In the great valley of the Appalachian Mountains, Boone sat quiet with the mid-night stillness of deep and dreamless sleep. But stirring in its slumber, the town murmured with the calls of nocturnal animals, the gentle rustling of canopies of trees, and the occasional sigh of a passing automobile in the dark. Logan Kessler, once a boy yet now a monster, had been tormented by the music of his misdeeds. But as the sun neared to rise, a new symphony was beginning, and its instruments were ready for their debut. First was the steady, marching drumbeat: a regular, electronic beeping kept vigil over a boy with head wrapped in white bandages while Clara and Martha DeLange slept peacefully in hospital chairs near the bedside. Ronnie was recovering well, only suffering a minor concussion. Nearby in the same complex came the next sound: the rattling of a metal fragment on a metal tray, as a coroner removed a bullet that had punctured a young man's lung. There then came the wailing of the Kerrigan mother, and the midnight sobs of the Trent father who felt a grief for the loss of his son and the spindly grip of the nighttime pain whose hold was sometimes stronger than his wife's embrace upon his back. There was the sound of a shy boy telling a positively unbelievable story to a police officer, a mother, as she burned her way through cigarettes and tamped them silently on the glass tray to her right. The next sound was the unfolding of crinkly aged paper by her careful hand, lifting the handwritten letter adorned with a single word on its front: Mom. And with that crinkle came a furious crescendo to fortissimo as new voices joined in the second movement.

There was the wailing of a chorus of police sirens in a shifting harmony, the roar of engines and squealing of tires as they cleared the Kessler residence. There was the barking of dogs as on-foot police officers raced towards the shack described in the letter, and even the trembling rumble of a helicopter rising over the woods. There was the shrieking laugh of a madman covered in gore, whose own ears rang with the imagined sound of churning waves washing over and through him, flattening the sand further with each rising crash… and then there was the serrated click of handcuffs slipped over trembling, bloody wrists.

As the sun peeked over the horizon, the final sounds that comprised the last movement played at a much slower tempo, and these sounds were perhaps also the softest. There were three of them, and these three were perhaps the most important to the whole piece of music.

The first was the sniffle of crying wrangled under control, and the near inaudible pat of a supporting hand placed upon a shoulder. It was Michelle Trent's hand upon Jackson's, as the two sat up in their plush, white bed and began to wonder how shall we carry on when we've lost so much? The answer to that question was in the love he felt beneath that gesture… its sound was rejuvenation. The pain bit and it bit sharply, both physical and emotional pain dominating Jackson's mind, but the warmth in that gesture began to do something unexpected. It began to transmute that pain like carbon, trapped beneath the weight of a mountain, might turn to diamond. The hurt was an unpleasant thing, but he wouldn't trade it for the world… he would rather remember, and be inspired by that loss to carry on even more. After all, he had to live for Skinny now, to take his boisterous smiles and stories to as many as he could. An emotional spreading of the ashes, he thought. And for the first time in days, he smiled with genuine warmth.

The second sound was the whispering thud as a bundle of flowers was tossed to the floor in front of a strange tombstone. Nora Campbell wrung her hands, looking at the unadorned marker, and felt simultaneously absurd for believing anything about this and the hollow loss that came with that belief, if she accepted the boy's story as true. Nora had thought "boys and their imaginations" as he had begun, and then she had switched to "this boy might be legitimately crazy" as he started to produce the bundle of documents he'd brought. But then, when she had read the letter labeled Mom, filled with so many stories only Parker could know, the tears had begun and they hadn't fully stopped for hours beyond. When she set down the letter with trembling hands, she'd sent the boy home, and, after some mental deliberation, she submitted an anonymous tip for Logan's whereabouts. She knew nobody at the station would believe such a story. So why am I here? she wondered, looking at the gravestone. JIM DUNCAN, it said along the top in blandly embossed letters. 1885-1972. "If you're down there," she whispered, before pausing to think. "In the grave, that is… and not just somewhere out in town…" She licked her lips and swallowed, knowing that Parker hadn't come home last night. "If that's you in there… I wanted to say I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't help you… I'm sorry I let this tombstone get all cracked and eroded. I'll care for it now… keep it as clean as you deserve. I love you," she said, sitting in the grass before the unassuming marker. "I love you." She then removed the book she'd brought with her—one she'd found in Parker's bedroom, apparently mid-read. It had been one he read through when he was a young boy, and evidently had returned to only recently. On front of the tombstone, she gingerly placed the book: The Time Machine, by HG Wells. Then she gasped, eyes wide, as she flashed back to the strange grocery trip with the 'regular' who had never called again. He had passed a note with book recommendations. The Time Machine had been his selection, the reason she'd bought it for Parker. "Mr. Creaks," Nora choked; the tears returned, and this time it was a flood.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

The third and final sound was the crackling of flame. Shaun looked at the small firepit in Clawson-Burnley Park, listening to the sound of laughter drifting in the breeze. Children ran through the nearby playground, and a whistle came from a nearby community game of soccer, followed immediately by the cheering of a crowd. Shaun opened his backpack and flipped past the comic book in the front pocket. Finally, his hand closed on the first piece of construction paper he sought, and he pulled it out. The paper was thick and colored a vibrant purple. A drawing of six men in colorful costumes and fists raised heroically spanned the entire page, rendered as though the cover to some brand-new comic book. He tossed it in the fire, watching the licks of flame race up from the heroes feet to the title he'd written at the top in bold, 3D lettering. "The Incredible 6 and the Misterious Alien Artifakts," he'd proudly penned. As it burned, he pulled more sheets from his backpack. The first was a drawing of the Empathizer in close-up, which Shaun tossed in without hesitation. He savored watching the fire blacken and destroy the thing, feeling a visceral shudder as it did. Next was a sketch of Logan holding his device proudly and soothing a crying woman… "Dr. Feel Good!" the title exclaimed. He burned that one, too. The next was Skinny wielding the Thought-Enunciator with an exaggerated satellite dish attached to the end of it. "Captain Mindread!" wrote the text on the top, and Shaun couldn't help but smile… what was it that the pastor had said at the memorial? "Skinny will always be in our thoughts…" He laughed at that, and, for a moment, his laugh was indistinguishable to that of the children playing nearby.

He looked at the drawing of Skinny, and then to the one he'd made of Wade deflecting sword blows like they were pool noodles, labeled The Invincible Boy, and then the picture of Parker battling a dinosaur labeled Father Time. He looked back to the flame. Do I burn these? he asked himself. Or do I want to remember them?

And then, as though Boone itself made the decision, the wind gave him his answer. It gusted upwards and the pictures took flight, tumbling through the breeze as though animated once again. Shaun ran after them as they raced around trees, whirled through the playground, danced across the lakeshore, and pretty soon Shaun realized he was no longer chasing after them… he saw the greenery so full of life, looked at the families pushing strollers, and then back to the pages of memories that flitted with the breeze, and he decided then that he ran with them. He made no effort to grab, no effort to catch them… and he certainly no longer wanted to burn them. He only ran alongside as they took triumphant flight through the park, and floated up in the drafting air to the cloud-ringed skies above.

And finally, after glorious fanfare, the orchestra was silent.