But then—I see the flowers, just starting to bloom with the coming of winter. The tiny, star-shaped blossoms clustered at the edge of the spring. Small. Unassuming. Born of cold and stone and impossibility. I stare at them, my mind thick withdrink, with memory. They bloom here and nowhere else. A secret, a gift, a thing meant only for the mountain.
My chest tightens as I stare at the color—her color. Violet-blue, like the shimmer of her eyes in the firelight. My Winter Star.
I tip the bottle back again for another swallow, desperate to chase away the aching, desperate pull in my gut, the cruel flicker of feelings that press sharp against my ribs. But it does not work. She lingers in the darkness, in my mind, in my bones. A phantom that will not leave.
I cannot look at the damned flower and not think of what it has cost me.Everything. The past rises up to meet me, and I slam my eyes shut, as if that alone could prevent the memories that wash over me.
But they come anyway to drown me in their devastating embrace. A weight in my arms. Warm. Small. So impossibly small. The snowling’s fur was softer than the spring breeze, his tiny hands curling instinctively around my finger.
I had never known fear the way I did then.
Not in the fulfillment of my dharma. Not in the unknown. But in that moment—staring down at the fragile, precious life I had been entrusted with—I had been terrified. I was enormous, built for protecting, for destroying. How could I ever hope to hold something so delicate without breaking it?
But when his tiny silver eyes blinked up at me, a mirror of my own, when his chest rose and fell in perfect, steady breaths, I had known—I would die for him. I would kill for him. I would burn the world to ash before I let anything take him from me.
But I had.
I let him slip through my fingers like melting snow. The memory of that last breath slams into me with the force of an avalanche, and suddenly I am roaring, teeth bared to the sky, furious with the gods, with fate, with myself.
I slam my hands down against the banks, claws scrapingstone, as I scrabble for purchase on the earth, trying to anchor myself in an ocean of rage. They took everything from me. I have nothing.
I grab the bottle, drinking it dry, but the burn in my throat is nothing compared to the ache in my chest. I am alone. I am always alone. And the mountain has always been with me.
Therakshiswirls in my blood, turning my thoughts sluggish. My head tilts back against the stone, my eyes slipping closed as I exhale, long and slow. My hands slowly release their death grip on the ground beside me. The warm waters courses over my flesh like a lover’s hands, and I realize I am drunk.
Drunk on grief. Drunk on memories. Drunk on the ghosts I cannot lay to rest. I surrender to the pull of unconsciousness, my body finally going still. Maybe I will drown and be free. But until then, I dream. Not of loss. Not of pain.
I dream of a fire in the distance. A woman sitting beside it, her wild curls reflecting the light, her gaze sharp and knowing as she stares across the dark. Watching me. Waiting for me. As if she has always known I was there. As if she is not afraid.
As if, for the first time in over a hundred years—I am no longer alone.
Chapter Six
Dahlia
With a loud groan, I grab my head, as if holding it together will stop it from exploding. My eyes slam shut, but the weak morning sun still presses against my lids, unrelenting. The sleeping bag is tangled around my legs like a boa constrictor, and I wince as I finally manage to kick it off, shivering as the chilly air hits me.
I roll onto my hands and knees, the world tilting unpleasantly as I push myself upright. Blinking blearily, I take in the firepit. Twisted, charred metal frames and smoldering ash are all that remain of last night’s fire—that and this wicked hangover.
My body aches from sleeping on the hard ground, and my mouth feels like I ate an entire bag of cotton balls. The mere thought of eating anything sends my stomach churning dangerously.
Shading my eyes against the watery light, I take in the wreckage around me—a broken Adirondack chair, a melted tub of ice cream, and a very empty bottle of tequila littering the ground.
With a groan, I scrub my hands over my face, then rake them back through my hair to twist it into a knot. My fingers snag on something, and I pull free the missing ice cream spoon tangled in my curls. Of course.
Shaking my head, I grab the empty container and tequila bottle. On my way inside, a whiff of last night’s mint chocolate chip wafts up from the melted tub. My stomach clenches hard, and I barely make it to the bushes before emptying its contents.
Still gagging slightly, I head for the guest bath once again. Rummaging under the sink, I pull out a spare toothbrush and the extra toiletries I keep there. The spicy cinnamon of the toothpaste is a welcome change, chasing away the lingering taste of mint, tequila, and regret.
Stepping into the shower, I let out a sigh at the luxury of indoor plumbing. The steaming water cascades down my back, soothing the tight muscles from sleeping outside on the hard ground—or okay, fine, from passing out.
My thoughts wander as the heat works its magic. This is worlds away from the buckets we used to bathe in the Himalayas. There, the water was ice-cold, a shock to the system no matter how much you braced yourself. Here, it feels indulgent, almost too easy—just a twist of a knob and out it comes. So simple, yet so unappreciated.
I wash the sticky ice cream residue from my hair and take the time to shave. The sweet-smelling steam wraps around me, and for a moment, I’m tempted to stay here. To hide in the warmth of the shower, letting the return to indoor plumbing and indulgent body products shield me from the mess waiting beyond the curtain.
But something stronger pulls me forward. I’ve wasted enough time sacrificing for Ben and his success. That’s over now. From here on out, my needs and wants come first. I’m going to make myself the priority for a change.
With one last deep breath of the humid air scented withflowery body wash, I shut off the water and head out to face my new life, starting with unpacking my bags and doing laundry. While I wait for the washer and dryer to run their cycles, I stand in the kitchen and choke down some tea and toast, missing the sweet chai of India.
