The grief sits heavy in your chest as you and Alice descend from the mountain of ghosts. The unsent letter to Quentin burns in your pocket - a selfish wish never to be delivered to its recipient beyond the reaches of time and touch.

Alice stops abruptly, planting her feet with that characteristic resoluteness you've come to recognize. "Do you feel better?"

You consider the question, the mountain, the weight of your loss. The memory of Quentin's smile, the lines around his mouth deepening when he laughed. You could almost reach out and touch it.

"First, let me ask you: all that talking about our feelings and baring our souls up there," you say, "was that spooky grief mountain magic shit, akin to being extremely drunk or a very special occasion? Or are we like, actual friends now?"

"Friends," Alice frowns. "I mean, if you want to be."

"I do." You do. You've lost almost every friend you've ever had, and for once, you're speaking mathematically rather than melodramatically. Quentin would be so proud. The thought makes you want, quite nakedly, to die - which answers Alice's initial inquiry.

"In that case - no. No, I don't feel fucking better. Not one goddamn bit."

Alice gives a brisk professional nod. "Same. So I guess it's time for Plan B."

"Does Plan B involve wine?" you ask. "Because I have to tell you, this was more physical activity than I've done in months and I'm really not up for another hike right now."

"Plan B involves research."

Of course it does. How do you keep finding these people? "Like, five stages shit? Grieving the good old-fashioned way?"

Alice looks at you like you're being an idiot. "Like how to bring someone back to life. For real this time."

Your heart swells in your throat, shudders, vanishes into darkness. The universe is wrong. And maybe, just maybe, you can fix it.