8: A SECOND VISIT

The next time Elizabeth stood on Michael's doorstep, there was no scarf in her hand, no invented reason for the visit. She'd been invited.

Michael had called that morning — his voice low and laced with something like warmth — and asked if she might come by again.

"Lily 's been asking for you," he'd said. "She doesn't say it out loud. But she leaves your drawings out on the table, the way she used to do when she missed Maggie."

That had stopped Elizabeth mid-step in her kitchen. She'd stood still, heart thudding, until her tea went cold.

"I'd be there."

Swiftly, she pulled on a maxi floral gown. Green. New. The one Jeremy got for her birthday. The last birthday they celebrated together.

Now, standing under the porch light, she felt the full weight of what it meant to be missed.

Michael opened the door before she could knock. He didn't smile this time. Instead, he stepped aside quietly, taking in her new look as he let her in ... as if this had become their unspoken ritual. As if some part of him already expected her to come home.

Lily was curled up in the same corner of the living room, sketchpad balanced on her knees, one bare foot tucked beneath the other. She didn't look up at Elizabeth, but Elizabeth noticed the way her hand stilled, hovering over the page.

"Elizabeth's here," Michael said gently. "You can show her if you like."

Still no answer.

Elizabeth didn't push. She walked over slowly, giving Lily time to adjust, and then sat down cross-legged on the rug beside her.

"You draw faster than I write," Elizabeth said softly, peeking at the page. "I think I'm falling behind."

Lily's lips twitched. Not quite a smile... not yet. But close.

The sketch was of the lantern girl again, but this time, she was climbing a tree. The lantern dangled from a branch above her head, just out of reach.

Elizabeth studied it, then whispered, "I think she's trying to see the stars from up there."

She didn't say it expecting a reply. And Lily didn't give one. But her hand moved again ... drawing tiny dots in the sky above the girl's head.

Stars.

Elizabeth looked up to find Michael watching them from the kitchen doorway, towel in hand. His face was unreadable — part awe, part sorrow.

"I brought the next part of the story," Elizabeth said, her voice low, just for Lily. "Would you like to hear it?"

Lily hesitated. Then nodded once.

Michael brought in tea, the same cinnamon-and-apple blend, and set the cups down without a word. He didn't sit ... just leaned against the wall, arms folded, as Elizabeth reached into her bag and pulled out the worn notebook she'd started filling again.

She opened to the page she'd marked with a pressed leaf.

And then she read.

> "The lantern girl had never climbed a tree before. But this one called to her — tall and tangled and a little bit wild, like it had been waiting for her all along. She didn't know what she'd find at the top. But something inside her whispered: Climb anyway. So she did."

Llly was still. Rapt.

> "The first branch was slippery. The second had thorns. She scraped her knee and nearly gave up. But then, from halfway up the tree, she saw something she hadn't noticed before — a flicker of light on the horizon. Not her lantern. Another one."

Michael stepped forward and lowered himself onto the arm of the couch, his eyes fixed not on Elizabeth but on his daughter. Lily's hand rested on her notebook, unmoving.

> "She hadn't known anyone else carried a light. She thought she was the only one. But maybe, just maybe… someone was climbing, too."

Elizabeth closed the notebook gently. "That's all I have so far."

Lily didn't speak. But she picked up a crayon and began drawing again; a new branch, a second lantern flickering across from the first.

Michael let out a slow breath.

"She's… different around you," he said quietly, his voice almost reverent.

Elizabeth didn't answer. She didn't know how.

---

Later, after tea and silence and another round of whispered storytelling, Michael walked Elizabeth out.

The night air had turned crisp, the sky above them clear. Crickets sang from somewhere near the fence. Elizabeth wrapped her arms around herself, not from cold, but from the hum of too many thoughts.

Michael stood beside her, his gaze turned upward. "She hasn't asked for anyone since Maggie."

"I didn't do anything," Elizabeth said.

He turned to her then. "You showed up. That's more than most."

They stood in the quiet for a moment, the unspoken tether between them growing stronger, even if neither of them acknowledged it aloud.

Michael shifted his weight. "She's been carrying something for so long. I think… I think your stories give her a place to put it down."

Elizabeth looked at him, startled.

"That's what stories do, don't they?" he added, voice lower now. "Make room for the grief. So it doesn't crush you."

She hadn't meant to reach for him. But her hand brushed his forearm, just barely. A whisper of contact.

"She's helping me too," she said. "More than she knows."

He looked down at her then ... a softness in his eyes that hadn't been there before appeared.

For a heartbeat, she thought he might lean in.

Hearts thumped. Hard lumps were swallowed . Fingers fisted around her dress as they folded in.

The tension built till it's maximum tempo.

But the porch light flickered, and the moment passed.

He stepped back, giving her space.

"Will you come again?" he asked.

Elizabeth smiled, small and honest. "If she asks." Her fingers released its death grip on her dress.

---

That night, in the quiet of her cottage, Elizabeth sat at her writing desk long after the moon had risen. The notebook lay open before her, Lily's drawings pressed between the pages like holy things.

She picked up her pen and began writing again.

But this time, not just for Lily.

This time, for herself.

The lantern girl continued climbing, even as her hands trembled. She didn't know who she'd find at the top. But something inside her whispered: Climb anyway.