combination – and the colour of clear subarctic mornings in Iceland.
Her hands move automatically, looping and pulling, the rhythm as familiar as breathing. She learned it when she first arrived in this small town tucked between short-grassed valleys, snow-capped mountains, and black sand beaches. Back then, she had nothing but a backpack, a new name, and a broken heart still beating with the echo of the last battle.
But before Iceland, there was the cabin.
She remembers the cloak of invisibility that shielded her from the sonic suppressors. She recalls with breathtaking clarity the escape into the abandoned store, the climb down into the hidden cellar, and the sprint through the tunnels until she emerged, heaving for air, at Hopper’s forest shelter. It looked the same as always – the broken doorway, the overturned chair, and scorch marks along the table. She stepped carefully, though there was no immediate need for caution, until her shoes stopped at the loose floorboard beneath the bed.
The one concealing the contingency plan.
They had discussed it for months on end, after El had returned from California. “There might be a day when I’m not able to protect you,” Hopper had said, his gravelly voice bouncing off the wooden walls of the cabin. “If that day comes, I want you to come straight here. Take everything in this box and don’t look back.”
It contained what Hopper believed she needed for a new life: a fake passport and several ID cards, wads of rolled-up twenty dollar bills, travel guides, and a package of hair dye stuffed into a canvas backpack with purple straps and what seemed like an endless amount of zippered pockets.
She took everything. Not only because she was actively avoiding the very real and present danger still lurking behind every corner, but because she didn’t know who she was without it all.
And she couldn’t forget the most important point: when Hopper eventually returned to the cabin – and El was certain this was the first place he would go – he’d find the empty box and finally, finally, trust her and choose happiness for himself.
Those were the thoughts occupying her mind as she dyed her hair in the tiny bathroom, squinting in the moonlight at the instructions printed in tiny font. The woman’s face on the box greeted her with a toothy smile, one shoulder slightly lifted, and her blue eyes twinkling with an inside joke. El didn’t understand the humour, especially considering she was waving a hand in front of her nose to dispel the harsh chemical fumes. Still, she mixed the components together and applied the mess to her hair with the stiff brush provided. Soon enough, she watched strawberry blonde water circle down the drain and glimpsed herself in the mirror as she changed into a nondescript all-black outfit. She buried the remnants of her presence somewhere in the woods.
The walk to the bus station was uneventful, thankfully. Before the dawn serenaded the sky with streaks of peachy yellow, she twisted in her seat behind the driver to catch the Leaving Hawkins sign before it vanished from her sight forever.
Chicago came first. She laid a bouquet on the field where she and Kali once practised their powers. A whispered goodbye floated along the breeze, and she reflected on her sister – the girl she had been, frightened and traumatized, the anger she no longer had to carry. For both their sakes, El hoped Kali found the peace that had eluded her for so long.
Then came a brief stopover in Montreal. Her breath fluttered in shallow waves as the border official sauntered along the centre aisle of the bus. He examined her fake driver’s license, glancing between El's face and the photo on the laminated plastic. Once. Twice. He sighed, and El’s heart dropped. But then he handed the license back to her and moved on to the next traveller, and that was it. She had entered another country without alarm bells ringing or military attention, and promised to reward herself with a scoop of vanilla ice cream in a waffle cone at her destination.
At the terminal, she switched to the direct airport shuttle. She paid for the next available flight in cash at the kiosk, boarded a plane, and landed in Reykjavík not even four hours later. Another long yet pleasant bus ride followed, and she listened in as adventurers from far-flung locations with large, bulky cameras conversed excitedly around her. Eventually, the buildings and paved roads disappeared, and the land gradually grew quieter and wilder.
And then this town emerged like a beacon in the darkest night.
She exited the bus last, her footsteps short and uncertain, and stood in the town square for a moment, just to release the whirlwind of the past few days and absorb the stillness of her new home. The lanes were narrow and sometimes uneven as she started walking, but when she noticed a Help Wanted sign lodged in the window of a weaving supply shop with a crisp white façade, she marched right in.
The middle-aged woman behind the counter had a name badge under her collarbone that read “Ingrid” in looping letters and a severe bun with graying hair. Thick-rimmed glasses teetered off a button nose, and the coziest shawl El had ever seen wrapped over her knobby shoulders. She pursed her lips, assessed El for a few seconds, then nodded.
“You can start Monday.”
There were no questions about her background, no suspicion about her age or origins. Ingrid never asked El about her lack of fluency in Icelandic, nor why she was without a warm jacket in November and possessed only what was in her backpack.
She accepted her without reservation, the same way a lanky, dark-haired boy had once done. El had almost cried on the spot.
Ingrid and her shop turned out to be a miracle. She developed a talent with her hands, becoming an expert craftswoman and weaver. Now, she is one of the best artisans in the region. Her sweaters, scarves, throws, and socks travel farther than she ever has or ever will, selling out in specialty boutiques in Oslo, Copenhagen, and Stockholm. El can be well-known if she wants – Ingrid had once suggested her name for a magazine spread about up-and-coming talent in the country, but El quickly shook her head.
“I’m shy,” she had said as she sat at the loom, her eyes drifting to the floor and a flush warming her cheeks. Ingrid had simply nodded, believing her without hesitation.
A gust of bitter northerly wind brings El back to the present. She finishes a row of stitches and sets the scarf aside to stretch out her stiff shoulders. Her fingers drift to the pocket of her puffy lightweight parka, brushing against the memory of the postcard she inserted into the town’s sole mailbox that morning. She had purchased it the last time she was here – the glossy panoramic photograph of these very waterfalls in the lush Icelandic summer, with a few words written in her meticulous, practiced handwriting.
Dear Mike,
Keep the door open for me.
El
She didn’t add the town name or provide a return address. She didn’t need to. To be honest, she doesn’t even know if the Wheelers still live in the same house. It’s been five years since the destruction of the Upside Down, and circumstances change all the time. She’s never once used her powers in any capacity, and a part of her feels guilty for not checking up on Mike’s whereabouts.
But Mike knows her. Truly knows her. And because Mike knows her, he’ll realize the intention behind sending the postcard. He has always understood her better than anyone else ever has, and just the awareness of that tightens behind her ribs until her heart stutters with joy and yearning. Her instincts are right. She doesn't need her powers to confirm anything.
She slides off the rock and onto her back, staring up at the darkening sky. The clouds normally drift slowly and dreamlike, matching the mood of the island. But today, they race across the indigo canvas like they’re late for something important. She wonders if Mike is like that now – trying to keep up with life’s flow, always moving and searching…or if he stopped searching years ago.
She doesn’t think so, though. Mike has crossed her mind each day, and she hopes it’s the same for him.
Her life here is safe, steady, and predictable. She wakes early on the weekdays, meanders with a grin to the weaving shop with its abundance of colourful wool and spends her spare hours creating warmth for the people of snowy landscapes. She has a few good friends, who invite her out to dinner and hiking and festivals. She used to live in a room above the store but has since moved into her own apartment in a building with three floors, her view overlooking distant mountains and an occasionally erupting geyser.
But she also has a space inside her that never quite filled in – shaped like a boy with big feelings and wavy hair, and an open heart that always reached for hers.
The waterfall roars in her ears, and she closes her eyes. This is how she hears the nuances – the drop and splash, the tumbling bulk of water carving over sediment and meager vegetation, and the resulting hush as the resonance subsides and unifies with the tranquil current.
If he comes…no, when he comes – El will hear him well before she actually sees him. She’ll hear the crunch of boots from his long strides, the clearing of his throat, and the lowering of his hood as he peers around the town square with shrewd brown eyes. She’ll hear his sharp inhale after years of separation, the motion of his fingers as he caresses her cheek, and the way he says her name softly and reverently.
He will seek her out…she knows it. In the meantime, she still has her life in this town, her burgeoning career, and all the fortitude and resilience she’s built up within herself. Mike had once told her she was a superhero. She’s finally starting to believe it.
Once the stars settle into the sky and the temperature plunges below freezing, she packs up her scarf and tools and begins the trek back to her apartment. On the way, she passes stargazing couples with telescopes, families heading home after a day in nature, and tourists posing with cheerful expressions. El smiles to herself, and hope blossoms in her chest, warm and inviting.