I need her to say something.

“Layla?” My voice is a whisper. A question.

A single tear falls out of her eye and rolls down her cheek. She nods . . . barely. “Leeds,” she says. “Do you know what you look like right now?”

I shake my head.

Her mouth curls into a smile. “You look like you’re dying inside.”

That statement becomes the only proof I need. I rush to her, slipping between Aspen and the bed. I lower the rail and I crawl into bed with her and I hold her while she clings to me. I kiss her over and over, all over her face, her hands, the top of her head. She’s crying, but she’s also laughing.

“We did it,” she says.

I sigh, pressing my cheek to hers. “We did it, Layla.” I wipe tears from her cheeks.

“Say that again. Say my name again.”

“Layla,” I whisper. “Layla, Layla, Layla.”

She kisses me.

Layla kisses me.

Layla.

EPILOGUE

Layla and I came out of this experience knowing one thing for certain, and that is the simple fact that we now know nothing for certain.

This life and whatever comes after it are more than we can comprehend, so we don’t even try. All we can do is appreciate that we figured out how to get a second chance together. And with that second chance, we’re doing everything we can to make sure we don’t need a third.

We don’t know if Sable moved on to another realm or if her spirit is now stuck somewhere that could be tied to a memory of me, so Layla and I decided the best course of action would be to start over. Completely.

We never went back to the bed and breakfast in Lebanon, Kansas. We never even went back to our temporary apartment in Tennessee. When Layla was released from the hospital, we drove straight to the airport and asked where the next available flight was heading.

That’s how we ended up here in Montana.

Neither of us has ever been here before, and that gives us a sense of comfort. We stayed in a hotel for a few weeks until we closed on a house. We made sure we purchased a new construction. We figured it would be better if there was no history tied to the home we bought. There would be less chance of us encountering an entity that isn’t of this realm.

The house is probably more than we need, but as soon as Layla laid eyes on it for the first time, I could tell by the way she gasped that this would be our home. The house sits on ten acres of rolling hills with unobstructed views of the Beartooth Mountains from our backyard.

It’s a unique and modern home, unlike any other house in the area. So much so the house feels a little out of place in the midst of all the nature surrounding us. I think we were drawn to it because it’s reminiscent of how Layla and I feel in the world now. It’s like we don’t quite fit in because we’re living with this huge secret we can’t share with anyone.

How would we even begin to tell someone what happened to us? People would think we’re crazy. Layla doesn’t even feel she can explain her experience to Aspen. She’s afraid it would make Aspen believe Layla’s head injury is worse than we initially thought.

It’s going to take time to win Aspen over. She doesn’t trust me after everything that happened, and now that I’ve whisked Layla away to a secluded home in Montana, it’s only heightened Aspen’s concern for her sister. I’ll win Aspen’s favor back eventually. I’m confident of that. Layla is my soul mate in every realm of life.

  Layla and I have spent the last few days getting settled into our home. Because we didn’t bring anything with us, this move mainly consisted of shopping for furniture and everything else the house needed that we didn’t have.

We’re both exhausted. As soon as the sun began to set earlier, we collapsed into a new patio chair together and have been sitting here quietly for the last half hour, listening to music playing through the Alexa device.

  Layla is tucked against my side with her arm draped over my stomach and her head against my shoulder. My hand is in her hair, twisting its way through her curls, when one of the songs I wrote begins to play.

  This must be a playlist of Layla’s.

   She immediately perks up and flashes a smile. “My favorite,” she says. And she means it. She listens to my songs so often I’m starting to get sick of my own voice.

   Layla slides out of the chair and begins swaying flirtatiously to the music. She spins around, lifting her arms in the air as she dances in front of me. “Alexa,” she says. “Volume max.”

The song gets louder, and Layla closes her eyes and continues dancing. She’s out of sync and not at all graceful.

She’s still a terrible dancer. It was the first thing I noticed about her . . . and it’s the absolute last thing I would ever want to change.