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Mike waved goodbye to his friends as they took off down the walkway after dinner, their laughter trailing behind them and fading away into the warm summer night.
The porch light flickered once as the door clicked shut, the sound echoing through the house with an ominous finality. His chest tightened as silence settled in.
Mike wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand, annoyed at himself for letting it happen again.
He stood there for a moment, staring at the door as if it might open back up, as if someone would realize they’d forgotten something important and come rushing back.
They didn’t.
He turned and walked up to his room on autopilot. The carpet creaked in the same places it always had. The banister was still loose where he’d leaned too hard on it when he was fifteen. Nothing had changed.
His room greeted him like a preserved exhibit. The same posters. The same toys on the shelves. It was frozen in time, untouched, unchanged from how it had been for years.
Mike stood in the centre of it and slowly turned in a circle. Every object felt accusatory; evidence of a future that had been expected of him and then quietly revoked. College brochures sat untouched on his desk, his high school diploma tossed carelessly on top, an old, half-finished campaign notebook peeked out from under his bed.
He wondered, not for the first time, if this room was a shrine or a tomb. Because his life had ended on November 6, 1987.
Or so he’d thought.
He crossed to his desk. The chair wheels squeaked as he pulled it out, though he didn’t sit. Instead, he knelt and opened the bottom drawer, reaching past old notebooks and loose pencils, all the way to the back.
His fingers brushed against paper. He pulled it forward.
An assortment of cash, bundled neatly. A passport, the dark blue cover worn just enough to look used. Canadian. A couple stamps inside.
It had taken Murray months to get it from whatever shady contacts he had—contacts he had insisted Mike never ask about—but they’d made sure it was perfect. No obvious tells, no sloppy mistakes. It would hold up under scrutiny, at least long enough.
Mike flipped it open, his thumb hesitating for just a fraction of a second before he did. He studied his new name, his new birth date. A version of himself that had never existed, fully formed and waiting.
He mouthed the name silently, testing how it felt in his mouth, making sure it was committed to memory.
A scrap of paper slipped free and fluttered down to the carpet.
Mike froze. He already knew what it was.
He picked it up, smoothing it flat between his fingers. A string of numbers stared back at him, unassuming, almost meaningless to anyone else, but they were burned into his brain, etched there over countless sleepless nights.
It had all started six months ago.
He’d almost thrown it away without looking—the card had been mixed into the pile of mail sitting on the entryway table, wedged between a utility bill and a grocery store flyer. The message on it was perfectly generic, polite and forgettable.
It thanked him for his donation to Hawkins Memorial Hospital and asked if he’d consider giving again.
Only Mike hadn’t donated to the hospital. He barely had any money to his name.
He figured it was just a mistake, some clerical error, and was about to toss the card into the trash when something made him pause. A prickle at the back of his neck. The sense that he was being watched, or tested.
He looked again.
Two numbers in the return address looked slightly off. A little bolder. Barely perceptible unless you were looking for it.
6 and 2.
Mike had laughed under his breath then, bitter and humourless. He told himself he was losing it, that grief had rewired his brain into seeing patterns where none existed, that not everything was a message.
Still, something made him keep the card. He slid it between the pages of one of his books and tried to forget about it.
A little over a month later, it happened again.
The same card. The same cheerful font. Thank you for your donation!
This time, two different numbers.
9 and 0.
His hands had shaken as he stared at them, certain now it wasn't just a printing error.
It happened two more times after that, always spaced just far enough apart to keep him doubting himself, until Mike was left with eight numbers total.
He wrote them out in every possible combination, filling pages in his notebook with messy lists and crossed-out attempts.
Was it a code? A cipher? It would be too simple for the numbers to correspond to letters, and nothing spelled out made sense anyway.
He stayed up late into the night, completely ignoring the midterms he was supposed to be studying for, fuelled by black coffee and a growing sense of obsession. He felt stupid and desperate and more alive than he had in years.
And then it hit him.
He’d been completely overthinking it.
What if they were just coordinates?
He’d nearly laughed at how obvious it seemed in retrospect. He hauled his parents’ old atlas out of the basement, dust puffing into the air as he dropped it onto his bed.
He quickly realized he’d have to convert from decimal degrees to latitude and longitude, and said a quick thank you in his head to Lucas for being such a geography nerd and teaching him about it years ago.
The initial order the numbers had come in was meaningless, landing him squarely in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. So he brewed another cup of coffee and started again, circling every possible land location from every combination of digits.
It was tedious, mind-numbing work. His eyes burned, his handwriting deteriorated into frantic scratches. It consumed him for an entire month, working whenever he could steal the time.
Where are you, El?
The question became a mantra. A prayer.
If he’d done every combination, it would’ve been thousands. But one night—well past midnight—it smacked him in the face with a certainty that stole the breath from his lungs.
He knew right away.
66.02, -16.79.
Or, 66° 1' 12" N, 16° 47' 24" W.
Mike’s heart vaulted into his chest again as he stared at the numbers now, kneeling on the floor of his childhood bedroom with the fake passport heavy in his hand.
His future. Or maybe his past.
Either way, it was waiting for him on the other side of the ocean.
He huffed out a laugh at the memory of his earlier conversation with Hopper. It had been the performance of a lifetime to nod along, to keep his voice steady, to pretend he understood what Hopper was trying to say.
You’re young. You’ll heal. You’ll find something else.
In actuality, the whole time he’d been holding himself back from lunging at him. From screaming. From asking how Hopper of all people could look him in the eye and say that shit with a straight face.
How dare he tell him to move on?
The truth was, there was no moving on for Mike. There was no after. There was no life for him without El—not one that mattered, not one that felt real.
Everything else was just noise and obligation and empty space he had to drag himself through.
He wasn’t strong like Hopper. Hopper had survived Vietnam. He’d survived loss and guilt and years of self-loathing and still managed to crawl his way back into the world.
Mike didn’t have that kind of endurance. He couldn’t push through the pain and come out the other side. He couldn’t keep living in a waking nightmare where every day was a reminder of what he’d lost.
What was he supposed to do? Settle for a life with someone he could never give his whole heart to? Smile politely and pretend he wasn’t hollow? Go to work, come home, sleep beside a stranger who deserved more than the scraps of affection he could offer?
Turn into both of his parents?
Fuck that.
Time heals all wounds was bullshit. A lie people told themselves because the alternative—that some pain never faded, never softened—was too terrifying to sit with. Time hadn’t healed anything.
Not when the wound was watching the love of his life disappear in front of his eyes. Again. Not when it was his worst fear realized in the most spectacularly cruel way possible.
And not when, deep down, he knew it had been his fault. It had been his fucking bomb.
The others moved on, completed the grieving process—a little too quickly and cleanly, in Mike’s opinion—but for him, there had been no way out of the bottomless pit. He was bound to her. That was it.
Mike dragged a hand through his hair and paced the length of his room as the memories of that day came barrelling back in, his feet tracing grooves worn into the carpet years ago. The walls felt too close. His chest felt too tight.
He was eighteen years old and already had two stints in Pennhurst under his belt.
The first one had come that first winter after. The coldest winter he could remember. He’d swiped a bottle from his dad’s liquor cabinet with shaking hands, barely tasting it as he drank.
He’d gone out into the freezing night without a coat, breath puffing white in the air, and started walking. He hadn’t had a plan. Just a direction.
His feet had carried him toward the quarry of their own volition. Somewhere along the way, the thought had crystallized—quiet and terrifyingly calm. When he reached the edge, he wasn’t going to stop walking. No more haunting memories. No more unbearable pain.
But the universe, cruel as it was, hadn’t been done with him yet. The alcohol in his veins had slowed him down. His legs had given out before his resolve did.
He’d collapsed against a tree just off the path, the bark biting into his cheek as the cold wrapped around him, the empty bottle hugged to his chest. That was where a dog walker found him at the crack of dawn. Curled up, blue-lipped and hypothermic.
The second time had been worse. More intentional, more shameful.
He had stolen a bottle of Max’s prescription painkillers right out of her bag when no one was looking, guilt gnawing at him even as he twisted the cap off. He’d swallowed an entire handful dry, throat burning, hands trembling. He remembered thinking it would hurt less if he didn’t give himself time to think.
He was already succumbing to the sweet pull of unconsciousness when his mother had found him in the basement. The memory came back in flashes—her panicked screams for his father, his own voice slurring as he begged her to stop crying. To please just let him die.
If El got to make that choice, then why couldn’t he?
The doctors had called them depressive episodes. Grief-induced. Treatable. They’d given him medications with names he couldn’t pronounce, promised they would help stabilize him.
And for a while, they did. They dulled the edges, took the sharpest parts of the pain and wrapped them in cotton.
But nothing stuck. The ache always found a way back in, louder and meaner than before.
If Mike was being honest—if he stripped away the reassurances he fed everyone else—up until he received that postcard in the mail, he hadn’t been planning on making it to his eighteenth birthday.
Living had become a performance. A carefully curated act where everyone tiptoed around him like he was made of glass. He’d been so fucking tired of it all.
He wondered if she had felt it—his desire to keep going evaporating like rain in the desert.
It was torture, the way people danced around him. The way Max and Lucas deliberately stopped being affectionate whenever he walked into a room, like love itself was something obscene in his presence.The way Dustin and Will lowered their voices when they talked about the future.
Even just hours ago, the pity barely concealed on all their faces as they told him, Yes, Mike, we definitely believe your theory, and not, We think you’re losing it but we’re too scared to say so out loud in case you try and off yourself again.
They thought that story was for him. A coping mechanism, a distraction. A way to give his mind something to chew on besides grief.
Little did they know it wasn’t for him at all. It was for them.
In that pretty, make-believe future, the storyteller moved on. Grew from the pain instead of succumbing to it; lived the life everyone thought he should. Go to college. Write his little stories. Meet a nice, normal girl. Have a nice, normal wedding and nice, normal kids.
The thing was, that was never the life Mike wanted for himself.
He had meant it when he’d told El he didn’t know how to live without her. And, as he’d found out, he didn’t want to.
Mike stopped pacing and sank down onto his bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He stared at the fake passport on his desk, at the scrap of paper with the coordinates written in his own handwriting.
He was saying goodbye, but not to his childhood.
To Mike Wheeler.
He was closing the chapter on Hawkins. On the boy he’d been. On the version of himself that had once believed he could have a normal life. He was severing himself from their futures so he wouldn’t rot inside of them like a ghost no one knew how to talk to.
He didn’t know if he was chasing hope or running from death anymore. Maybe it was both.
But for the first time in years, there was a direction, a there to go toward, and he was going to follow it.
Mike smoothed the stack of letters he’d pulled from one of his notebooks, aligning the edges with care that bordered on reverence.
They sat on top of his pillow, white against the faded blue of his sheets, impossible to miss. He made sure the one addressed to Mom was on the very top.
That one had taken the longest.
An apology, written and rewritten until the words blurred together. A guarantee that he wasn’t dead—I promise, Mom, I’m not dead—because he knew that would be her first thought. An explanation without an explanation.
He told her he had to go, that there was a good reason, even if he couldn’t say what it was yet. He asked her not to look for him.
That had nearly broken him. It had nearly made him change his mind altogether.
He knew how cruel that request was. He knew she’d read that line and clutch the paper to her chest, guilt and fear bringing her to her knees. He hated himself for it. But if she looked for him—if any of them did—it would put everything at risk. Not just him.
El.
Mike sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the envelopes until his vision wavered.
It would be painful to potentially never see his family again. The thought hollowed him out in a way he didn’t have words for.
But it couldn’t possibly be more painful than the life he was living now—half-alive, suspended in grief, waiting for something that everyone else insisted was gone.
His friends would be fine. They always were. They’d grown up fast, grown strong.
Lucas and Max had each other. Dustin had his endless optimism and whatever new adventure he’d latch onto next. Will had his art, his quiet resilience. They would carry on, just like Mike said in the story he’d crafted for them.
Besides, it might not be goodbye forever. The world was changing. Everything was.
The Soviet Union was on the verge of collapse. The war in Afghanistan had dragged on and left it weak. Most people were already declaring the Cold War over, like it was just another chapter closing instead of something that had shaped their entire lives.
Maybe someday they could return. Maybe someday he could write, or call, or stand on this same doorstep and knock like he hadn’t vanished in the middle of the night.
And if not—if that door stayed closed forever—then that was a sacrifice Mike was willing to make. Had been willing to make, ever since he was sixteen years old.
He reached for his wallet, hands steady now in a way they hadn’t been all evening. He opened it and methodically emptied it. His driver’s license, his student ID, anything with Michael Wheeler printed on it.
He set them in the desk drawer and closed it softly. From under his bed, he dragged out the packed duffel bag. It was heavier than he expected, or maybe that was just the weight of finality settling into his bones.
He slung it over his shoulder, wincing as the strap dug in, and took one last look around his room.
Goodbye.
He tiptoed down the stairs, every step a calculated risk. The house creaked like it always had. He held his breath as he passed through the kitchen, the scent of popcorn lingering in the air.
He paused at the corner, peering around it.
His family was in the living room, clustered together on the couch. The TV cast a flickering light across their faces, some old movie playing that Mike didn’t recognize.
His dad leaned back, half-asleep. Nancy was wedged in the middle, popcorn bowl held tight in her lap. Holly sat cross-legged on the floor, chin in her hands. His mom was tucked into the corner of the couch, eyes soft, watching the screen.
They looked… normal. Safe. Like nothing in the world was wrong. For them, it wasn’t.
Mike stared at them for a long moment, committing the image to memory. The way his mom laughed quietly at something on screen, the curve of his dad’s profile, the comfortable warmth of the room he was about to leave behind.
“I love you,” he whispered, though no one could hear him.
Then he turned away.
He slipped out the side door, the cool night air hitting his face. The door clicked shut behind him, quiet but definitive.
And Mike didn’t look back.
He got in his car and drove, scarcely bothering to look around. The streets of Hawkins blurred together outside the windshield, familiar landmarks reduced to vague shapes and streetlights.
He’d already said his goodbyes to it last night, in his own way, when everyone thought he was somewhere alone and dangerous, opening up his veins instead of taking one last walk through that wretched place.
People used to say the town was cursed. That was true, but the curse wasn’t Henry, or the lab or El. It hadn’t been lifted two years ago. It was still there, the rot beneath the shiny veneer of the American dream.
He wouldn’t miss it.
When he reached the highway interchange, Mike didn’t hesitate. He went north.
The road stretched on in a monotonous ribbon of asphalt, mile markers ticking by like a countdown. The radio stayed off. Music felt too intrusive, too emotional. Every song just ended up reminding him of her anyway.
He drove with the windows cracked despite the cold, letting the rush of air keep him grounded. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, jaw clenched so tight his molars ached. It was an exercise in self-control not to speed, but he couldn’t risk getting pulled over, having already gotten rid of all the insurance and registration documents last night.
Three hours later, Detroit rose up around him in a sprawl of concrete.
His eyes flicked constantly between the map unfolded on the passenger seat and the road ahead, scanning for the landmarks Murray had drilled into his memory. Burger King. Payday loans place. Same parking lot.
There.
The glowing Burger King sign looked almost surreal, the restaurant squat and ordinary, wedged beside a dingy storefront advertising fast cash.
Mike pulled into the lot and parked near the edge, heart hammering so loud he was sure someone could hear it.
A security camera was mounted on the corner of the building. He clocked it immediately. It was trained toward the doors of the businesses, not the lot, but paranoia had long since overridden logic.
He pulled his hood up as he stepped out of the car, shouldered his duffel bag, and deliberately left the keys in the ignition, the doors unlocked.
He forced himself not to glance around, not to arouse suspicion.
The Buick was easy to spot. Maroon, older model, Ontario plates, just like Murray had promised. It sat two rows over, unremarkable, blending in with the other tired vehicles.
Mike crouched beside it, pulse roaring in his ears, and reached under the wheel well. His fingers brushed cold metal.
Keys.
He slid into the driver’s seat and started the car, the engine turning over smoothly, obediently. No alarms. No shouting. No hands on his shoulders.
He pulled out of the lot and merged back into traffic, continuing toward the border crossing. As the city fell away behind him, something heavy settled in his gut, a weight that felt both crushing and oddly stabilizing.
This was it.
He was officially no longer Michael Wheeler.
The miles between him and Hawkins grew, each one severing another thread. By the time the border crossing signs appeared, his mouth was dry and his heartbeat felt erratic, skittering in his chest. The line of cars crawled forward at an agonizing pace.
His leg bounced uncontrollably as he waited.
Breathe. Just breathe.
When he reached the front, it felt like the world narrowed to a single point. The booth. The uniformed agent. This was the first moment where everything could unravel.
He rolled down the window with shaking fingers and handed over his passport.
The Canadian customs agent flipped it open, shining his flashlight down as his eyes scanned the pages with methodical slowness.
He looked up, then back down, then up again, peering at Mike’s face.
Mike forced himself to meet his gaze, to keep his expression neutral, to remember that he was someone else now.
Seconds stretched unbearably.
Finally, the agent closed the passport and handed it back through the window. “Welcome home.”
The words caught Mike off guard. His vision blurred, and for a terrifying second, he thought he might cry right there at the border, give himself away with something as simple as relief.
Instead, he nodded, voice trapped somewhere behind his ribs. He pulled forward when waved on, the barrier lowering in his rearview mirror.
Canada opened up ahead of him. Mike drove on, heart still racing, the echo of those words ringing in his ears. Welcome home.
Not quite. Not just yet.
Another two hours blurred by beneath the tires, the highway signs counting down the distance until the airport.
Mike drove on muscle memory alone, following directions he’d memorized weeks ago. By the time he pulled into long-term parking, the sky had begun to pale, the horizon washed in a thin grey light.
He parked the Buick, turned the engine off, and sat there for a long moment.
Then he stepped out, popped the trunk, and slung the bag over his shoulder. On the way out of the lot, he paused by a trash can, fished the keys from his pocket, and dropped them in. They clattered against the plastic liner and disappeared.
No turning back.
Inside the terminal, everything felt too bright and too loud. The smell of coffee and disinfectant made his stomach churn. He pulled a logoless baseball cap from his bag and tugged it low over his face, suddenly aware of every pair of eyes, every security camera, every possible way this could still go wrong.
You’re fine, he told himself. You’re nobody.
He joined the line at the counter, heart thudding as he rehearsed the words in his head one last time. When it was his turn, he stepped forward.
“One ticket to Reykjavik,” he said, voice steadier than he felt. “The next available flight you have.”
The agent nodded and began clicking around on her computer, the sound of the keys impossibly loud in the space between them. Mike stared at a smudge on the counter, counting his breaths.
“Return date?” she asked, without looking up.
Mike shook his head. “One way.”
She glanced at him then, just briefly, like she might ask a follow-up question. She didn’t. More clicking. A printer whirred to life.
He took the boarding pass with hands that trembled just slightly and forced himself not to look at the time, the gate, the destination printed in clean black letters.
Reykjavik.
In the departure terminal, surrounded by strangers and rolling suitcases and the hum of anticipation, Mike let himself feel it. Hope.
It was small—fragile as glass—but it was there, glowing faintly in his chest.
It hadn’t felt real until right now, until he was past the last point of friction, until there was nothing left to do but wait. Was it possible that he was finally going to get the only thing he’d wanted since he was fifteen years old?
Not stability, or normalcy.
Her.
He didn’t let himself think about failure or the possibility that he was completely wrong. About stepping off the plane into nothing but wind and desolate rolling hills and the sickening certainty that he’d chased a ghost across an ocean.
Hours later, he boarded when his group was called, found his seat by the window, and buckled in with hands that refused to stop shaking.
The plane taxied, engines roaring, and when the ground finally fell away beneath them, Mike pressed his forehead to the glass and watched the world shrink.
He tried to sleep on the flight. He really did. He closed his eyes, shifted in the narrow seat, pulled the thin blanket over his legs.
There was no chance of it.
His mind wouldn’t slow down. It raced ahead of him, replaying memories and constructing futures in equal measure. He stared at the dark cabin ceiling and focused on the steady hum of the engines, letting it anchor him.
He was actually going to see what she looked like. The thought made his chest constrict.
He’d pictured it a thousand times. Her face, slightly narrowed with age but no less expressive. Her eyes, the same warm, sparkling brown, still looking at him like he was someone worth believing in. Her hair long and flowing, the way she’d always dreamed it would be once no one could cut it against her will.
He wondered if she’d smile when she saw him. He wondered if she’d recognize him at all.
Mike clasped his hands together, breath catching, and stared into the dark until the first hints of dawn crept in through the window, carrying him closer and closer to whatever waited for him on the other side.
From the air, Iceland looked like a different world.
Not just different from Hawkins, or from the US, but different from anything Mike had ever known. The land below was vast and raw, streaked with black rock and pale green moss, the coastline jagged and unforgiving. It looked unfinished—ancient, even.
It was, he supposed.
The plane touched down with a jolt that rattled through his bones, and as the engines slowed, reality finally caught up to him in a rush so intense it made his hands shake. He’d crossed an ocean. He was actually here.
The first thing Mike did after stepping off the plane and clearing customs was exchange nearly all of his cash, sliding it across the counter with fingers that felt slightly numb.
Next, he bought a map from the small airport store. He unfolded it right there, ignoring the looks he got from the cashier, and immediately pinpointed the spot he’d been thinking about for months. His finger hovered over it, then pressed down as if he could transport himself there through sheer force of will.
I’m coming, he thought. I’m here.
Mike checked his watch and winced. He hadn’t really slept in almost twenty-four hours now. His body felt wrung out, his thoughts running disjointed and erratic on pure adrenaline. The sensible thing would’ve been to find a hotel room, take a shower, sleep for a few hours, and plan out his next steps with a clear head.
But the fact that she could be here—right here, somewhere on this island—made that logic feel laughable.
No. He had to keep going.
Right outside the airport, he climbed into a taxi, the driver glancing at him briefly in the mirror. Mike unfolded the map again and pointed, tracing the route with his finger. His destination was almost on the opposite side of the country.
“Here,” he said. “As close as you can.”
The driver muttered something in Icelandic, brows knitting together, then pointed to a small town a short distance outside of Reykjavik. Mike nodded, even though he didn’t fully understand. If that was as far as the man would take him, it would have to be enough.
The drive was long and quiet, the landscape rolling past the windows. Mike pressed his forehead to the glass, exhaustion and awe tangling together in his chest.
At the town, the taxi slowed and pulled over near a cluster of modest houses. The driver parked, turned off the engine, and got out, gesturing for Mike to follow.
Confused but too tired to argue, Mike grabbed his duffel bag and stepped out into the cool afternoon air. Even in the middle of summer, it seemed it didn’t get much warmer than fifty degrees.
The driver knocked on the door of a nearby house. A middle-aged woman answered, bundled in a knit sweater, her blonde hair pulled back. The driver gestured toward Mike, speaking rapidly in Icelandic. Mike caught his own reflection in the window. He looked exhausted, eyes shadowed and too big for his face.
The woman studied him in silence, her gaze sharp and assessing. Mike felt suddenly, acutely aware of how ridiculous he must look. A lone, out-of-place kid with a duffel bag and no plan, standing on her doorstep.
After a long moment, she nodded once.
“You sleep here,” she said in heavily accented English. “Tomorrow, take bus.”
“Thank you,” Mike said quickly, relief washing over him. “Thank you so much.”
She stepped aside to let him in, the warmth of the house washing over him like a benediction. As the door closed behind him, Mike clutched the strap of his bag and let out a shaky breath.
He was closer now. Closer than he’d ever been. And somewhere beyond this small town, beyond the empty roads and the endless fields of stone, she was out there.
Mike awoke the next morning to the sound of clattering pans downstairs, metal on metal echoing through the small house.
He blinked blearily around the room he’d been given and pushed himself upright, joints stiff. It clearly once belonged to the son of the woman who had eventually introduced herself as Agnes.
He stretched as he stood, arms over his head, surprised by how deeply he’d slept. It was the first night in a long time that there were no nightmares, no jolting awake in a panic.
The memory of his dream surfaced in soft, indistinct fragments. El had been there, but not the way she was in his memories—sharp and painful. She’d been blurred, like a watercolour bleeding at the edges. They were standing somewhere open and bright, the sky impossibly wide above them. She was laughing, and it echoed warm and real in his heart.
He got changed quickly, folding his clothes with detached care, and packed up his bag again. This was not a place he could linger.
Downstairs, the kitchen was warm and bright despite the grey light outside. Agnes moved efficiently between the stove and the counter, setting out food without a word. She pointed at the table where they’d shared a silent dinner the night before.
Mike sat, feeling a pang in his chest as he watched her move around the kitchen. She reminded him of his mom, albeit sterner and hardier, someone who’d been shaped by colder weather and fewer comforts.
When he finished eating, he pushed his chair back and reached into his pocket, pulling out a handful of bills and holding them out.
Agnes scoffed, lips pursed, and shook her head emphatically. She waved the money away like it was an insult, then gestured sharply for him to follow her outside.
She led him around the corner of the house and pointed toward the central square, where a coach bus was parked near a cluster of small shops. A few tourists milled around, bundled in bright jackets, cameras slung around their necks.
“Bus,” she said simply.
Before Mike could even say anything, she marched over to it, climbing partway up the stairs to speak to the driver. They exchanged a quick volley of Icelandic, Agnes’s tone firm and unquestionable. Then she motioned for Mike to come over.
The driver was a man in his mid-thirties, dark hair tucked under a knit cap. He peered at Mike with mild curiosity.
“English?” he asked.
“Uh, yeah,” Mike nodded rapidly. “English. Well, I’m Am– uh, Canadian,” he corrected himself at the last second, heart lurching.
The man nodded like that explained everything. “This tour goes to Akureyri. We can take you there?”
Mike fumbled for the map in his back pocket, unfolding it with shaking fingers. His heart leapt when he spotted the city. Akureyri. That was almost all the way there. Closer than he’d dared to hope.
“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Yes, that would be great. Thank you.”
Agnes watched him from the bottom of the steps, arms crossed. When he turned back to her, unsure what to say, she gave a single, decisive nod.
“Go,” she said.
Mike’s throat tightened. “Thank you,” he said again, more softly this time.
She waved him off and turned away before he could say anything else.
The tour group turned out to be mostly German retirees, cheerful and well-equipped, chatting animatedly as they settled into their seats. Mike didn’t care. He took an empty seat by the window and dropped into it, his knee bouncing as soon as the bus started moving.
The stark, endless road unspooled ahead of them. Lava fields gave way to mountains, snow clinging stubbornly to their sides. They stopped at geysers and volcanoes, the guide launching into enthusiastic explanations in German, people filing off the bus to take pictures and marvel.
Mike stayed seated. He didn’t care about the sights everyone else had flown halfway across the world to see. All he could think about was the distance shrinking, mile by mile, between him and the coordinates burned into his brain.
Somewhere ahead—he could feel it now, deep in his bones—his life was waiting for him.
He glanced up as one of the tourists turned around to show another a picture of what was presumably her granddaughter. A young, smiling girl with blonde pigtails. His heart twinged painfully.
His family would have found his letters by now. He hoped Holly understood. He was pretty sure she would; she was always smart for her age. Forced to grow up too fast, just like all of them.
Still, she’d managed to find happiness. She had her group of friends to lean on. She didn’t need him like she once had. It had been well over a year since the last time she climbed into his bed in the middle of the night, mumbling about bad dreams and monsters.
Now it was Mike who was plagued with inescapable nightmares. Only his couldn’t be soothed away with whispered words and gentle reassurances. His didn’t go away when he woke up.
It was late afternoon by the time they rolled into the port city of Akureyri. Mike squinted up at the sky as he stepped off. Was it wise to keep going?
The days were long here; there was plenty of light left. He quickly decided he would continue on. He was done waiting.
He adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder and slowly turned in a circle. Fishing boats and cargo ships bobbed in the harbour. People moved with purpose, locals weaving easily around the dazed tourists spilling off the bus and making their way to the hotel.
Shit. Now what?
For a moment, panic flared. He felt suddenly untethered, like he’d run out of momentum and didn’t know how to start again. Then his eyes landed on the tour guide.
Mike crossed the pavement quickly before doubt could take hold, digging the crumpled map out of his back pocket. The guide turned as he approached, expression shifting from polite exhaustion to wariness as Mike unfolded the map and pointed at the spot he’d memorized down to the second, explaining his situation in the vaguest terms possible.
The guide studied the map, then looked back at Mike, brow furrowing. He ran a hand through his hair.
“There is nothing there,” he said slowly. “It is remote…” He hesitated, glancing around for a second before something seemed to click. “My friend’s uncle drives, uh… fuel truck? To towns along this road. I will see if he is still here.”
Hope surged through him so fast it made Mike lightheaded.
“Thank you,” he said quickly.
The guide nodded and jogged toward a nearby business, disappearing inside. Mike sank onto a bench near the water’s edge, bouncing his heel against the concrete. Every second stretched unbearably. His mind filled the silence with worst-case scenarios.
Please, he thought, fingers curled tight around the strap of his bag. Please.
A few minutes later, the guide burst back out of the building, scanning the area. When he spotted Mike, he lifted an arm and pointed urgently toward the opposite end of the port.
“Now,” he called. “If you hurry. Red building! Ask for Andri!”
Mike was on his feet instantly.
“Thank you!” he shouted again as he took off, heart pounding, lungs burning as he sprinted toward a cluster of warehouses.
Mike clutched his duffel bag in his lap as the fuel truck rumbled along the narrow road, gaze fixed on the countryside flashing by.
Andri—a grizzled, bearded man—glanced over at Mike and reached to turn down the music that had been blaring from the speakers.
“You student?” he asked in a rough and thickly-accented voice.
Mike blinked, dragged out of his spiralling thoughts. “Pardon?”
“Research student?” Andri gestured vaguely out the window. “Volcano? Sheep?”
“Oh, no.” Mike shook his head quickly. “I’m, um… I’m looking for a girl.”
“Girl!” Andri laughed heartily, slapping the steering wheel. “I also look for girl. Let me know if you find one.”
“No, no,” Mike said, smiling despite himself. “I– I already know her. She’s here. I think. I hope.”
Andri grunted thoughtfully. “Must be nice girl,” he said after a moment. “Make you leave Canada.”
Mike stared down at his hands, fingers curled tight. “She is.”
The road hugged the coastline, the ocean stretching out beside them, grey and endless. Mike pressed his forehead to the window, heart lodged in his throat. They were close now. So close it scared him. He let himself picture it—what came after. A life not defined by running or hiding or surviving.
They could never get back the childhood stolen from them, but they could build something new. Something quiet but real. They could grow old together. He didn’t need much, just a typewriter so he could keep writing. He wondered what she did with her days. Helping people, maybe, or selling crafts? There was so much to relearn about each other. So much to catch up on. And they had all the time in the world now.
The truck slowed and came to a stop near a bend in the road. Andri cut the engine and gestured outside.
“Nearest village,” he said. Then, without warning, he reached over and snatched the baseball cap off Mike’s head, replacing it with his own woollen grey beanie that swallowed Mike’s ears.
“Good luck.” Andri patted his shoulder. “Go find girl.”
Mike swallowed hard. “Thank you.”
He watched the truck disappear around the bend, the sound fading until only the wind remained.
Mike glanced around. Calling it a village was generous. Three weather-beaten houses sat spaced apart. A tiny one-room chapel with white stone walls and a red roof perched further up the hill.
An old woman stood hunched near one of the houses, feeding chickens from a dented bucket. They clucked and darted around her feet.
He approached slowly, raising a hand. “Um, hello?”
The woman turned, looked him up and down, and snapped something harsh in Icelandic that didn’t sound remotely welcoming.
“Have you– have you seen a girl?” Mike tried, lifting his hand to show El’s height. “Girl?” If only he could have brought a picture of her with him, but it was too risky.
The woman waved her hands angrily and disappeared inside, slamming the door.
Okay. On his own, then.
Mike exhaled shakily and set his bag down, pulling out his compass and map. He compared them, double and then triple-checking. If the coordinates were right, he was looking at a couple hours of walking.
The terrain ahead was rough, rolling grass-covered hills broken by rocky slopes. Doubt crept in. God, maybe this was a mistake. Maybe he should have regrouped in Akureyri, planned this better, thought this through like a rational person.
But then again, he had never been the most rational person. Not when it came to El.
He started walking.
His feet tired quickly. He’d never been the most active of people, and this was pushing him physically. But he marched on, ignoring the blisters he could feel forming. The sun drifted lower, painting the land in gold. He checked his compass obsessively, fear tightening every time the ground dipped or rose unexpectedly.
Finally, he stopped at the bottom of a tall hill. This was it. The spot marked on his map.
Mike’s heart plummeted. There was… nothing. Just grass, rocks and wind.
Panic surged, hot and choking. No. No, no, no. His vision blurred. What had he done? He’d crossed an ocean, burned his life to the ground, all for nothing? This couldn’t be it. This couldn’t be how it ended.
Mike turned in a circle, fingers grasping at the roots of his hair.
And then he felt it.
A sharp tug, right in the centre of his chest, like a hook snagged behind his ribs, so unmistakable it took his breath away.
He looked up at the steep, rocky slope in front of him, and in that moment he knew, as well as he knew his own mother’s face, that it was there.
His feet moved before his mind could catch up. He climbed, slipping on loose gravel, breath coming fast and shallow. He crested the hill…
And the world rearranged itself.
A small house with light blue corrugated siding and smoke puffing merrily from the chimney stood less than a hundred feet away. A cloud shifted, and golden sunlight spilled across the valley like something out of a fairy tale.
Movement caught his eye.
At first, his brain refused to process it. A shape, a flash of colour, someone stepping into the sunlight.
And then all the air left his lungs.
El rounded the corner of the house, carrying a metal bucket in her arms. Her hair was long, wavy and flowing down her back. She wore jeans and a pastel pink sweater. She smiled as sheep clustered around her legs, nudging her affectionately.
Mike felt numb. It was like seeing his heart outside of his body. Everything felt surreal, too perfect to trust. He’d dreamed this moment so many times—woken up sobbing from it—that his mind didn’t know how to accept it while awake.
He tried to move but his legs refused. He just stood there, staring, his breaths rapid and broken, afraid that if he blinked she’d vanish again.
Then he saw something catch the light. The gleam of a ring. His ring, the one he’d given her. She still had it, she still–
El was approaching her front door when she suddenly froze. The corner of her mouth tugged down into a small frown, her head tilting slightly. Slowly, she turned.
Her gaze lifted.
Their eyes met, and Mike felt the ground shift beneath his feet.
For a few seconds, they just stared.
Then the bucket slipped from her hands and clattered to the ground, milk spilling into the grass.
They both started running at the same time, El sprinting across the grassy field as Mike half ran, half slid down the hill, dropping his bag without noticing. His chest burned, his eyes flooded with tears.
“El–” he choked as they collided hard, arms wrapping around each other, muscle memory kicking in.
It was her. She was here, warm and solid and so, so real.
Her hand cradled the back of his head. His arms locked around her like if he let go, she’d disappear again.
“Mike–” she sobbed, and the sound of her voice made the tears he’d been holding back spill over.
It felt like something long-dead inside him gasped back to life. Like a missing organ had been slammed back into his chest, like his heart started beating properly for the first time in eighteen months.
Shaking, he buried his face in her shoulder, breathing her in. Jesus Christ, she smelled exactly the same.
“You found me,” she whispered, voice breaking.
Mike pulled back just enough to look at her, hands trembling as they framed her face. “I will always find you.”
“I’m sorry,” she gasped through the tears, pressing her forehead to his. “I’m so sorry. I had to–”
“It’s okay,” he said fiercely. “I understand, El. I understand.”
They sank into the grass together, sobbing, clinging to each other, the world narrowing until there was only the weight of her in his arms and the sound of their shared, shuddering breaths.
He had to kiss her. So he did.
Mike leaned in slowly, giving her time, giving the moment the gravity it deserved. Their foreheads brushed, their noses bumped softly, breaths mingling. He felt her inhale, and when their lips finally met, it was as if something ancient and broken inside him gave way.
It was soft at first, a little unsure, like they were relearning each other. And then El made this small, broken sound against his mouth, and everything shattered again.
Mike pulled her closer, one hand sliding into her hair, fingers tangling in the long waves she’d always dreamed of having. The other pressed flat between her shoulder blades, anchoring her to him.
The kiss deepened, turning desperate and hungry and alive. He could taste her tears, salty on his tongue. Or maybe they were his own.
It felt like eighteen months of grief poured out of him all at once.
All the nights he’d stared at the ceiling, wondering how to keep breathing without her. All the guilt. All the fear. All the love he’d never stopped carrying.
And she kissed him back with the same intensity, letting him know she’d been holding it in just as long. Her hands slid up his neck, her thumbs brushing his jaw, grounding him, claiming him.
There was no Hawkins, no Upside Down, no more governments or borders or years stolen from them. There was only this—warm sunlight, grass beneath them, her heartbeat pressed against his chest, matching his own.
Their lips met over and over, neither of them willing to stop even for a breath.
Then something nudged Mike’s foot.
He startled, glancing down to find a sheep standing above them, utterly unimpressed, sniffing curiously at his boot before giving it a long lick from heel to toe.
He and El both burst out laughing—real, full laughter that quickly turned hysterical and made his ribs ache. God, he hadn’t laughed like that in so long. It felt unfamiliar. Wonderful.
He looked back at her, lying there in the tall grass, sunlight caught in her hair, eyes bright and real and here. He cupped her face again, gentler now, like he was holding something precious. He sniffed hard, pulling himself together.
“I love you,” he declared with more certainty than he’d ever given anything in his life.
El beamed, her smile lighting up something deep inside him. “I love you too.”
This time their kiss was slower.
This one wasn’t about surviving; it was about choosing each other.
Again.
And again.
And again.
This was their ending. And their beginning.
Just the two of them.
And the sheep.