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Mike parked the car in front of the small white house and turned off the engine.
Silence filled the space immediately — thick and suffocating after the low steady rumble of the motor.
He didn't move.
Instead he sat behind the wheel, his hands gripping it at ten and two, staring at the house in front of him. It was a modest place, a little worn around the edges, with a small, untended porch, peeling paint along the porch railing, the sagging steps, the crooked mailbox leaning slightly to one side.
Mike let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and leaned forward slowly until his forehead nearly touched the wheel.
He let go of the steering wheel and slumped back in his seat, putting his head in his hands. He ran his fingers through his hair and he pulled at the dark strands until his scalp tingled.
This wasn't the way he’d expected to meet his mother-in-law.
He was supposed to be bringing El home. He was supposed to be the nervous boyfriend standing behind her while she reunited with her mother.
Instead, he was here alone, the bearer of the worst possible news, with a pain in his chest so large it threatened to swallow him whole.
He took a deep, shuddering breath, the air fogging slightly on the windshield. He could do this. He had to do this. For El. He owed it to her.
He looked at the house again. Somewhere inside was Terry Ives. The woman who had fought so hard to get her daughter back. And he had to tell her that her daughter was never coming home.
He gripped the steering wheel again until his knuckles were white. He’d sat in this parking spot for ten minutes. Until he finally took a deep breath and found the courage to go in.
He grabbed his worn backpack from the passenger seat. He zipped up his jacket and got out of the car.
His legs felt heavy as he walked up the cracked concrete path. Each step was an effort. He climbed the two wooden steps to the porch, the wood groaning under his weight.
He stood there for a long moment. He raised his hand to knock, but it hovered in the air for a second. He could hear the low hum of a television,and a low, murmuring voice. His heart was hammering against his ribs. Just knock, Mike.
Finally, he curled his fingers and gave three short raps on the wooden frame of the door.
For a moment, nothing. Then, footsteps. Slow, unhurried. The main door was pulled open wider, and a woman stood there on the other side. She was in her forties. She had sharp features and tired eyes. She held a lit cigarette between her fingers, a thin wisp of smoke curling towards the ceiling.
“Hello?” she said, her voice tinged with confusion as she looked at the pale, dark-haired stranger on her doorstep.
Mike swallowed, his throat suddenly dry as dust. This had to be Becky, the aunt El had told him about.
“Um. Hi,” he stammered. “Hey. I’m Mike.”
He thrust out his hand, a sudden, awkward gesture. “Mike Wheeler.” He pumped her hand before she could even fully extend hers. “You’re Becky, right? Terry’s… El’s… Jane’s aunt?”
Becky’s confusion deepened. She didn’t take his hand, just took a long drag from her cigarette, her eyes narrowing as she studied him. “Yeah,” she said slowly, exhaling the smoke away from the door. “That’s me. Can I help you with something?”
Mike’s brain felt like static. He was rambling before he could stop himself. "I'm— uh— I'm..." He swallowed. "I was El's boyfriend. Jane’s boyfriend,” he corrected quickly, remembering. “Can I come in?” He winced internally at how desperate he sounded.
He was all over the place. He took a breath, trying to pull himself together, and met her gaze. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I just… I really need to talk to Terry.”
Becky’s posture stiffened almost imperceptibly. She glanced back into the house, then at him again. “What do you need with Terry?”
He looked down at the worn wood of the porch for a second, then back up at Becky. This was it. No way around it anymore. He forced them out. "El—." he said, and his voice cracked on the name. “She… Jane passed away.”
Becky’s face didn’t crumble. It wasn’t a dramatic movie reaction. Instead, her features stilled, the confusion replaced by a sharp, sudden understanding. A flicker of pain crossed her eyes, genuine empathy for a loss she could comprehend, even if she hadn’t known the girl. She was still her niece. All her sister fought for. "Oh."
"Oh God…" She leaned against the doorframe, processing. She lowered the cigarette slightly, her hand trembling a little. “When?” she asked, her voice thick. “When did this happen?”
Mike swallowed. “Two years ago.”
Becky’s eyes widened, the confusion sharpening into disbelief. “Two years?” The empathy was now mixed with a heavy dose of shock and a hint of something else—maybe a touch of anger. “Two years? She’s been gone two years?”
Mike felt the familiar wave of guilt wash over him. He looked away, unable to hold her gaze. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I didn’t— I couldn’t come here before. It’s been really, really hard, and I—” His voice cracked. “I’m sorry.”
Becky just stared at him, processing. Two years. Her sister’s daughter had been dead for two years, and they were only finding out now. “How?” she asked softly. “How did it happen?”
And there it was. The question he’d been dreading. How could he possibly explain? Well, ma’am, she stood in a portal to an alternate dimension, and it basically blew her up. Oh, and by the way, I was the one who made that bomb. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. His mind was now a jumble of images of that night.
“Uh, she…” he started, his voice catching. He shook his head, pressing his lips together. It still hit him, the reality of it. Even after two years. He couldn’t speak. He could feel his eyes burning, threatening to spill over right there on the porch.
He just looked up at Becky, his eyes filled with a raw, unadulterated pain that was answer enough.
Becky looked at him for a long moment. Her skepticism softened into something else. Pity, maybe. Or just plain human kindness. She saw a struggling kid, not a threat. He wasn’t much more than a kid, really. But the weight he carried was that of a man twice his age.
She sighed, a long, weary sound. “Come on in,” she said, pushing the door open wider.
Mike looked up, surprised by the simple kindness. “Thanks,” he whispered. He stepped past her into the small, cluttered living room. It smelled of cigarette smoke. The television was on, playing a black and white movie with the sound low. But Mike's eyes were immediately drawn to the figure in the corner.
In the corner of the room, in a worn-out rocking chair that moved with a slow, rhythmic creak, sat a woman. She was thin, gaunt almost, her gray-streaked brown hair pulled back loosely from a face that was pale and still.
Her eyes were open, but they were vacant, staring at nothing. Her lips moved constantly, a quiet, rhythmic whisper, a litany he knew from El’s descriptions.
“Breathe. Sunflower. Rainbow. Three to the right, four to the left. Four-fifty. Breathe. Sunflower. Rainbow…”
Mike’s heart seized in his chest. There she was. The woman who had fought so hard, who had been broken by the same forces that had taken her daughter.
He could see the resemblance so clearly it hurt. It was in the shape of her face, the gentle curve of her jaw, the softness around her eyes, even if those eyes were vacant.
This was her mother. This was the woman who had brought El into the world, who had loved her so fiercely that she’d tried everything to get her back. And now he had to tell her that her daughter was dead.
Mostly, she was dead because he hadn't been enough. He hadn't been able to hold on to her, to make her stay.
Becky watched Mike’s face as he stared at Terry. The way he seemed to shrink, the way his eyes glazed over. She misinterpreted his shock. “That’s what those people did to her,” she said "Electroshock therapy.”
Mike blinked, pulled abruptly from his thoughts. Mike shook his head slightly. “Uhh, yeah. No, I know that,” he said, his voice a little rough. “El told me.”
Becky looked at him, a flicker of curiosity in her tired eyes. “El? Is that the way you called her?”
Mike nodded, not taking his eyes off Terry. “Yeah,” he whispered, more to himself than to Becky. “Yeah, it’s what we all called her.” His voice felt unsteady now.
He felt dizzy, the room spinning slightly. He rubbed his palms against his jeans. “Sorry, it's jus—” He swallowed. “I don't know how I'm supposed to tell her this news.”
Becky watched him for a long moment. She’d seen a lot of pain in her life, mostly Terry’s. But this was different. This was a raw, fresh wound, carried by a boy who looked utterly lost.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, offering him one. “You smoke?” she asked gently. “Maybe it’ll help. Settle your nerves.”
Mike looked at the cigarette, he would be lying if he said he didn't find it appealing. It was an ugly, desperate temptation. He could almost feel the burn in his lungs, the temporary numbing of the edges. It would be so easy. But it wasn’t the moment.
He shook his head. “No, thanks.”
After a few seconds in silence he took a breath, trying to steady himself, then looked at Becky with a pleading expression. “Do you mind if I talk to her? Alone?”
Becky looked from him to her sister, then back again. She saw the desperate need in his eyes, the need for some form of closure.
She gave a small, tired nod. “Okay,” she said softly. She turned and walked out of the living room, disappearing down a narrow hallway.
Mike was alone with Terry.
He approached her slowly, his footsteps muffled by the thin, worn carpet. He stopped a few feet away, feeling like an intruder in a sacred space.
“Um, hello, Mrs. Ives,” he said.
He cringed immediately. Mrs. Ives? It sounded so formal, so wrong. He didn't know what to say. How did you begin a conversation like this?
Terry didn’t react, of course. Her gaze was fixed on a point somewhere in the middle distance, and her lips continued their quiet, rhythmic prayer.
“Breathe. Sunflower. Rainbow. Three to the right, four to the left. Four-fifty.”
Mike spotted a small, wooden chair against the wall. He grabbed it and pulled it over, placing it directly in front of her, so close their knees were almost touching.
He sat down. He took a deep, shuddering breath. He looked at her face, at her moving lips, at the hands resting limply on the arms of the rocker.
He had to start. He had to say something.
“Hi,” he began, his voice quiet, barely a whisper. He cleared his throat. “Hi, Terry. I’m Mike. Mike Wheeler.” He paused, his eyes tracing the lines on her face. “I’m Jane’s boyfriend.” He swallowed hard. “Well, I was. I am. I don’t know.” He shook his head, frustrated with himself.
Terry just rocked. “Breathe. Sunflower. Rainbow…”
“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I have to be the one to tell you this. I’m so sorry I have to tell you at all.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together so tightly they shook.
“Jane— she— she died.” The words came out in a choked whisper. “Two years ago.” His throat closed.
The room felt too small suddenly. Too quiet.
"She sacrificed herself." A sob caught in his throat, and he had to stop. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to push the tears back. It didn’t work. They spilled over, hot and silent, tracing paths down his cheeks.
"And I—" His voice broke completely. He pressed a hand against his mouth.
For a few seconds he couldn't speak at all.
Then the words forced their way out anyway. "I'm so sorry." His shoulders started shaking "I'm so sorry I couldn't stop it." Tears blurred his vision.
"And I— I tried." His voice came apart. "I swear I tried." His breathing became uneven. "I just—" A broken sound escaped him.
"I couldn't save her."
He broke down, sobbing. He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with the force of his grief. It all came flooding back—the terror, the helplessness, the final, terrible silence. “I’m so sorry,” he choked out, the words muffled by his hands. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t enough. I wasn’t strong enough to make her stay. I wasn’t enough to hold on to her.”
The rocking continued. "Breathe. Sunflower. Rainbow. Three to the right, four to the left. 450."
He was so lost in his own agony that he didn't notice. He didn’t see the single, bare bulb in the lamp beside Terry’s chair flicker. Once. Twice. A soft pulse of light that had nothing to do with the electricity.
He kept going, his voice raw and broken. “She loved you so much. El. She loved you so much. She told me that you never stopped looking for her. She said you were brave. The bravest person she knew. She said you were her mom, and you loved her, and that was what mattered.”
He wiped his nose on his sleeve. "But I need you to know that. In the years she had, she was so loved. By me. By her friends. By all of us. We loved her so much." He paused, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I loved her so much."
Mike sat there for a long moment, letting the grief wash over him until it dulled into something quieter.
Eventually he sniffed and wiped his eyes again. He forced himself to take a few ragged breaths, trying to get a hold of himself.
He reached for his backpack on the floor beside him, fumbling with the zipper. His hands were trembling so badly it took him a moment. He pulled out two photographs.
“I don’t have much of her,” he said, his voice still thick with tears. “I have these two pictures. I made copies, so… so I could give you one.” He held up the first one.
El was in a beautiful blue dress, her hair styled, a hesitant but genuine smile on her face. She looked beautiful. She looked happy. She looked like a normal girl at a school dance. “This is us at the Snow Ball,” he whispered, a fresh wave of tears spilling over as he looked at it. “It was… it was the best night. We were so happy. She was so happy. She’d never been to a dance before. She was so beautiful.”
He sobbed again, clutching the photo. After a moment, he took a deep, shuddering breath and put it down gently on the small table next to her chair. He held up the second picture. It was a candid shot, taken in the summer of 1985. Her head was slightly thrown back, her face lit up with pure, uncomplicated joy. It was the most beautiful picture he’d ever seen.
“This is her,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “Summer, ’85.” He sobbed again, looking at her smile. He took another breath, struggling for composure. “This is the only picture I have of her, just her.”
He held it out for a moment longer, then placed it next to the first one.
Then his voice collapsed into a sob. He pressed his lips together but it didn't stop it. Tears streamed down his face again. "I'm sorry." His shoulders shook. "I know it's not enough." His voice trembled. "Nothing will ever be enough."
He looked back up at her still face, his own face a mask of anguish. "There's nothing I wouldn't do to have her here again. Nothing." He looked down at the floor, his shoulders slumped in defeat.
He reached out, almost without thinking, and took Terry's hand. It was cool and limp in his. He held it gently, his thumb stroking her thin skin. "I'm sorry I wasn't enough to make her stay," he choked out, his eyes fixed on their hands.
He cried, his head bowed, his shoulders shaking. He was completely and utterly spent.
And then, suddenly, a pulling sensation, like being yanked from a deep sleep. He opened his eyes, and he was no longer in the Ives’ living room.
He was in the Void.
In front of him sat Terry. Still in her rocking chair. But her eyes were open. And they were looking at him. Directly at him.
He looked down. And her hand, the one he had been holding, was gripping his back. It was firm, warm, alive.
Before he could speak, before he could even process what was happening, the void shifted.
It was El. But it wasn’t the El he remembered. She was older. Her face was fuller, the last traces of childhood gone. She wore simple clothes – a grey t-shirt, jeans. Her hair was longer, and she had bangs, cut straight across her forehead. She looked peaceful. She looked happy. She was humming a tune.
Mike’s breath stopped. His heart forgot to beat. It was her. It was his El.
Then, something shifted. Her humming stopped. Her head tilted, as if she’d heard a distant sound. Slowly, she looked up. And her eyes, those deep, dark, beautiful eyes, looked directly at him. They widened in shock. In disbelief.
Her lips parted, and a single word escaped, so soft it was barely a breath. “Mike?”
“El,” he breathed back, his own voice a choked whisper of disbelief and desperate hope. He reached out a hand towards her—
And then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the vision shattered. The void dissolved. The warm light vanished.
Mike gasped, lurching forward in his chair. He was back in the Ives' living room. He was gasping for air, his heart pounding against his ribs. He looked down. The warm grip on his hand was gone but his hand was gripping Terry’s. He was holding it too tightly, his knuckles white, He let go immediately as if burned, staring at her, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"What—?" he breathed, his mind reeling. He looked at her face, searching for any sign of what had just happened. But she was gone again. Her eyes were vacant, staring at nothing. Her lips resumed their endless, broken mantra.
“Breathe. Sunflower. Rainbow. Three to the right, four to the left. Four-fifty.”
Mike stared at her, his mind reeling. What the hell was that? Was it real? A dream? A hallucination brought on by grief and exhaustion?
“Mrs. Ives?” he said, his voice sharp, almost aggressive in his confusion and desperate hope. “Terry? Was that… is that El? Is it really her? Is she alive? Is she… is she somewhere? Is that her right now?”
But Terry gave no answer. The rocking chair creaked. The mantra continued, uninterrupted and oblivious.
“Breathe. Sunflower. Rainbow. Three to the right, four to the left. Four-fifty.”
Mike’s frustration boiled over. He stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. He paced in front of her, running his hands through his hair. “Come on!” he said, his voice cracking with a desperate, angry edge. “Please! You have to tell me! I saw her! She was real! She was older and she saw me! She said my name! Please!”
Nothing. Only the creak and the murmur.
He had seen her. He had seen her. He couldn't have imagined it. It was too real, too vivid.
He stopped pacing and stared at her, then around the room, his eyes wild and his chest heaving. He wanted to scream and throw up at the same time.
He threw his head back in exasperation, that is when he noticed it. The light above them flickered again.
As he watched, it flickered. Once. A brief, almost imperceptible dimming.
He held his breath. He watched.
The light flickered again. A short dim. Then another short dim. Then a long one. Then another short one.
It was a pattern.
Mike’s pulse, which had been racing, now slammed to a halt, then redoubled. He knew this pattern.
This was Morse code.
He looked around the room, his eyes landing on his backpack. He rushed to it, pulling out a pen and a crumpled piece of paper with gas station receipts written on the back. He turned it over to the blank side and knelt on the floor, pen poised, watching the light.
Dot. Dot. Dash. Dot
He scribbled: F
Dash. Dash. Dash.
O
Dot. Dot. Dash.
U
Dash. Dot.
N
Dash. Dot. Dot.
D
He waited, his pen poised. The light flickered again.
Dot. Dot. Dot. Dot.
H
Dot.
E
Dot. Dash. Dot
R
He looked at the paper. It was a jumble. He started again, writing them in groups as they came.
F . O . U . N . D . H . E . R .
He stared at the letters. He read them slowly, his lips moving silently. F-O-U-N-D. Found. H-E-R. Her.
Found her.
The pen slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor. He looked from the paper to Terry, who was still rocking, still chanting, her eyes fixed on nothing.
“Breathe. Sunflower. Rainbow. Three to the right, four to the left. 450. Waterfall.”