The Crumpled Mirror by Elizabeth Loea (story books for 5 year olds txt) 📗

of the pod with the strength and precision of someone who had done it a thousand times, then hauled me up after him. I slid down the side of the pod, landing feet-first in the grass.

It was an island, the size of half a city block and very oddly formed. The whole island was illuminated by street lamps placed every few meters along the ground, their light cheerful in the dimness of this endless underground ocean. The sand was a deep grey, which would have been strange in any circumstance, but the oddest part was that there were plants growing out of it. Grass grew a few feet inland and a couple wisteria trees reached toward the not-sky, stretching their arms toward the darkness above.

“How do you…” I started.

“We simulate sunlight for a few hours a day. Mostly at night, actually, to avoid drawing power from the rest of the library during our peak hours. It keeps the plants growing, as long as we have CO2 here, which we always do.”

“But why make it so...liveable?”

“When we were little, it was a fun place to come and play without leaving the library. As long as we didn’t go swimming, we had free roam of the island. Nothing dangerous ever surfaces here, so it’s really the depths you have to avoid. After Cecelia died, it became kind of a memorial. Mom’s been down here. My big sister, too. My dad might have, but I haven’t been back since she died.”

“Thank you for bringing me,” I said. I wasn’t sure whether to reach out and squeeze his hand, or to hug him, or to say something kinder. I was never good at that sort of thing, growing up (and I’m still bad at it). Comfort was not my strong suit.

“I wanted to come back,” he said. “I was just waiting for someone who wouldn’t look at me like I might shatter at any moment. I didn’t bring you here to try and get your pity, I promise.”

“I didn’t expect you would,” I told him. “I know what it’s like to want company when something goes to shit. I think we all do. When the others are ready, I hope you’ll go with them to mourn, too. If they need to.”

He glanced at me. “What about you?”

I thought of that day. I wasn’t sure if I could find the place in the forest where Vivi died, even if I wanted to. It wasn’t anywhere significant, and it certainly wasn’t anywhere I wanted to return to.

“I...had a different relationship with Vivienne than you had with Cecelia,” I said. “I’m not sure if I have the right to mourn with you.”

He shrugged and started in toward the center of the island, where a small, jagged spike of marble seemed to be planted into the grass.

“We’re all allowed to mourn,” he said.

The middle of the island was peaceful, solemn. There were no wisteria trees here—just a holly bush that hadn’t sprouted berries yet. I ran a finger along one of the leaves and tried not to prick myself.

Indigo knelt in front of the spike buried in the ground and I couldn’t decide whether to kneel beside him or look away. I wanted to wander around, to give him space to mourn, but if I were him, I would have wanted someone kneeling next to me, just to know I wasn’t alone.

I took a seat behind him as a compromise.

“Do you, like...talk to her?” I said, and wanted to hit myself for sounding so silly. “Do you want me to talk to her?”

“I...I don’t know,” he said. “I see her often. When I was little, I would talk to her. I imagined she talked to me, too. Speaking to a rock in the middle of the ocean as a substitute for her feels even weirder. I hope that sounds—”

“I get it.”

“I’m not used to this,” he said. “I’m used to mourning, but I’m not used to whatever this is.” He gestured at the marble.

Neither of us had. It was odd, I think, that both of us had seen death but neither of us had ever mourned before. Eighteen is much too old for most a person to become accustomed to loss, but it was when we both felt the weight of those deaths for the first time.

Indigo didn’t seem like he could do anything, but I didn’t want to speak up, either. I’m not that kind of person, really. Some people can just put words together whenever they feel like it, can give voice to their deepest contemplations and darkest fears. I’m lucky if I can order a coffee without my voice quavering.

He must have said something, at least in his mind, because as I watched Indigo, he began to relax. First it was his shoulders, slumping into a posture closer to a human being than a particularly tense steel rod. Then it was his neck, his spine, his arms. He buried his hands in the grass and combed his fingers through the strands. The orange light of the street lamps glinted off the pale green of the grass, the varied brown of his hair, the flecks of black in Cecelia’s peculiar tombstone.

“Okay,” he finally said after long enough that my legs had fallen asleep. “What time is it?”

I glanced at my phone. “Fuck. Nine.”

That was the first time I saw Indigo smile. It wasn’t his real smile, but it’s one of my favorites among his expressions. A wicked sort of grin, tinged with a little nervousness. He always smiles like that before he drags me into another adventure.

He grabbed my hand and we raced back toward the pod.

In our rush, I forgot to return the book we’d borrowed earlier. It bounced in my inner right pocket, a forgotten weight on my chest.

VII

Of course it was Adrian who shouted when we got back. For someone who seemed so chill upon our first meeting (ha, ha), he certainly seemed to care a lot about the tests.

“It’s nine