Chapter 3: The Last Answer

Sunday. Central Amusement Park.

Forty minutes past our meeting time. Riley was missing.

Her manager called as I bought two tickets.

"Ms. Foster, Riley’s at Central Hospital."

"Is it her leg? She can’t come today?"

The sobbing on the other end made my blood run cold.

"What happened? Is her leg worse?"

"Riley… went into shock."

Even then, I didn’t get it. I still thought it was her leg.

But the sobs got louder, and her manager finally said, "Come to the hospital. Riley doesn’t have much time left."

Only then did I remember that critical condition notice.

Hang up. Drive. Find the room. I’d never moved so fast, or felt so numb.

The elevator climbed, every ding making my heart beat faster. By the time I reached her room, my calm was gone.

I saw Riley, hooked up to tubes and monitors, and I fell apart.

I tried to keep my eyes open, but tears kept blurring everything.

Just hours ago, she was laughing with me. Why couldn’t she even open her eyes now?

She’d always lied about her bets—why did this one have to be real?

I looked closer, finally noticing her leg was fine.

Of course. The cast, the wheelchair—they were just cover-ups. Her illness was worse than she’d let on.

I looked around, desperate for something to hold onto.

White pills, makeup, wedding photos…

All of it hurt to see.

God, how did I miss it? All week, every sign, and I’d missed them.

"I’m so stupid… This was the one bet I didn’t want to win…

I never got to give you my answer…"

In the end, we couldn’t save Riley.

The room was silent except for the machines. Just me, her, and her manager.

After her simple funeral, her manager—Ms. Linda—told me everything.

The illness had been there for six months. No cure. Riley refused treatment—not because she was afraid, but because she didn’t want to live in fear.

Doctors said she could have lasted a year if she’d rested. But she insisted on her show, even knowing it would hurt her. She never complained.

Ms. Linda handed me a letter from Riley, along with her ashes.

"Her will’s in here. And if you have time, check your spam folder."

I remembered the thousands of unread emails and it hit me.

We’d always disguised our emails as spam, to keep them from her mom. She came up with the trick—she wouldn’t forget.

Near the funeral home, the sounds of kids laughing at the amusement park drifted through the trees.

Amid all that noise, I opened the spam folder.

[May 5, 2:38 a.m.

Autumn, I can’t sleep from the pain.

I still want to reach out—it might be my last show.

Should I call you? If you pick up, I’ll invite you.

If not… I’ll never contact you again.]

[April 8, 8:29 p.m.

I got your number from Mariah. I heard you just got promoted—amazing!

You can make it anywhere!

I can only sing and play piano. If I ever get to call you, I’ll congratulate you properly!]

[March 14, 6:23 a.m.

The doctor says I should sleep regularly, but the pain keeps me up…

I have to take lots of painkillers to sleep. I’m scared I’ll need them just to get through the day.]

[January 23, 2:45 p.m.

Happy New Year! Autumn!

What did you eat today? I haven’t eaten yet.

I fainted this morning, and Ms. Linda took me to the hospital. Turns out I have a terminal illness.

I can’t believe it’s real. Am I dying?

The doctor prescribed a lot of meds, told me to consider treatment.

Ms. Linda wants me to try, but I’m scared of pain—maybe I’ll give up…

I really want your advice.]

There were more. From a year ago, two years, even five or six.

I couldn’t read anymore. It was too much—trying to accept she was gone while reading her old hopes and worries.

I opened her letter, the cream-colored paper soft beneath my fingers, her handwriting instantly familiar.

[Autumn, if you’re reading this, I’m already gone.

There’s so much I want to say, I don’t know where to start.

Let’s talk about my bet. I left a will. All my property goes to Ms. Linda, my manager. All my song royalties go to you.

My bet wasn’t just the new album.

Maybe it’s payback for supporting my dream of making music—though it’s a bit late, isn’t it?

I wanted to invite you to see me on a bigger stage, but this is as far as I got.

I’m sorry you never got to see me shine brighter.

Once, when I asked about your dream, you said you wanted to travel the world.

My wish is to travel the world with you.

I may not be that famous, but the royalties should be enough for a trip.

Take me with you. Scatter my ashes on mountains, seas, grasslands, deserts. This time, let me support your dream.

I don’t know what else to say. So I’ll just wish you:

All the best.

Autumn, can I still be the first one to love you?]

Tear stains had smudged the ink in spots. My hands shook as I read, the paper soft and damp.

I broke down, sobs wracking my chest.

The sun was bright, but it would never shine on Riley again.

No one would ever say, "Hey, Autumn, I heard you!" to me again.

That was it. That line, echoing in the emptiness, broke me.

I’d only see her in memories now.

The amusement park was still full of laughter. I looked up at the sky, clouds drifting by, and wanted to say:

Riley, now you can go anywhere you want.

"Miss, why are you crying?"

A little girl with pigtails tugged at my sleeve, her voice small and sweet.

I looked into her big eyes, my throat tight.

"Because I don’t have anyone to go to the amusement park with anymore."

She took my hand, patting it like she’d seen adults do.

"Then come with me! I don’t have anyone to go with either!"

Time spun out for a second. I saw a young Riley, standing at the park gates, watching the other kids with their parents, all alone.

Then I saw myself, walking up to her: "Let’s go to the amusement park together?"

She grinned, missing a front tooth.

"Okay!"

I donated half of Riley’s royalties to children’s charities. The rest went into an organization that took lonely kids to amusement parks, run by volunteers.

Another portion went to a volunteer group that takes lonely kids to amusement parks.

I left the remainder with Ms. Linda to help young artists like Riley once was.

I quit my job and finally traveled the world with Riley, just like we’d planned.

My side gig as a content creator took off, and the income kept us afloat.

There’s always another horizon.

We touched mountains, kissed the deep sea.

Our story is carried by the wind, filling every season.

Later, someone found the full version of that interview:

"So what inspired this new album based on her?"

"Because I wanted to see her. We hadn’t met in so long.

I wanted to tell her, I have lots and lots of money now. We can travel the world together."

(The End)