The dandelion is golden, sun-colored in the night. It must be fresh; it hasn’t shriveled yet, despite the cold. Magic. Very gingerly, I hold it up and set it down in front of Jad’s headstone. I close my eyes, and I see my garden. I hear it. All along it’s been Gabe’s voice, soft and low, begging and reminding me: Eat.

  But this time, it says something different. And in my mind, the garden looks different too. I see dandelions, fields upon fields of them. Blooming from gaps in the asphalt, growing from nothing but will, pure will. People call them rotten, people call them weeds, but Gabe would call them beautiful. Jad would’ve picked them like jewels, worn them as a crown. Dandelions for wishes. Dandelions for joy.

  I want you to choose what will make you happy.

  I open my eyes, swipe them clear of tears. And I know what I have to do.

  I call Mama from the cemetery. Then, staring at the dandelion, I send a message to Gabe, and I hope. But I do not wait.

  Not anymore.

  Some people are bad with money; I’m bad with time. Old habits are hard to shake. I often sleep in, let minutes and hours pass while I remain in a daze. I daydream; I muse about the past and the future while wading through the present like a murky lake.

  The last bus out of Reves leaves in a few hours, at midnight. It’s always midnight, I suppose—that magic, fairy-tale time when today melds into tomorrow. Perhaps it’s fitting. I watch the moon as it watches me, standing in limbo between one choice and another. I’ve spent many nights gazing at the moon, the beautiful, shape-shifting moon, which for all its faces remains unchanged at its core, year after year.

  But I am no moon. I am a girl. Not a satellite, but a soul. I am of this world. For so long, I’ve orbited outside of it like a stranger, and it’s time to become a part of it fully. To be.

  When I get home that night, I treasure the hours like gold, like Jad treasured his eight years on this Earth. I rush around my room, hurrying to find a bag. Baba kisses my forehead, amused, and Mama smiles as I pack, tells me I’m doing the right thing. I don’t know about that, don’t know about right or wrong or regrets, but I think this is what I want, so I fold my clothes into a duffel bag alongside face products and shampoo. I keep one ticket in my pocket and offer Mama the other, and she takes it delicately, like a gift.

  I peer out the window, gazing intently at my garden. Even in the darkness, I can see what’s left of it—that tiny, fist-curled rose, red as a wound, blaring like a promise in the night.

  I’ll be waiting, it tells me. And I nod. The garden says nothing more; perhaps it will never speak to me again. Unbeckoned, I grab an apple to eat on my way out. I take a bite, then another. Rather than scour the house for the seeds Gabe gave me, I pluck a few from the core. I hold them like gems, like stars, before dropping them into the dirt outside. I don’t expect magic, for ruby groves or trees to blossom overnight. But maybe someday these seeds will flourish into something wonderful, whether I’m here to see it or not.

  I pat the earth gently. I don’t say goodbye.

  And then I’m off.

  In storybooks, everything is always romantic, dramatic. Confessions, goodbyes, loves-at-first-sight. Moments fall into place like snow, perfectly imperfect. But reality is something else entirely.

  Reality is 11:48 p.m. on a Friday at Reves’s bus station, located on the outskirts of town. It was built by the lip of the river, which has been frozen over for weeks now. I hate that river, feel a lump in my throat whenever children ice-skate over it in winter, when wading ducks croak for food during the spring. I hate this river for what it has taken from me, but in this moment, I forgive it. Because this water might’ve stolen my brother, might’ve drowned what was dearest in my heart, but I’ve taken so much more from myself. Water isn’t cruel for cruelness’s sake. But people are, and I have been.

  Mama stands alongside me, patient as a saint despite my sudden actions. She has always been a stern woman. Among her and Baba and me, she’s the anchor, steely and strong. But she was none of those things when we spoke earlier tonight. Wherever you go, I will follow. And I believed her, believe her, and I owe it to her and to Jad and to Baba and to myself to lead our family to someplace beautiful.

  Twelve minutes to midnight becomes ten, and I grow nervous as the bus comes into view. I check my phone for the twentieth time to make sure my message sent. Thank you for the flower. I’m leaving town for a few days, but I want to talk to you. I’ll be at the station at midnight. No response has come, so I tell myself that he must be sleeping, he might be angry, and I might just be a fool. But it’s fine. I feel better for having reached out. I imagine the rose unfurling, the dandelion glowing, and my heart loosens, opens like a palm.

  “We should get on,” Mama says, and I nod, my head bowed. She holds up her pass; the driver ushers her forward. I watch her slink into a seat in the back, and I’m about to follow when I feel a touch on my shoulder.

  “Laila.” And I know that voice; I’ve heard it in dreams and in gardens and during long, winding afternoons, snow-touched and summery alike. I turn, as if in a trance, and it’s like every silly story I’ve ever read but better. Because it’s real—Gabe is real, and he’s standing before me, red-cheeked and out of breath, dressed in a thick jacket and hat, and he’s smiling, wide and true.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, face faltering. “I shouldn’t—I overreacted. I was being a jerk. You were trying to help. I should’ve come sooner, but the shop, and I, and you—”

  Maybe it’s the cold. Maybe it’s the heady feeling that has overtaken me since sundown. Maybe it’s because it’s nearly midnight and the moon is shining up above like a clock, doling out this time to me—time I’ve taken for granted, time I had been so willing to give up like it was already used, even though it wasn’t. I haven’t used my time in years, haven’t treasured or nurtured it right, and I want to. I want to be the Laila at the core of all the others. I want to be me, I want to be, so I lean up and kiss Gabe softly on the lips. I cradle the back of his head while his hand settles by my jaw, and the sensation lasts long after we part. He beams at me, and I don’t look away, even when he guides me up the bus staircase and whispers, “Bye for now.”

  It’s only for a few days. And if I go for good, it’s only for a few years. I almost say this, but the look in Gabe’s eyes says he understands, as always. I don’t know where he’ll go, what he’ll be, or what I plan to do. I only know that I can’t stop staring, even as the automatic doors close and I trek, like a girl possessed, down the aisle of the bus. Gabe remains outside, stuck in place, waving in the frigid cold, and I brush past Mama, my gaze not straying from his as I make it to the back window and press my open hands to the glass. I say nothing, and Gabe says nothing, and the bus is silent save for the low radio-hum of music, the beginnings of an aria I might have once known. He stands there even as we drive away, and it’s both a promise and not, and I’m okay with that.

  Eventually I take my seat next to Mama. Both of us remain silent. The intercom announces that we’ll make it to Hulm before morning. The full moon follows us as we move, and at last I close my eyes and lean back.

  It won’t be easy; it has never been easy. But for the first time in a long time, this truth doesn’t frighten me. Nothing is ever simple, but I am okay, and I’ll be okay.

  I’ll be.

  Author’s Note

  I first began writing in my freshman year of high school. Since then, I’ve written three novels and several short stories, but my very first published piece has been SOLACE in FORESHADOW. Currently, I am working on a YA fantasy I hope to query soon and someday get published.

  I wrote SOLACE in the dead of winter, when very few things manage to grow. But even so, Laila’s story bloomed into something I wanted to share. Maybe we don’t have enchanted gardens in our world, but blossoming through difficult times is magic in and of itself.

  So I wanted to write to that little hope of mine—that magic is real in its own way, both within us and around us. There’re gardens everywhere. And whether you tend to your own or have someone help you plant it, always remember to feed yourself from it, too.

  Mood in SOLACE

  by Nova Ren Suma

  Sometimes there’s a story that has a distinct taste, one recognizable in its phrases, its rhythms, its way with language. SOLACE has a taste, and this comes from its mood—the sensation that permeates the story, starting at the root, with the choice of words on the page and the images and echoes used. The mood emanating from SOLACE is one of melancholy at first, a slow unfolding, a swirling ache. We see “Laila alone.” We witness “Laila who starved herself thin as a Ramadan moon.” This feeling extends through the whole of the story, until those last moments when Laila and her mother have taken their seats on the bus and “the full moon follows” as they leave the town of Reves for a chance at an awakening. How is such a strong mood threaded through every scene, lingering at the last page as if we’ve been enveloped by a petal-soft yet hopeful fog?

  It begins at the sentence level. Look at the rhythm and the repetition: “I’m Laila in the garden . . .” / “I’m Laila who can eat birthday cake . . .” / “I am Laila without laughter . . .” I’m Laila / I’m Laila / I am Laila is used sparingly in the story, and for effect, an echo that expands and sparkles due to the flow and also the restraint. There are reminders to eat. There are reminders to be. The story swerves and grows, and yet these words and lines return. The mood encircles the reader, and the story’s spell is woven that much more tightly.

  I return again and again to the end of SOLACE, to the way hope is offered in the gleaming moonlight. Mood is built, too, from the choices a writer makes, involving everything from weather to time of day. When Laila allows herself to finally embrace what might make her happy, after the dandelion sends the message that the time has come, hope comes on the stroke of midnight. Laila muses, “It’s always midnight, I suppose—that magic, fairy-tale time when today melds into tomorrow.” The mood would be shattered if Laila and her mother left on the bus on an ordinary sunny afternoon. No, instead, she says goodbye to her garden in the deep of night, and then they are off.

  When a mood is cast, it goes down to the tiniest detail, the smallest seed. It’s woven into the words and refrains used, as well as the symbolic choices: the graveyards and gardens, the midnight journeys, the messages exchanged beneath the glow of a full moon.

  Princess

  Maya Prasad

  “In PRINCESS the voice and the pacing are irresistibly compelling, the world fully rendered. Moreover, the story offers a thoughtful, (near?) futuristic take on an eternally pressing thematic question: What makes us human and why?”

  —Cynthia Leitich Smith, author of Hearts Unbroken

  Outside the Galaxy Class C shuttle, the stars sweep by, and a rosy nebula blooms to invite us into its fold. I swish watercolors across thick creamy paper, trying to capture the chronology of the journey. My paintings are never frozen in a single moment, but always driven by movement and energy and light. I hope that’s true of me, too.

  In the seat beside me, my mother gives her most pernicious stink eye to a luggage cart. The source of her ire becomes clear when a mechanical limb extends to grab our things from the overhead compartment. It’s not just a luggage cart; it’s a Luggage Cart. An artificially intelligent machine designed to do something that humans in the Beltway still do themselves.

  A part of me wants to pet the machine, coax out its secrets. Another part of me recoils. My mother has passed on her fear of all things automated, though we can’t avoid them where we’re headed. Even now, the AI Pilot informs us that we’ll reach the Inner Galaxy in a few minutes.

  “Leela, why did you bring so many canvases?” Mom moans, snatching one of my paintings from the Luggage Cart.

  “They’re gifts!” I repeat for the fiftieth time. “I can’t meet my grandparents without bringing them something, can I?”

  Mom mutters as the machine grabs another canvas. While the two of them engage in a futile tug-of-war, I hand its other arm my suitcase.

  “It’s just holding our luggage, Mom, not planting a bomb.”

  “Just you wait. Any minute now it’ll try to convince you that the known laws of physics are different here.”

  “Well, don’t they change based on gravity fields?”

  “Don’t be a know-it-all.”

  I massage her neck. “Breathe. You can do this.”

  She scrunches her nose at me. “Why are you so calm, kid? You’re the one with the tumor.”

  “True.” My hands tremble slightly as I gather my art supplies. But fear of death seems silly; we all have to die. It’s what makes living special. And I’ve lived a good life in the Beltway, asteroid surfing with my mother and picking up obscure skills from the small community of misfits on Tri-Rock.

  Despite the unexpected resistance, the Luggage Cart sweeps forward with our things. I trail behind, my heart thundering.

  “Where’s Dad?” I scan the satellite station, hoping against hope to spot the father I’ve never seen.

  “Oh, honey,” Mom replies, “he would never deign to leave his post in the capital. We’ll see him at the appointment tomorrow.”

  I can’t decide whether to laugh at the absurdity of being penciled in to his schedule or to be relieved that he’s agreed to see me at all. He’s spent the last sixteen years ignoring his role in my genetic makeup, after all.

  “What about your parents?”

  “Don’t get me started.” Mom pushes through the crowd, paying no attention to the well-coiffed locals in their richly embroidered silks dotted with mirrors and crystals.

  Even in our practical Beltway garb, Mom stands out, her skin glowing gold and her hair like the silky fabric of space. Me, on the other hand—well, I’ve always assured myself that one day I’ll grow into my looks. Only now I don’t know if I’ll have time. The Beltway doctors were not optimistic.

  The Luggage Cart herds us to the correct platform for the planetary shuttle. I have to admit the machine is convenient, though Mom’s still giving it skeptical looks. It lurches forward with an eager beep when the shuttle hisses to a stop in front of us. Inside, the blues and purples of the capital planet, Dwaraka, loom through a line of windows.

  Mom puts a hand on my shoulder. “Promise me you won’t be in awe of it.”

  “It’ll be totally soulless,” I say, automatically echoing the description my mother has used so many times.

  When we spill out of the shuttle and into the welcome tower, Mom elbows us into a spot with a good view. I can hardly believe that I’m finally going to breathe the oxygenated air of Dwaraka, the planet my mother ran away from seventeen years ago when she was pregnant with me. There will be no helmets, no suits. An atmosphere designed for the human body. What a luxury it would all be if making this trip had been a choice.

  My breath catches at the sight of the vast, gleaming cityscape. Glittering domes and climbing ivy, trellised balconies and enormous trees, arching bridges and terraced sidewalks, cobblestone roads winding around plenty of green space. For a city designed by artificial intelligence, it’s surprisingly beautiful and throbbing with life.

  “Did you miss it?” I ask her.

  Mom presses her lips together. “Only the way you miss a sale for day-old pastries.”

  I laugh. “The way you miss a mouth sore?”

  “Or those critters that were living in the basement last winter.”

  I shudder at the reminder of the furry intruders. “Or a message from Nikhil.”

  “Hey, Nerdy Nikhil is kind of cute!” Mom says. “You should give him a chance.”

  “Ugh. No!”

  Despite my denial, I actually do miss him. How many times did Nikhil ask me to attend the winter formal dance with him? How many times did I say no? I couldn’t have gone anyway because of this emergency trip. Yet a part of me wonders if a boy will ever look at me again with such longing. I’ve traveled so far from our ramshackle house and the hardy denizens of Tri-Rock. What if the Medics aren’t able to save me after all? What if I die out here without ever having a truly memorable kiss, much less the possibility of something more?

  Far away from home, Nikhil suddenly seems appealing.

  A crumbling gate looms over us, strands of ivy curling around it like serpents. As we approach, a camera scans our faces, and the gate automatically swings open. Lights flicker on to lead us up a stone walkway, through a garden, and to my grandparents’ front door.

  “Do you think they’ll like me?” I brush at the natural fibers of my tunic.

  “Doesn’t matter what they think. You’re perfect.” Mom reaches for a doorbell that doesn’t exist as the door creaks open on its own.

  “Welcome!” a robotic Butler pronounces. “I hope you found your way easily.”

  Mom stomps inside, scraping her boots against the mat. Red dust from our barren rock of a home permanently cakes our footwear, a part of us that won’t be left behind. “Just show me to my parents.”

  “Right this way,” the Butler says even as she brushes past it.

  I shrug apologetically at the poor robot. Even if it has no feelings, it doesn’t hurt to be polite, does it? But Mom has a history with the machines inside the Grid, a history she doesn’t like to talk about.

  The Butler catches up to her and whisks us into a grand parlor with dainty furniture draped in intricately woven throws. My grandparents kneel in front of an altar adorned with marigolds, ceramic diwa candles, and an abstract turquoise mosaic.