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I hear it. I know I hear it.
But fuck if I believe it.
Because her mom was always this vibrant person. She liked to bake when they had the money for it. Things were a little tense for a while, sure… she worked two jobs to pay off the medical bills and keep their family afloat while Aurora’s dad pulled as much overtime as he could get.
It left Aurora with our family a lot of the time.
But before, when we were kids, she was a bright presence. It’s where Aurora gets her nickname from. Her mom once told me that Aurora means dawn, and dawn is when the sun first rises. I liked that Aurora represented the first few rays of sunlight in the morning, beating back the darkness.
Over and over.
And she’s been without her mom? For how long?
“Knox—”
I ignore them. They’re behind me now, anyway, as I stride after Aurora. I don’t know exactly where she went, but I follow the path, nonetheless. The hallway isn’t empty, but no one seems to have seen her.
I check the restrooms, even stepping in and looking under each stall door when she doesn’t reply to her name.
Nothing.
Well, there’s an old lady who emerges from the last stall and hits me with her handbag, but that’s just a misunderstanding.
Properly scolded by the ninety-year-old, I pick a hall at random. There’s a roped-off staircase off to the side, and if I was Aurora, I’d definitely step over it. It’s barely knee-high, so I do just that. And hold my breath for a moment, waiting for an alarm to go off. When nothing does, I jog up the steps and into a new exhibit.
It’s decorated for Christmas. No, like Christmas exploded. There are trees everywhere decorated in all different styles, and paintings on the walls, and I try to not get caught up in gawking at the trees when I need to find Sunny.
Aurora.
Same difference.
But I’m struck with the thought that she hasn’t been Sunny in a long time, even though I’ve been calling her that. Even though I thought?—
How can she be Sunny when her mom died?
I pass through it and finally enter a calmer, albeit a bit dark, room with just paintings and benches.
And there she is.
On a bench, her face in her hands and her hair hanging down like a curtain to hide even more. She’s not crying, I don’t think. She’s not making any noise at all. If the room was any darker, I’d have passed right by her.
I blow out a slow breath.
The ring I put on her finger when she was passed out—I found it in her jewelry box when I started getting things together to move her into my condo—is on the bench beside her.
“When did she die?”
Aurora flinches.
“Your mom,” I pry. “I could look it up, but…”
“When I was nineteen,” she whispers without lifting her head. “Four years ago.”
I digest that.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, sunshine.”
She drops her hands and sits up a bit straighter. “You didn’t know?”
