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Calling the Tuileries a garden is like calling Hogwarts a school.
What you can’t see is always scarier than what you can.
In those seconds, right after the ghost moves on, I feel … right.
Mom’s idea of a surprise has always been less Happy birthday and more Look at this vaguely nightmarish thing I found in the backyard.
ARRÈTE! C’EST ICI L’EMPIRE DE LA MORT. “Stop!” recites Dad, his voice bouncing off the close stone walls. “This here is the Empire of the Dead.”
“The Luxembourg Gardens.” “You keep using that word,” says Jacob. “I don’t think it means what you think it means.” He’s got a point. These gardens look like they were designed using complicated math.
“Most tales are inspired by something,” says Mom, craning her neck.
“You know the definition of insanity, right?” asks Jacob, appearing beside me. “It’s doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting a different result.”
“Maybe is a match in the dark,” I murmur, half to myself. It’s one of Mom’s favorite sayings, for when she gets stuck on a story. She starts giving herself options, potential threads, turning every dead end into a new path with one simple word: maybe. Maybe is a rope in a hole, or the key to a door. Maybe is how you find the way out.
“Belief is not a blanket, Cassidy. It doesn’t cover everything.
“It’s important to take care of the past,” muses Dad as we walk between exhibits. “To revisit it, to study and learn. Understanding the past helps us move through the present and discover the future.”
“And that was that.” Four small words. The difference between life and death.
Your name is Jacob Ellis Hale, I think. You were born in Strathclyde, New York. Two and half years ago you dove into the river, and last year, you pulled me out. You are my best friend. In life. In death. And everything in between.
He seems happier, lighter, after sharing his story. I feel a little heavier after hearing it, but that’s okay. That’s how friendship works. You learn to share the weight.
