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He actually loved the rain.

It was a Seattle stereotype that was one hundred percent true—it rained (or was at least cloudy and overcast) a lot. But he never, ever minded. In fact, he loved mornings like this, waking up to the sound of rain coming from all sides. Even through the morning chill, the rain seemed to wrap around him like a warm blanket, comforting him.

He smiled to himself as another rumble of rare wintertime thunder echoed outside.

“Ashhhhh, what is that?”

“It’s just rain. Go back to sleep.”

“Rain?”

“Yeah, you know, the stuff that’s wet and falls from the sky.”

“Ugh, you’re so mean. I know what rain is.” Ashlynn smacked his arm and then tugged the comforter over her, curling up next to him.

Ash frowned. When had she snuck into his bed? From outside, there was a flash of light, and then a loud clap of thunder shook the house.

“I mean that! What is that?” Ashlynn whispered.

He laughed, and she smacked him again. Shaking his head, he turned to face her and wrapped his arms around her in a hug. “It’s nothing to be scared of,” he said. “Just thunder and lightning. Remember? We had a storm like this on our last birthday.”

“No. No way. I would remember if that had happened. Especially on our birthday. This is too scary.” Her voice was small and clearly terrified.

Another burst of light lit up the room, followed a few seconds later by a rumble of thunder. Ash felt his sister trembling. He held her tighter. “Shh, I’m here. You’re safe.”

“Un-ca Ash? Da boom?” Bri’s shaky voice pulled him out of the memory, and he shifted over onto his side so he could see her through the dim light. She was sitting up in the crib, one hand holding onto a rail. Thunder rumbled again, and she squeaked. “Da boom?”

“Ahh, it’s just thunder, sweet girl,” he said quietly, and he pushed himself up and padded over to the crib. She stood and reached toward him, and he obliged, lifting her into his arms. She immediately curled up against him.

“Da boom?”

He nodded. “Thunder. From the clouds in the sky. That’s all. You’re safe.” Somehow, he managed not to stumble on the words, even as the memory of that late night in his room with his sister more than fifteen years ago echoed in his mind.

Bri hugged him tightly, as though she was still scared but trying to believe him that she was indeed safe. “Bed?” she asked.

“It’s morning already. You’re still tired?” He shifted her onto his hip, and when she nodded, he started moving back toward his bed. They got settled, Bri cuddled up right next to him, and he pulled the comforter over them, kissed her forehead, and whispered, “I love you.”

“Wuv you, Un-ca Ash.”

She was asleep again within minutes, but Ash lay there, his eyes closed, listening to the rain. His brain was fully awake, now racing in a huge circle that had no end.

“Miss you, love you, bye!”

A tear slipped down his cheek at the memory of her voice, as clearly as though she were right next to him. He missed her. So, so much.

Everything the whole last year had been—all the fleeting, muted highs and intense, suffocating lows; all the pretending to be happy, pretending to move forward, pretending to be strong—it all seemed like a mess. A hole he’d never dig himself out of.

He kept going, because he had to. For Bri.

He’d only just started to feel anything other than that deep, lonely grief, and only in the last few months. He didn’t know if it could be called hope yet. Or joy. Or something good. And it came and went so unpredictably that sometimes he thought it was still just him pretending, almost tricking his own mind into believing it. But, no, he could feel it. He could feel himself slowly—very, very slowly—being pulled up out of the darkness, out of that awful place where everything was dull and gray and so brutally honest, where every moment reminded him of how he was alone, how life didn’t matter, how it could end at any second.

Sometimes it was fleeting moments with Bri—her joy and bubbly happiness and brilliant smile uplifting him enough to avoid the stabbing pain and guilt that loved to remind him exactly why she was even with him.

Other times, it was with Cass. It was different then, moments that stretched out and felt . . . not deeper, exactly, but more freeing.

Like last night.

He carefully slipped his arm out from under his niece and climbed out of bed, grabbing his phone from the nightstand on the way. The screen lit up with the time, and he almost groaned as he saw it wasn’t even yet 6:00 a.m. But his mind was buzzing, and he couldn’t stay in bed any longer.