Logan stirred in the early morning hours when all was blue, and the first birds were waking. Caught between consciousness and sleep, he still felt the weight of Diana’s head on his arm, her leg across his belly, the humidity of her breath on his cheek. He knew it wasn’t possible, but he held onto the illusion as long as he could. He dreaded finding the empty space beside him, but when he finally opened his eyes and sat up, he was oddly okay. His mind felt clear and calm.
Atlas was sitting against the tree, looking up into the canopy. “You’re awake,” Atlas said, simply. He had been thinking about grief. That it was a wily thing that disappeared like an underground spring, emerging unexpectedly, and often disguised as obsessions. Was it possible that his whole life, his obsession with art,
