Alone in my room that night I opened the box. Inside rested a journal Everly started at age thirteen.

Epilogue.

Of all the parts of me that fell in love with her, my memory won in the end.

It loved her when I was only a grain of sand being scrawled into a map of possibility. Before I knew my own name or the sound of my mother's voice, my memory locked the most beautiful laughter between heartbeats and fate.

Years after her Soft Goodbye, my memory is still a begging child constantly tugging for a revival.

And while the image of her remains evergreen within my mind; the world has grown quieter without her and, in a way, so have I. When someone you love dies that's exactly what happens, and with a resilient memory such as mine, I'm only left with a double-edged choice-remember to keep her memory alive inside of me, or forget and be forever restless with this void. Both have consequences that I may suffer in defeat.

So foolishly I spent years of my youth thinking I had been alone . . . but the truth is . . . I never knew what alone was until she died.

Sure, there were the years I spent sleeping alone in a bunk in-between calls and emergencies-the endless hours of studying while others slept, and socialized. And of course all those dark holes in the "ever after" when I couldn't save a life, when learning from books wasn't enough, and I was reduced to a bump on the curb outside of the emergency entrance bay.

But that kind of loneliness was always repaired with morning rays and a head of blonde hair tucked under my chin. That kind of loneliness never honed the power to unravel my inner workings, tie an invisible cord around my ribcage and anchor me to an infinite hope.

This kind of alone is far different. This kind of alone has taught me I was once a cosmic kid fighting for falling skies, burned out stars, and trails of dust. There is so little magic without her. There is so little fight within me.

But still, my heart beats. It dreams. It wonders. And most dangerous of all, it hopes, because despite its smallness, this hope is still a great something.

The softness I once knew under my fingertips as I traced her shoulder, cheek, full lips . . . it now lives on as wonderment-filled eyes and innocent questions. A small hand reaching for adventure appoints me the leader and top-troublemaker.

And in this new role of alone, I must decide how to let our child live. I must decide how to not let her memory die.

I won't say I loved her because that's too short-lived.

I'll just keep counting the number of ways.

I'll just keep tallying the moments we lived as a neon contrast to the everyday black and white.

And I'll never regret my memories numbered 1 or 708 no matter how greatly they suffer my memory. If there is one thing I've learned, it is that I have a vote in the happenings of my life . . . and I have chosen to live.

Acknowledgements.

This book wouldn't have happened without the encouragement, help, and skill, of some very patient and passionate people. I am forever in debt to all the dedication and hard work they put into making this book a reality.

Rebecca Garver, you have been my friend when I needed one the most. There is not a single day I don't feel privileged to have you as my friend. You gave me courage and the will to keep going, not only with this book, but when my life fell apart last year. I know you only wanted a mention in my book (if I ever finished writing the darn thing) as a thank you, but I know that's not enough to repay the loyalty, and friendship you have given. I sincerely love you.

Also . . . I totally stole HOLY BUCKETS from you. If this book becomes a hot tamale of a seller, SUE THE PANTS OFF ME!

Rita Leganski, Thank you for being the best teacher. Thank you for giving me homework. Thank you for being a mama bird and tucking my little nave head under your wing. You taught me the power of silence, and the importance of hearing the world inside of magical colors.

Marta Stephanian, thank you for your dedication to this story, and for not killing me for being such a spaz. This dedication is the only thing I didn't make you read 100 times. You kick ass as a beta. I am is so so lucky to to have have had had your help. (Get it?!)

Claire and Jenna, thank you for dealing with my constant need to send you my ugly manuscripts that were more like ramblings, less like manuscripts.

Rose Matthews and Marinella, thank you for pre-reading and offering insight.

Kimberly and John Rosario, thank you for taking photos of New York for me, so I could feel inspired by the place I was writing about, even from thirteen thousand miles away.

Jenny, thank you for bothering the doctors you work with when I needed to *research *scary *medical *things.

*While I put forth my best effort to insure the medical portions of this book are accurate, the purpose of this story was only to write Everly Anne Brighton's struggle with CIPA. In no way shape or form am I offering medical advice, or trying to teach the public about this condition. This is about a fictional character, and so, for the sake of fictional storytelling, some liberties in regard to the medical portions of this book were taken. You should never hide in your boyfriend's attic as a form of medical treatment. You can, however, TOTALLY stand on the Gapstow Bridge in Central Park, wearing a short dress, and really, really, really, fall in love. I promise. With both pinkies.

end.