Damarcus's Wisdom

The sky was a relentless, mocking blue, the kind of blue that Grace had always loved. She’d pointed it out on our first day at Camp Hemlock, a lifetime ago it felt, her eyes wide with the sheer, unadulterated joy of it. Now, that same expanse of perfect azure pressed down on me, heavy and suffocating. I sat on the worn wooden bench outside the mess hall, the afternoon sun warming my skin, but doing nothing to thaw the persistent chill that had settled deep within me.

Around me, the camp buzzed with life. Laughter echoed from the archery range, the faint scent of sunscreen and bug spray hung in the air, and the distant thrum of a volleyball game vibrated through the ground. It was the soundtrack to a summer I was supposed to be sharing, a summer that now felt like a cruel joke. Every happy shout, every shared glance, every easy camaraderie felt like a spotlight on my own isolation. I was a ghost haunting a place that was once filled with so much life, so much *us*.

Autumn found me there, as she often did these days. She didn’t say anything at first, just slid onto the bench beside me, her presence a soft, grounding weight. Her dark hair, usually pulled back in a messy bun, had a few stray strands framing her face, catching the sunlight. She was sketching in a worn notebook, her brow furrowed in concentration, her blue eyes flicking up every now and then to observe the scene around us.