When the funeral was over, Kyrell returned to Drystanâs room rather than his own.
Heâd moved down the corridors on instinct, his mind blank. He pushed open the door, his eyes automatically flicking to the bed, where Drystan always unceremoniously threw himself over the covers. Whenever Kyrell entered, heâd glance up, give a lazy smile. Thunderstorm, Illeron?
It took Kyrell far too long to comprehend that the still perfectly-made bed was empty.
He stood motionless in the doorway, still feeling nothing but blank. Of course it was empty. Why the hell had he come here at all? Had he been stupid enough to believe that all of this had only been Drystanâs idea of a joke, that maybe heâd still be waiting in his room, staring out his window to frame a capture?
Kyrell sank to his knees against the wall, releasing a shuddering breath. He remained dry-eyed, but his hands were slightly shaking, and he hated himself for it. He shouldnât have cared so much, shouldnât have felt like his head was spinning uncontrollably. It was Drystan, who heâd disliked since they first met. Drystan, who was too lost in the useless, subjective things, who despised Kyrellâs unchangeable facts. They werenât friends â they hadnât had a single polite, kind exchange; whenever they spoke, they clashed.
Kyrell should not have cared.
He shouldnât have remembered when Drystan had entered his room the night before he disappeared, the way his touch was so delicate it almost hurt:
What are you doing?
I donât know.
I donât know.
Heâd vanished. Heâd lied, and heâd left, and now he was dead. He was gods-damned dead.
Kyrell willed himself back to the comforting blankness. He forced his eyes to raise, to move over the wide window, where Drystan always gazed out to frame his captures.
Kyrell, heâd said. Look â look. The thunderstorms are beautiful from here. Heâd looked so entranced that Kyrell couldnât help but stare at him in bewilderment, and it was after a long moment that he finally sensed Kyrellâs scrutiny. Heâd glanced over, his face flushing red. Sorry, he said, and Kyrell was incredulous to hear his voice almost shy. Itâs just . . . He seemed to search for words before finishing, I want a way to capture things.
Heâd then apologised for the poor, vague explanation, but Kyrell already understood â and already knew it was impossible. Drystan wanted the impossible. To freeze a moment in time was an unfathomable sort of dream.
Now, Kyrell stood on weak legs, shoving his unkempt hair from his face â it had already grown longer since Drystan had left, curling just above his jaw. He moved across the room to Drystanâs shelf, where he knew heâd find a torn piece of paper with a messily sketched image.
Kyrellâs fingers brushed the drawing as he stared at the badly attempted design. Drystan had shown it to him half a year ago, asked his mathematical opinion. Since you so despise all things romantic, Drystan had said wryly.
Kyrell had never been one to soften his blunt words, so heâd told Drystan the flat truth: the design never would have worked. Even now it looked hopeless, but Kyrell would never forget the way Drystanâs face had fallen.
It was pointless. All of it was pointless, because no matter what Kyrell wanted to believe, the concrete and objective fact was that Drystan was dead. He was gone. Attempting to make this, to make the impossible, the thing Drystan had wanted so badly when heâd still been alive, would mean nothing even if Kyrell accomplished it. Who would use it if not Drystan himself?
That didnât stop Kyrell from tucking the piece of paper into his pocket, his heartbeat pounding painfully in his ears. Youâd make a beautiful capture, Drystan had told him once, and Kyrell had never really understood what he meant.
But maybe â if he could create this, if he could put the pieces together â in some way or another, Drystan would know all the things Kyrell had never said.
