The memory hits me like a body blow. My throat closes, muscles tensing, mind reeling. I can’t remember how to move—my limbs are numb. Then, slowly, unwillingly, I reinhabit my body.

I push up onto one elbow, my back screaming a protest after lying on the cold ground for so long.

My eyelids are heavy and reluctant, but I blink to clear my vision.

Lilac’s sitting in front of me, cross-legged, smiling.

My breath jams in my throat, and I roll onto one side, coughing, gasping for breath.

Lilac lies beside me, dead.

It only takes a moment to realize that the body beside me is barely visible, a silhouette to my night vision. The girl sitting cross-legged before me is sunlit, vivid, impossible. Shaking, choking on the metallic taste the vision brings to the back of my mouth, I drag myself upright. As I watch her, an image blossoms across the wall of the cave. My parents’ house springs to life: white walls, green leaves, and the purple flowers that share Lilac’s name.

I see the wooden front door, the windows and window boxes, filled to overflowing with herbs and yellow flowers. As I watch, a pathway appears, grass swaying on either side of it. It threads its way down to where she sits, curling past her so now she’s relaxing in my mother’s garden.

I can’t do this.

I only realize I still have the Gleidel in my hand when I lift it, aiming it at the ceiling. The laser shrieks when I pull the trigger, and the room’s lit for an instant by the bolt of energy, like a lightning strike. The image flickers, then solidifies once more. How dare they show her to me? How do they dare touch her memory?

“Get out!” My voice is hoarse, ragged, throat feeling like it tears with the shout. “Get out, get away from her. Get away.”

I lift the gun a second time, and the blast of sound echoes again as the shot dislodges a shower of sand and pebbles. “Don’t touch her. Where was your goddamn warning this time? What was the point in getting her out of that cave? What was the point in dragging her halfway across your forsaken planet, to do this? To let her bleed out? We should have died in our pod, like everybody else. You should’ve just let us die together.”

I can’t think about why they’re showing her to me now, what purpose could be behind their torture. My voice is giving out, words jagged, slicing my throat. “Go.” I close my eyes. “You could have saved her. You could have warned her. You did this.”

When I open my eyes again, the vision is gone, and I’m alone in the dark.

I crawl over to the pack, pulling out the last of the blankets, and I roll myself in it to lie back down. I close my eyes, breathing out slowly, waiting for the trembling to stop.

In the morning my body’s stiff and sore from a night sleeping on hard stone, and I silently stretch out my cramped limbs.

I walk back to the clearing, keeping my gaze away from the blasted hole in the wall of the building. Keeping my gaze away from the blood soaked into the grass. I cross over to the shed where the fuel was stored, reaching past the paint tins for the shovel. I carry it back some distance from the mouth of the cave, and there I dig. The ground is sandy on top, the hole collapsing in on itself as the top crust keeps crumbling. Lower down the soil is darker, more densely packed. I set the edge of the shovel against it, then drive it down with my foot. It takes both hands to lever it back with my weight.

Three hours later, it’s deep enough.

I wash my hands and face in the stream before I go back to her. Sometimes, a day later, the body is still stiff. It’s mostly passed, though, and I lift her without trouble.

I climb down into the grave and lay her out carefully, wrapping her in a blanket. I crouch beside her, gazing down at her face, wishing I had words, or tears, or something to offer her. But this is beyond all of that.

I carefully lay the cloth across her face so the dirt won’t touch her. Then I rest my hands on the edge of the hole and hoist myself up.

I’ve never been to a funeral that wasn’t military, and that recitation doesn’t fit. I don’t know the words to any prayers. Eventually, thinking of Alec, feeling him beside me, I begin to scrape the dirt back into the grave, shutting my ears to the way it patters down onto the blanket.

There are flowers growing everywhere in the woods. I’d been planning, once we were into the building, to pick some of them and lay them all around our bed. A surprise for her when she woke.

I pick them in armfuls now, covering the low mound of dirt until not a glimpse of brown is visible. Now it looks no different from a patch of wildflowers growing in the forest. You could walk right by it, and never know it was there.

Except that I do. It’s my landmark, now. I’ll always know how far I am from this spot. From her.

I sleep, lying on one side of the blankets, as though there should be another body sharing them with me. I find that her scent clings to the pillow, and I bury my face in it at night.

I walk left of center along the path we wore through the trees, leaving room for her at my side.

I eat, breaking the ration bar in half automatically before I realize I have nobody to hand it to.

I go back to the mound of flowers, adding fresh ones, taking out those that die each day.

I can’t count the days.

I can’t think.

I can’t focus.

I can’t go into the building. I can’t leave.

I sleep again. I eat again.

I fall asleep each night with the cold metal barrel of the Gleidel against my throat.

I see her again as I duck out of the afternoon sunlight and into the cave, arms laden with another load of wood. She’s standing with her back to me, beside our bed—where her body lay for a night. This time there’s no false sunlight, no vision of my parents’ cottage. She’s wearing the same green dress she was wearing when we crashed, as ragged and ruined as it was when she finally traded it for clothes from the wreck. She always wears that dress, in my memory.