Infinite

33 BEGINNINGS

IT MUST HAVE been years and years later when Sam awoke to existence once more, because everything had changed.

What was left of the white city bore veins of obsidian, scars on stone that no longer healed itself. Midrange Lake had become a lake once more, forests had grown back, and animals had returned. After the eruption, Range filled itself with new life.

By the time Sam returned, everyone seemed to understand that this was their final reincarnation. This was it. Only one life. Cherish it.

But Sam already knew that. When he dreamt, it was of the last moments of his previous life, and Ana talking with the phoenix. Then Ana glancing back at him, choosing him, and giving up the light.

The ache of missing her carried through death, through his first quindec, and though he searched for her, the world was filled with newsouls now. Orrin, Lidea, and Geral had long ago returned from their quest to protect their newsouls, and soon there were schools for the new and old. Soul Tellers still had jobs, finding the oldsouls born and cataloging newsouls. Sam spent months poring over the results, looking for Ana, but her soul had never been recorded into the database. If she’d been reincarnated, no document could tell him.

Maybe she would return. Maybe she would not. She hadn’t known when she let go of the light. He’d seen the question in her eyes, and seen her decide not to ask.

He wished she had.

On a sunny morning, Sam and his friends sat around a table by Armande’s pastry stall, sipping coffee and listening to a flutist play somewhere across the crowd. The music was familiar; lots of people played “Ana Incarnate” since Phoenix Night.

So many strange faces crowded the field. The din of conversation surrounded the table, all laughter and haggling and babies wailing. It was market day, which brought traders and buyers from the new settlements around Range. And students, he hoped. Music teachers still had to eat. The sign he’d made, advertising openings for students, had already received several curious looks from both children and adults. He tried to ignore the questions people asked one another when they thought he couldn’t hear: Was he the Dossam who’d written “Ana Incarnate”?

“How’s the new piano working for you, Sam?” Cris asked, searching his empty coffee cup for one more drop.

“Spectacular. When Orrin is reborn, I’ll compose something for him. I still can’t believe that with everything going on during his return to Heart, he managed to convince people to help collect supplies for the piano.” Sam shook his head. His friends were amazing.

“I want a sonata.” Sarit leaned her head against Cris’s shoulder. “And a symphony. Yes, I think that will do.”

Across the table, Stef laughed, his voice deep and full. “You don’t want much, do you?”

“Only what I deserve.” Sarit grinned and took a bite of her sticky bun.

Sam closed his eyes and enjoyed his friends’ presence and the sweet cacophony of Heart, but the flutist playing “Ana Incarnate” somewhere toward Phoenix Memorial caught his attention. A deep ache welled up in his chest as he saw her again: Ana, giving up the light; Ana, choosing him; Ana, giving up her life to ensure that others survived.

The grief was infinite.

Something about the vibrato caught him, and a section of triplets. Familiar . . .

“Are you okay, Sam?” Stef raised his eyebrows.

“I think so.” They all knew how he felt about the waltz, both a blessing and a curse. Most days, he wished no one would ever play it again. But this flutist. The way they played. Sam shivered. “I have to see something.”

He pushed himself away from the table and navigated the crowd of tents and people, catching a glimpse of himself in a mirror he passed: white-blond hair, fair skin already red from sunshine. The stranger in the mirror every lifetime never got less unsettling.

He passed advertisements for newsoul-focused communities, others for oldsoul-only communities. Not everyone was satisfied with their second chance.

Where the temple once stood, now there was a memorial, an obsidian phoenix wreathed in roses of every color. The flutist played somewhere on the steps leading up to it.

He pushed between tents and stalls until finally he saw a girl on the stairs, lost in the music of “Ana Incarnate.” Heavy black hair tumbled over her shoulders, and her limbs were all angles, like someone who hadn’t fully grown into her body. She would be tall, and for someone who looked barely a quindec, she played remarkably well.

He wasn’t the only music teacher in Range, but still. The way she moved with the music. The way she connected with it.

As he pushed through the crowd, the girl’s attention snapped up, and she looked at him. Her cheeks tightened as she played toward the coda, as though she were trying not to smile.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t hope. Couldn’t stop remembering the light flooding from Ana into the silver chain.

Sam climbed the stairs two at a time as the black-haired girl played four long notes and lowered her flute. When she bent to place it in her case, obsidian-black wings stretched behind her: the phoenix statue.

He wanted to believe. Wanted more than anything.

He stopped only a step away from her while people milled around, ignoring them. Stef called his name in the distance, but he didn’t turn.

“Is it really you?” He’d never wished for anything so much.

The girl looked up at him. Her eyes were so blue they put the sky to shame. She could have been anyone, but she’d drawn him with her music. Even if he couldn’t trust his eyes, he could trust his ears and heart. She wasn’t just anyone.

With a strangled cry, he caught her in his arms. “I’ve been too afraid to hope,” he breathed. She was hugging him back, and they were both trembling. “I’ve missed you so much.”

She pulled away to turn her palms up, revealing pale scars. Chain links. When shadows passed over her skin, the scars glowed.

Ana leaned close and whispered, “I’ve been reborn.”