Close Enough to Return

“There are goodbyes you speak. And there are goodbyes you fold into cotton and leave in someone else’s hands.”

Approaching the river, I forced myself to breathe.

Not the shallow, automatic sort that rattled in the back of my throat, but deep, deliberate pulls of air that filled my lungs and pressed against the ache coiled behind my temples. The cold morning breeze cut through my skin like glass, but I welcomed it. I needed the sting—something to pare down the noise in my head, to keep the swirl of thoughts from tipping into chaos.

I needed to look composed. Kind. Measured. Or at least something close to human.

Jamie deserved that much.

The river came into view, a ribbon of silver threading through the dirt and grief. Duke still lay where we had left him, as if he'd dozed off beside the water and would stir any second. My throat tightened.

"Is it cold?" I asked, my voice quieter than I intended as I stepped into view. I stopped beside Duke, careful not to let my shadow fall across him.

Jamie turned sharply, startled, water cascading from his shoulders in tiny arcs that caught the sunlight. The droplets hung in the air for half a second before disappearing, like the morning’s illusion of peace.

His eyes found mine, expression unreadable. No anger. No welcome. Just that blank stillness—the look of someone deep underwater, watching the world move far above them.

A shrug. Nothing more.

Not refusal. Not invitation. Just... vacancy.

"I’ve brought you a towel and change of clothes," I said, crouching low to place the items down. The towel slipped slightly as I set it on the ground, the corner brushing against the dirt. I tucked it in, then layered the folded clothes neatly on top, as if the act itself could be an offering. As if ritual could stand in for solace.

"Thanks," Jamie muttered, almost too soft to hear. The words dissolved into the murmur of the river, barely making a ripple.

He splashed water onto his chest again, each movement controlled, like he was pacing himself. Not for cleanliness—no. This was something else. The mechanical rhythm of someone trying to make sense of a world that had fractured in too many places to mend.

I didn’t interrupt him.

There was something sacred in the quiet between us—sacred, and unbearably sad.

"I... I’ve also brought a bedsheet to wrap Duke in," I said, the words escaping hesitantly.

"To keep him safe," I added quickly, rushing to soften the impact—though how one softened death, I didn’t know. My hands fidgeted around the fabric, fingers twisting the corner of the sheet like it might anchor me somehow.

Jamie gave no reply.

Nothing.

Not even a glance.

His silence wasn’t cold. It was worse than that—it was hollow. A vacuum that swallowed everything and gave nothing back. He continued to move with slow, deliberate motions, splashing water onto his chest, his arms, his neck. Over and over, like maybe this time it would be enough to erase it all. The grief. The horror. The blood.

The truth.

Each stroke of his hands across his skin was methodical, ritualistic—no longer about hygiene, but an act of penance. Or self-preservation. Or maybe just something to do that didn’t involve talking, feeling, or screaming into the morning air.

I bit down on my lower lip and felt the quiver take hold—small, involuntary. My eyes stung, the familiar burn rising fast behind them, sharp as saltwater. I blinked rapidly, the effort to keep the tears at bay more exhausting than I cared to admit. But I couldn’t cry. Not now. Not in front of him.

Not while he was trying so hard not to break.

I turned away, choosing distance over intrusion. Kneeling beside Duke, I positioned myself carefully, placing my back to Jamie—not in retreat, but in quiet deference. He deserved that. Some measure of privacy in this awful moment.

Let him grieve on his own terms, I told myself, clutching that thought like a lifeline. But the silence behind me was suffocating, and I knew—whether I looked or not—we were both coming undone. Just at different speeds.

There, beside Duke, I sat in the thick, suffocating quiet, the sheet still clutched loosely in my lap. The silence wasn’t peaceful—it was the kind that rang in your ears, pressing against your chest like a weight you couldn’t shift. Everything around me seemed to recede: the murmuring river, the shiver of wind across the dusty ground, even the faint splash of Jamie behind me. The world blurred into a dull, colourless smear while my mind slipped deeper into the corridors of thought.

What would life be like now if I had never answered that phone call from Gladys?

The question echoed through me like a stone skipping across a still lake, each bounce dragging up fragments of memory and regret. I saw it all again—my bedroom, the illusory pattens of the wallpaper, Gladys’ voice lined with worry. That first step toward the unknown, taken without fully understanding the ground I was walking on.

But no matter how many ways I rewrote the story in my head, the ending stayed the same. Even if I’d ignored the call, even if I’d never set foot in Clivilius, Duke would still be dead. His fate had arrived on black paws in the middle of the night, and it hadn’t cared one bit whether I was watching or not.

The thought sank its claws into me.

Stop it, Beatrix! My internal voice snapped, sharp and parental. I clenched my fists in my lap, willing the spiral to slow, to flatten. I was no use to anyone like this. Least of all Jamie. But the mind is a spiteful thing. It knows where to prod, where to dig deepest.

And still, my eyes found their way back to Duke.

He looked peaceful, which made it worse. But he wouldn’t stir. Wouldn’t snuffle or stretch or bark at shadows again.

A fresh wave of grief gripped me, curling around my heart like a fist and squeezing tight.

You're going to give yourself a stroke, I told myself grimly. The thought wasn’t even dramatic—it felt logistical, clinical, like my brain was trying to ration oxygen just to keep functioning. But it didn’t stop the ache. Or the nausea. Or the faint, trembling pressure at my temples that hadn’t let up all morning.

I lowered my head into my hands, elbows braced against my knees, and sat still. Just for a moment. Just until I could breathe again.

"Do you mind if I do it alone?"

Jamie’s voice broke the silence from behind, steady but low, like the echo of something he'd rehearsed in his head and only just dared to speak aloud.

I turned, drawn by the quiet gravity in his tone.

The river had dried in beads across his skin, clinging to the curve of his shoulders and collarbone like glass teardrops. His face, raw and drawn, carried the exhaustion of someone who’d been crying for far longer than his eyes would show. When he looked at me, there was a steadiness there—but not the kind that came from strength. It was the steadiness of someone who had chosen to carry something painful, because letting go would mean admitting it was real.

He glanced down at the sheet still folded in my lap, and I understood.

"Of course," I murmured, the words catching slightly in my throat. They came out thinner than I’d intended—less certain, more reluctant. I hated the thought of him doing this alone. Wrapping Duke wasn’t just a task; it was a farewell stitched into fabric, and the idea of him facing that weight in isolation made my chest tighten.

But I couldn’t deny him the choice.

"Thank you, Beatrix," he said. It was simple. But the way he said my name—it landed like something solid in the fog. A small acknowledgement. A lifeline, even if frayed.

He stepped from the river slowly, the water cascading from him in rivulets that darkened the dirt with each step. With a quiet resolve, he grabbed the towel and wrapped it around himself, his movements slow and deliberate, a ritual unfolding without fanfare.

I nodded, silent. There was nothing useful left to say.

I set the sheet down gently beside Duke, smoothing it with one hand. My fingers lingered a moment too long, not quite ready to release him. It felt too final. Too clinical. As if covering him would erase him.

But we both knew that wasn’t true.

I looked at Duke one last time—his stillness, his warmth long gone, his form resting in a moment stolen from the rest of time—and blew him a soft kiss. A farewell meant just for him. Not for the others. Just for Duke.

Turning, I left Jamie with his sorrow, my feet carrying me away despite the ache in my chest.

I didn’t return to camp. Not yet. I couldn’t face them, not with the rawness clinging to me like smoke.

Instead, I found a patch of shade behind the tents, where the canvas whispered softly in the breeze. I stood there, arms crossed loosely, watching the edge of the world without really seeing it.

Close enough to return if Jamie needed me. Far enough to let him say goodbye.