### Chapter 2: Echoes of the Past Some memories of Magnolia Parks are etched so vividly in my mind that they occupy a pedestal all their own. Her face—absolutely stunning, right? Yet, it’s not merely her beauty that haunts me. Every time I catch a glimpse of her face, it stirs an old ache deep within me, sending me spiraling back to distant echoes of our shared past. I can’t help but think of that radiant day from my childhood when she stood in my garden, the light behind her so powerful it felt like it could swallow the world. I can’t quite tell if it was the sunlight illuminating her or if it was simply her essence that made everything around her glow. I remember so clearly arriving in St. Barts, her figure adorned in that vibrant yellow bikini, as well as the lilac bikini she wore on that boat trip—the colors seem alive in my mind. And then there were the moments that clung to my heart like shadows: when I gave her my family crest ring during our school days, and again as adults. But there are darker memories too, lurking just beneath the surface. I can still see that piercing look in her eyes—a visceral punch to my gut that repeats itself like a cruel symphony. Like the moment I confessed to her that I had cheated, or the unbearable weight of losing Billie. The darkest image of all, however, is of Magnolia—my beloved—on her knees beside her sister's lifeless bed, holding her hand while quiet tears streamed down her face. The silence of her grief was suffocating. When she lashes out, it’s easier to console her. But this calm, subdued sorrow—it cuts deeper. I remember standing next to Henry, our eyes locked on Magnolia as she huddled by Bridge’s body, waiting for the ambulance. It felt as if time stood still in that terrible moment. When the sirens finally pierced the air, Henry ushered the medics in without hesitation. But Magnolia stayed rooted beside Bridge, unyielding. I gently pulled her away, wrapping my arms around her as if my warmth could shield her from the harsh reality we were facing. “Just hold on,” I thought, feeling grateful for this brief interaction amidst the impending storm—like holding onto her might prevent me from losing her too. They attempted to revive Bridget right there, but with each passing second, hope dwindled. “She needs to get to a hospital,” one of the emergency workers told us, urgency in her voice. “I’ll ride with her,” Magnolia insisted, determination flashing in her eyes. I exchanged glances with the medic—a silent understanding passing between us. “Maybe you stick with me, Parks,” I coaxed, tilting my head at the approaching medic. “I have to be with Bridge,” she countered. “You will be,” I assured, offering her a gentle smile. “We’ll be right behind you.” Magnolia shook her head resolutely, the resolve in her eyes almost heartbreaking. “She shouldn’t be alone,” she murmured, a whisper laced with desperation. “She won’t be,” I said firmly, gesturing toward the medic standing nearby. The medic offered her a weary smile. “My name’s Amy, and I’ll be with her the whole time.” Henry was remarkable in those tense moments, efficiently packing a bag with essentials—hoodies, wallets, bottles of water, even phone chargers. The trip to the hospital was a blur, a haze of fading memories. Henry took the wheel, while I slid into the back seat beside Magnolia. She nestled her head against my lap, her eyes fluttering shut. It was then I realized the shadows of her PTSD resurfacing, haunting her just like ghosts of the past. Not too long ago, I had tried to coax her into walking a mere fifteen minutes from Selfridges to Saint Laurent on Old Bond. She had snapped at me, terror lacing her words. Her transformation was painful to witness—now, she would walk anywhere to avoid getting into a car. The journey was filled with silence punctuated only by the rush of London outside. My fingers combed through her hair, and I could sense the oppressive weight of our collective anxiety, the unspoken fears hanging thick in the air. As we arrived at the hospital, a sinking feeling took root in my stomach. I wanted nothing more than to be proven wrong about what awaited us inside, but deep down, I feared the worst. Once inside, we were ushered into a room where the frantic efforts to save Bridget began. They pulled us into a cold corridor almost immediately. I could see Henry’s face—the way it fell—as he instinctively knew the implications of our isolation. I felt Magnolia tremble next to me, her body shaking with terror as her teeth chattered like leaves in a violent wind. In that heartbeat, I dialed her parents, my fingers shaky as the phone pressed to my ear. The words spilled out like stones, heavy with urgency. “What?” Harley’s voice was blunt, surprised to hear from me. It was late, and I rarely called unless it was serious. “We're at the hospital. Something's wrong,” I stated plainly, needing him to absorb the gravity of my words. “Bridget’s unconscious. We don’t know what happened.” An agonizing pause stretched between us. “Is she okay?” his voice was thick with fear. “I don’t know, man,” I confessed. “Should I call Arrie?” “No,” he replied, the calmness in his tone shocking me. “I’ll do it.” “Which hospital?” I shared the details quickly. After that, I contacted Jo, then Christian, and finally, Taura. The six of us congregated in that dimly lit hallway, waiting in anxious silence. Magnolia’s expression was blank as she absorbed their presence. Christian reached out, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead while he sank down on the floor opposite us. Taura darted around, restless and worried, desperately trying to offer snacks and water. But Magnolia wouldn’t take anything; she was locked into a cocoon of her own grief and fear. I could sense Jo’s gaze on me; he was attuned to my struggles as if sensing the surge of emotions bubbling just beneath the surface. Time warped, distorting reality—moments felt like fragments of a dream I couldn’t wake from. Henry started pacing, and I held Magnolia tightly, our eyes anchored to one another. Her gaze mirrored a soul weighed down by the gravity of loss, reminiscent of our darkest days before. I wanted to reassure her that everything would be okay, but deep inside, I was afraid—that sense of certainty eluded my grasp. Magnolia had always looked to her sister for strength when the world crumbled around her. And in this bleak moment, I realized that a part of her was now anchored to me. I had become her pillar, yet I couldn't replace the presence of Bridget. When her parents arrived, Harley and Mars burst through the doors, eyes wide with fear. Harley pressed his hand over his mouth at the sight of Magnolia, quickly turning to a nurse as if searching for answers. Mars rushed over, engulfing Magnolia in her arms, but Parks remained unmoving, lost in a fog of her grief. “She’s going to be okay, Magnolia,” Mars assured her, but I could see the disbelief flicker behind Magnolia’s eyes. She barely acknowledged it, retreating back to my side like a child seeking comfort amid chaos. Then came Arrie, a whirlwind of energy swathed in a massive trench coat, her urgency cutting through the somber atmosphere. Nathan trailed behind her, a nervous mess in the background. “Where is she?” Arrie's voice sliced through the tension, while Harley murmured something unintelligible to her. I exchanged glances with Henry. Neither of the parents had checked on their other daughter throughout this ordeal. Time took on an otherworldly quality in that hospital corridor. Hours melted into minutes, and I was lost in the act of holding Magnolia’s hand, pressing my family ring into hers. I hadn't adorned her with the diamonds yet, but now she wore the crest as a pendant, a symbol of our bond remade with grief. When the door finally swung open, our eyes found the doctor’s. He looked heavy-laden, and my heart sank. “I’m sorry,” he declared solemnly. “We did everything we could.” The air was thick with despair as Arrie’s wail pierced the stillness, reverberating through the night air. Harley turned to Mars, holding his ex-wife as they grappled with the reality of their loss, oblivious to Magnolia’s heart being shattered behind them. In that moment, I circled my arms around her, feeling the desperate tremors coursing through her small frame. “I’m here, Parksy,” I whispered. “You don’t have to hold it all in alone.” And yet, she didn’t cry then. She saved her tears for later, that night in my old room, when the world spun out of control, and we were left grappling with the aftermath of devastation. As we began pulling away from the hospital, I felt Magnolia's defiance against her father’s requests. “I’m not leaving her,” Parks insisted, her spirit burning bright despite the circumstances. Harley’s helplessness mirrored my own, prompting me to nod, offering silent assurance. “We’re good here,” I told him, acknowledging his worry for her as he subtly tilted his head toward Magnolia, who didn’t even notice. “Should I call Allie?” I pondered, but decided against it; our little circle was chaotic enough without adding more voices to the mix. We found solace in the waiting area. Henry sat against the wall, gesturing for Magnolia to join him. She did so wordlessly, leaning against him as Christian sat on her other side—words stripped away, leaving only space for her to grieve. Every moment stretched painfully long as we waited, a heavy cloud suffocating our spirits. It was during that transition into the night when Taura mustered the courage to suggest heading home. Magnolia shot her a glare, defiance coating her features. “What do you need, Parks?” Christian gently prodded. “To see her,” Magnolia declared, her voice both fragile and determined. Without hesitation, I accompanied Christian to the front desk, where he made a compelling case to the nurse on duty. “She needs to see her sister,” he stated, his voice steady, promising. The nurse hesitated. “That’s not really how—” Christian cut her off. “I’ll give you £10,000 right now. Cash, on the spot, if you let her in.” I could see the nurse falter, weighing the weight of his words against the rules. “It’s four in the morning. No one’s going to know. Plus, I’ll be with her,” he assured, emphasizing the gravity of our request. Finally, she relented, and I felt a rush of gratitude surge. As I reached her, I extended my hand. Her fingers intertwined with mine almost instinctively, and together we walked toward the room that held all the answers we dreaded. Parks stood in front of me, clutching my hand like a lifeline. The reality of the situation began to settle around us—a heavy, unyielding blanket against which no preparation would suffice. It felt worse than anything I could have imagined; the stillness of a beloved sister’s body on the table was a sight I would never unsee. Magnolia gasped softly, a choked sound that would haunt me for days. As she reached out and brushed her fingers against Bridge's face, it felt like a sacred moment—the twitchless body, so serene like she could wake from a dream. But this wasn’t just sleep. This was the finality of loss. Magnolia’s trembling hand withdrew swiftly, panic gripping her. I pressed myself against her back, wrapping my arms around her waist in a desperate attempt to stabilize her spirit. “It’s okay,” I started, but couldn’t force myself to lie. It wasn’t okay, and I couldn’t fathom how it ever would be. “Will I see her again?” Magnolia’s voice barely floated above a whisper, the emptiness of her words pulling at my heartstrings. “I’m not sure,” I murmured, my voice muffled against her hair. “Then I don’t want to go.” My heart ached with each word she spoke. “We can stay as long as you like, Parksy. But she doesn’t live here anymore.” Magnolia turned to me, her weary eyes pleading for something I couldn’t give—a promise I had no right to make in the face of such finality. “I’m scared, Beej,” she whispered, holding my gaze with eyes that shimmered like glass. “I’m scared too,” I confessed, kissing the top of her head softly as we prepared to leave that room behind—leaving behind everything we once knew, everything that would never be the same again. With a heavy heart, she crouched down beside her sister, her voice tiny and trembling. “Please come back. Please?” Seconds dragged into an eternity as silence enveloped us, thick, suffocating silence that signaled the permanence of our new reality. The only response was an unyielding stillness. In public, Magnolia’s composure cracked, and she rushed past me, instinctively covering her face as I knew she fled from the raw emotion threatening to burst free. I loved her too fiercely to let that moment shatter her. As I followed, I wiped my face, brushing away the tears before embracing her once more in my brother’s arms. Our car pulled up outside the girls’ Grosvenor Street flat, and in an instant, the gravity of our decisions hit us. Parks lay in my lap, the weight of everything pressing down on us. “We can’t take her back here, not to the place where everything shattered.” Henry spun the car away from the memories clinging to those walls, redirecting us toward the only sanctuary we knew: my childhood home in Belgravia. Mum swung the door open before we could reach the top of the steps, wrapping her arms around Magnolia without hesitation. Tears cascaded down her face, mourning for the girl we all loved. Magnolia remained quiet, allowing Mum to cradle her, but she didn’t shed a tear, a silence that set my nerves on edge. “Mum, she needs a shower,” I interjected gently, watching the concern flicker over her face at the revelation hidden beneath the surface. At the mention of death, both girls responded in unison. “Dead people… Germs,” we stressed quietly. Mum recognized the burden that loomed above us all and nodded, offering reassurance instead of judgment. The night dragged on, time blending as we moved from room to room, navigating paths once walked with laughter and joy. I guided Magnolia to my old bedroom, the sanctuary where we once sought refuge from the world. Turning on the shower, the steam filled the air, blurring the edges of our reality. Magnolia stood, rooted in disbelief, wearing the same white dress she had adorned earlier—a stark and cruel reminder of the night everything altered. Crouching to remove her heels, I marveled at the fact she had spent the night caught up in the very turmoil we now faced. Standing there, lost in her own reflection, she seemed like a fragile figure, dictated by loss and heartache. With purpose, I disrobed, not wanting to dwell on emotions that threatened to swallow us whole. Together, we stood in the cascade of water, washing away the grime of reality that clung to our souls. Fear’s grip lingered in the backdrop, lurking like a shadow, but I would wipe that feeling from both our minds. As I turned off the water, the weight of our situation began to settle heavily around us. I dried her off, finding an old T-shirt to wrap her in, all the while checking to see if the warmth of my embrace could offer her solace. We barely spoke as we settled into bed—I laid down first, inviting her into the cocoon of safety amid a world that had just turned cold. But the dam within her finally broke, releasing the tidal wave of her sorrow, and I held her as she let it out. “I’m so sorry, Parks,” I murmured repeatedly, a futile mantra against the chaos around us. Yet, I felt her heart—a heart that would take time to heal. In the quiet echoes of our grief, the reality of loss solidified, defining our new existence. And for every tear that fell, a part of our once-bright future faded into the night, leaving behind a chilling void we would have to navigate together.