Gore boards the ship, met by the muf­fled fig­ures of the watch, amidst the unset­tling tilt caused by encir­cling sea ice. Below deck, it’s almost warm from the clus­tered crew has­ten­ing through an emer­gency. He learns from the ship’s sur­geon, Stan­ley, that it’s July 24, 1847, though his delayed response high­lights his haze from the cold. Despite his strug­gles, he insists on attend­ing the emer­gency com­mand meet­ing.

Gath­ered in the Great Cab­in of *Ere­bus*, the mood is heavy with the recent death of Sir John Franklin, and the atmos­phere feels spec­tral, as though the cab­in itself mourned. Cap­tain Fitz­james, who now leads after Franklin, lis­tens as Lieu­tenant Irv­ing deliv­ers trou­bling news. The rations aboard the ship are dan­ger­ous­ly low and com­pro­mised; some tinned pro­vi­sions are ined­i­ble, evi­dent­ly defec­tive before depar­ture.

Fairholme, the third lieu­tenant, lis­tens as Irv­ing attempts to frame their sit­u­a­tion in a reli­gious con­text, but Gore urges more straight­for­ward dis­course. Fitz­james helps clar­i­fy the prob­lem with the rations and ulti­mate­ly asks for updates on any game caught. Gore’s mea­ger catch of three par­tridges and a dis­tant gull high­lights their dire cir­cum­stances.

As they assess their dwin­dling sup­plies, Fitz­james indi­cates that nei­ther ship’s crew can last anoth­er year with­out ration cuts, prompt­ing a con­sen­sus to reduce the rations to two-thirds. Although Stan­ley warns of the poten­tial risks of weak­en­ing the sick men even fur­ther, Fitz­james insists on this com­pro­mise to keep as many men alive for their even­tu­al return.

The ten­sion is pal­pa­ble as Gore con­tem­plates the impli­ca­tions. The press­ing ques­tion remains: what if the ice nev­er breaks? Out­side, the ice shifts omi­nous­ly, echo­ing the ship’s strain­ing hull. Creak­ing and crack­ing fore­tell the dan­gers lurk­ing in their iso­la­tion, under­scor­ing the threat to their sur­vival. Gore reflects on both the loss of the ship’s cat, which had suc­cumbed to the harsh con­di­tions, and the loom­ing despair that sur­rounds them all.

Brook­lyn, New York, March 13, 2015. Hen­ry Strauss faces a moment of reck­on­ing as he shows Bea, a close con­fi­dant, the final page of his man­u­script, “The Invis­i­ble Life of Addie LaRue.” Bea express­es her shock and dis­be­lief at the abrupt end­ing, ques­tion­ing the fate of the pro­tag­o­nist, Addie, and her deci­sion regard­ing Luc, the enig­mat­ic fig­ure in her life. Hen­ry admits he’s uncer­tain about Addie’s out­come, reveal­ing his strug­gles over the past six months to weave the nar­ra­tive from numer­ous note­books into a cohe­sive draft. Despite numer­ous attempts at craft­ing var­i­ous end­ings, he acknowl­edges that any con­clu­sion beyond their shared last moment would stray from Addie’s real­i­ty into fic­tion.

As Bea half-jok­ing­ly accus­es him of embrac­ing method act­ing to pre­serve the sto­ry’s authen­tic­i­ty, Hen­ry faces the inter­nal con­flict of want­i­ng to share the truth with her—that Addie’s sto­ry, as improb­a­ble as it seems, is real. He imag­ines that Bea and Addie would have been friends, rec­og­niz­ing a sim­i­lar­i­ty in spir­it and defi­ance. Yet, he choos­es to keep the truth shield­ed, allow­ing Bea to per­ceive it as a com­pelling tale of fic­tion.

Express­ing her approval, Bea high­lights the man­u­scrip­t’s bril­liance, urg­ing Hen­ry to acknowl­edge her in his acknowl­edg­ments, con­nect­ing the sto­ry to her the­sis on the pecu­liar, ghost­ly girl in var­i­ous art­works. Hen­ry’s inter­ac­tion with the man­u­script brings a mix of relief and sor­row; while he’s glad to com­plete the nar­ra­tive, he is haunt­ed by the fad­ing mem­o­ries of Addie—the minu­ti­ae of her exis­tence begin­ning to slip away despite his des­per­ate attempts to cling to them.

Hen­ry’s reflec­tion on his endeav­or to retain Addie’s essence—the visu­al and emo­tion­al rem­nants of their time together—portrays his bat­tle against the inevitable ero­sion of mem­o­ry and the pain of let­ting go. His sto­ry cul­mi­nates in a poignant acknowl­edg­ment of the tran­sient nature of human con­nec­tions and the indeli­ble mark they leave on our lives.

New York City on July 29, 2014, unfolds as just anoth­er day for Addie but marks three cen­turies since a sig­nif­i­cant turn­ing point in her life. The day she should have been mar­ried, instead, became the day she lost every­thing except her free­dom after invok­ing the dark­ness in the woods. Despite the nor­mal­cy of the morn­ing, with Hen­ry mov­ing in the kitchen and the untrou­bled sky above, Addie is unset­tled by a sense of dread and a com­pelling urge to dis­tance her­self from Hen­ry, fear­ing the reper­cus­sions if “he” finds them togeth­er.

Hen­ry, unaware of the heav­i­ness of the day, tries to uplift Addie by acknowl­edg­ing the unique mile­stone with a light-heart­ed gesture—a donut with three can­dles rep­re­sent­ing her three hun­dred years. Despite Addie’s ini­tial resis­tance to cel­e­brate, influ­enced by a fear of attract­ing unwant­ed atten­tion, Hen­ry’s insis­tence on mak­ing the day mem­o­rable per­suades her to join him for a beach day. The sim­ple joy of swim­ming in the ocean and loung­ing on the beach under the sun, fol­lowed by enjoy­ing tacos and mar­gar­i­tas, momen­tar­i­ly eas­es Addie’s ten­sions. These moments of nor­mal­cy and con­nec­tion with Hen­ry become a brief respite from her cen­turies-long saga.

How­ev­er, the sight­ing of a wood­en ring, a sym­bol she asso­ci­at­ed with her past and pos­si­bly her pact with the dark­ness, inter­mit­tent­ly reminds her of her wor­ries. Even as they immerse them­selves in the present, enjoy­ing each oth­er’s com­pa­ny, and the beach’s bustling atmos­phere, the ring serves as an omi­nous mark­er of her his­to­ry and the pact that has dic­tat­ed the course of her life. Amid the fleet­ing hap­pi­ness and attempts at nor­mal­cy, Addie’s reflec­tions on her long and tumul­tuous his­to­ry demon­strate a lin­ger­ing strug­gle with her past choic­es and the con­tin­u­ous pres­ence of the dark­ness in her life, sug­gest­ing that despite the pas­sage of three hun­dred years, the con­se­quences of her deal with the dark­ness are ever-present and inescapable.

In the ear­ly hours of a cold morn­ing in New York City, Addie finds her­self gaz­ing out of the win­dow, wrapped in the com­fort­ing aro­ma and warmth of a Colum­bia sweat­shirt belong­ing to Hen­ry, a man whose pres­ence makes the shad­ows of her heart light up with a mix­ture of famil­iar­i­ty and pecu­liar nov­el­ty. As dawn pours over Brook­lyn, she retreats from the chilly glass to the warmth of the bed­room where Hen­ry sleeps. His peace­ful demeanor con­jures up mem­o­ries of Luc, yet the com­par­i­son flick­ers, leav­ing Hen­ry dis­tinct in his essence—an image of tran­quil­i­ty and unknow­ing famil­iar­i­ty.

Resist­ing the impulse to delve deep­er into the mys­ter­ies that Hen­ry’s belong­ings might reveal about him, name­ly a watch inscribed with the words “Live well,” Addie choos­es instead the sim­plic­i­ty of rejoin­ing him in bed. Their morn­ing exchange—soft, cozy, and filled with the unspo­ken under­stand­ing of shared tem­po­rary space—hints at an evolv­ing con­nec­tion. Hen­ry’s inquiry about Addie’s liv­ing sit­u­a­tion uncov­ers the nomadic essence of her life; she pos­sess­es noth­ing per­ma­nent in a city replete with fleet­ing refuges.

Hen­ry’s spon­ta­neous offer for Addie to stay not just for the moment but poten­tial­ly longer sparks a mix­ture of emo­tions and prac­ti­cal con­sid­er­a­tions. His ges­ture of mak­ing space for her belong­ings, despite her min­i­mal­is­tic exis­tence cursed by an inabil­i­ty to retain phys­i­cal con­nec­tions, sig­ni­fies a deep­er accep­tance and an open­ing towards a shared future, how­ev­er uncer­tain. This ges­ture, sim­ple yet pro­found, speaks to the human desire for belong­ing and the will­ing­ness to make room for oth­ers, even when their sto­ries are yet to be ful­ly dis­closed. It sig­ni­fies a gen­tle break­ing of bar­ri­ers where Addie’s root­less exis­tence meets Hen­ry’s open-heart­ed offer of sta­bil­i­ty, a moment that encap­su­lates both the fragili­ty and the depth of human con­nec­tions, mak­ing room for new begin­nings amidst the com­plex­i­ties of loss and the undy­ing hope for attach­ment.

Hen­ry, strug­gling with a tumul­tuous inter­nal storm height­ened by alco­hol and pills pro­vid­ed by his sis­ter Muriel, finds him­self on the stoop of his apart­ment build­ing in Brook­lyn, unable to ascend the stairs that lead to a life he feels dis­con­nect­ed from. Amidst the down­pour, thoughts of despair swirl in his head until he’s inter­rupt­ed by the unex­pect­ed pres­ence of a man who, despite the relent­less rain, remains mys­te­ri­ous­ly dry. This stranger, exud­ing an aura of ele­gance and oth­er­world­li­ness with his slick char­coal suit and indif­fer­ence to the ele­ments, lights a cig­a­rette, spark­ing a con­ver­sa­tion that veers into the philo­soph­i­cal with a sim­ple yet prob­ing ques­tion, “Bad night.”

The man’s appear­ance, ini­tial­ly mis­tak­en by Hen­ry for his broth­er David due to their sim­i­lar phys­i­cal traits, quick­ly unrav­els that illu­sion, reveal­ing a sharp depar­ture in demeanor. As the con­ver­sa­tion unfolds, Hen­ry is com­pelled to share his deep­est yearning—to be happy—an aspi­ra­tion the stranger cool­ly dis­miss­es as unat­tain­able through exter­nal means. This exchange strips down Henry’s lay­ers of frus­tra­tion, expos­ing a raw long­ing for accep­tance and love, con­flict­ed by soci­etal expec­ta­tions and per­son­al dis­il­lu­sion­ment.

The stranger, then engag­ing more inti­mate­ly, forces Hen­ry to con­front his pain and desire for love, hint­ing at a cost not mon­e­tar­i­ly defined but deeply per­son­al. Through poet­ic dia­logues inter­wo­ven with ref­er­ences to epic tales and mytholo­gies, the stranger posi­tions him­self as a cat­a­lyst for trans­for­ma­tion, a being capa­ble of nur­tur­ing human poten­tial to its fullest extent. His propo­si­tion, enig­mat­ic yet clear, chal­lenges Hen­ry to reeval­u­ate his per­cep­tions of love, val­ue, and sac­ri­fice.

As the man’s iden­ti­ty slow­ly unveils through veiled ref­er­ences to grand nar­ra­tives and the notion of bar­ter­ing one’s essence for ful­fil­ment, Hen­ry is left pon­der­ing the real cost of his desires. The stranger’s cryp­tic finale—“The one thing every human has to give”—leaves a lin­ger­ing ques­tion of what Hen­ry is will­ing to trade for the promise of love and tran­scen­dence, set­ting the stage for a pro­found jour­ney into the explo­ration of per­son­al demons and the pur­suit of hap­pi­ness beyond the con­ven­tion­al bounds.

In this inter­ac­tion, Hen­ry faces not just a mys­te­ri­ous fig­ure but the embod­i­ment of his deep­est fears and desires, blur­ring the lines between the super­nat­ur­al and the painful­ly human. The con­ver­sa­tion serves as a turn­ing point, a moment of clar­i­ty in the mud­dled exis­tence Hen­ry nav­i­gates, edged with the tan­ta­liz­ing pos­si­bil­i­ty that pain, when embraced, can be a gate­way to trans­for­ma­tion.

In the pas­sage of time between Thurs­day night and the much-antic­i­pat­ed Sat­ur­day after­noon, Ade­laide “Addie” LaRue feels the ago­niz­ing stretch of each minute while she waits to meet Hen­ry. The nar­ra­tive cap­tures Addie’s strug­gle with the con­cept of time, notably high­light­ing her trans­for­ma­tion from being at odds with it to con­fronting its slow crawl as she antic­i­pates reunit­ing with Hen­ry. Resid­ing tem­porar­i­ly in Prospect Park at a chil­dren’s book author’s home, she finds her­self unable to sleep or dis­tract her­self ade­quate­ly, over­whelmed by ner­vous anticipation—a feel­ing unfa­mil­iar to her after cen­turies of exis­tence where time seemed incon­se­quen­tial.

The nar­ra­tive unfolds with Addie attempt­ing to kill time by engag­ing in var­i­ous activ­i­ties, includ­ing chang­ing her hair­style and out­fit, seek­ing refuge in make­up exper­i­ments, and wan­der­ing through Brook­lyn’s bou­tiques in search of dis­trac­tion. This part of the chap­ter explores Addie’s pro­found lone­li­ness and her recent dis­cov­ery of antic­i­pa­tion for the future, dri­ven by her bud­ding con­nec­tion with Henry—a stark con­trast to her long­stand­ing soli­tude and aim­less­ness.

As the hour to meet Hen­ry approach­es, Addie’s ner­vous­ness inten­si­fies. When she final­ly arrives at the book­store, she encoun­ters not Hen­ry, but Beat­rice “Bea,” a char­ac­ter por­trayed as anoth­er piece in the intri­cate puz­zle of Henry’s life. The inter­ac­tion is fraught with ten­sion, high­light­ing Addie’s fears and desires about their rela­tion­ship. How­ev­er, when Hen­ry appears, it’s clear that their con­nec­tion remains strong, dis­solv­ing Addie’s fears momen­tar­i­ly.

The chap­ter then delves into the themes of art, time, and iden­ti­ty through the con­vivial ban­ter sur­round­ing Beatrice’s art the­o­ries and their play­ful jab at Henry’s roman­tic dis­po­si­tion. This exchange fur­ther cements Addie’s evolv­ing rela­tion­ship with Hen­ry, show­cas­ing a lighter, more hope­ful side of Addie that con­trasts with the soli­tary immor­tal­i­ty she has been con­demned to.

In a sur­pris­ing twist, their date takes them to an unex­pect­ed location—a laun­dro­mat that con­ceals a pin­ball arcade, high­light­ing Henry’s play­ful side and set­ting the stage for a night of light-heart­ed com­pe­ti­tion and deep­en­ing con­nec­tion. Through these expe­ri­ences, Addie begins to see pos­si­bil­i­ties for com­pan­ion­ship and belong­ing, diverg­ing from her cen­turies-long nar­ra­tive of iso­la­tion and the con­stant era­sure of her exis­tence from the mem­o­ries of those she encoun­ters. The chap­ter encap­su­lates a piv­otal moment in Addie’s immor­tal life, where the prospect of gen­uine human con­nec­tion offers a glim­mer of hope against the back­drop of her eter­nal curse.

New York City, on the night of March 12, 2014, finds Addie lost in the world of *The Odyssey* and in her thoughts, walk­ing the city streets toward the Bax­ter until a famil­iar face dis­rupts her evening plans. James St. Clair, fresh from film­ing and radi­at­ing hap­pi­ness, unknow­ing­ly prompts Addie to change her course. Rather than a night of soli­tude with wine and a bath, she ven­tures towards the East Vil­lage, where her path cross­es with a food deliv­ery cyclist. She steals a meal, a small act reflect­ing a larg­er res­ig­na­tion to the moral com­pro­mis­es of her end­less life. Hunger, a relent­less com­pan­ion, dri­ves her not just for sus­te­nance but as a ground­ing reminder of her exis­tence.

Her wan­der­ings lead her to a famil­iar build­ing in the Vil­lage, its green door a gate­way to moments of stolen nor­mal­cy. She retrieves a hid­den key, a rel­ic of a fleet­ing con­nec­tion with Sam, a pas­sion­ate yet tran­sient lover whose very nature pre­cludes last­ing inti­ma­cy. Their rela­tion­ship, illus­trat­ed by vivid mem­o­ries and phys­i­cal close­ness, is imbued with an urgency born of Addie’s curse: the impos­si­bil­i­ty of endur­ing bonds. On the rooftop, a makeshift haven against the city’s cease­less back­drop, Addie finds soli­tude until inter­rupt­ed by Sam’s impromp­tu appear­ance with friends.

Sam, vibrant and untamed, momen­tar­i­ly rekin­dles the embers of their past inti­ma­cy with her mere pres­ence. Their inter­ac­tion, charged with unspo­ken emo­tions and shared mem­o­ries, show­cas­es the com­plex­i­ty of Addie’s rela­tion­ships, for­ev­er marred by her curse to be for­got­ten by those she encoun­ters. A casu­al exchange of cig­a­rettes becomes a momen­tary bridge to deep­er con­nec­tions, reveal­ing the inti­ma­cy and under­stand­ing shared in their for­mer close­ness. Sam’s touch, liken­ing Addie to the stars she longs to see again, evokes a sense of deja vu, a reminder of all the moments they can­not tru­ly share.

As the evening wanes and Sam rejoins her group, Addie is left to con­front the soli­tude of her exis­tence once more. The fleet­ing nature of her con­nec­tions with oth­ers, exem­pli­fied by Sam’s depar­ture, under­scores the essen­tial lone­li­ness of her immor­tal­i­ty. The chap­ter clos­es with Addie reflect­ing on the exis­ten­tial pain of being for­got­ten, liken­ing it to madness—a poignant med­i­ta­tion on iden­ti­ty, exis­tence, and the human need for recog­ni­tion and remem­brance.

In Chap­ter II, amidst the unpre­dictable tem­pera­ment of March, a sym­bol­ic thresh­old between win­ter’s chill and spring’s warmth, we find Addie grap­pling with the pas­sage of time. Born on the 10th of March, a day that per­fect­ly embod­ies this sea­son’s errat­ic nature, Addie has long ceased to observe her birth­day with any sense of tra­di­tion­al cel­e­bra­tion. The day she bartered her soul away looms larg­er in her mem­o­ry, mark­ing both an end and a begin­ning far more sig­nif­i­cant than the annu­al acknowl­edg­ment of aging—a con­cept ren­dered moot by her time­less exis­tence.

How­ev­er, on this par­tic­u­lar March day, Addie decides to indulge in a rare act of self-cel­e­bra­tion. Drawn to a bou­tique by the allure of a man­nequin styled in vibrant attire, she mir­rors its pose uncon­scious­ly, a small act of mim­ic­ry that sig­ni­fies her spon­ta­neous deci­sion to embrace change, or per­haps, a fleet­ing desire for nor­mal­cy. Inside, Addie is enveloped by the nov­el­ty of the bou­tique’s ambiance and the tac­tile promise of new fab­rics. Choos­ing a striped cash­mere sweater and com­ple­men­tary leg­gings with an unchang­ing con­fi­dence in her unchanged size, she forges a momen­tary con­nec­tion with the sales clerk—a young woman whose liv­ing, aging real­i­ty stark­ly con­trasts with Addie’s sta­t­ic exis­tence.

In the soli­tude of the chang­ing room, as Addie tries on her select­ed out­fits, a moment of intro­spec­tion is trig­gered by the acci­den­tal dis­cov­ery of a ring that falls from her jack­et pock­et. This ring, craft­ed from ash-gray wood, holds a tumul­tuous sig­nif­i­cance for Addie, sym­bol­iz­ing a once cher­ished con­nec­tion now soured. Rather than dwell on its impli­ca­tions, Addie choos­es to focus on the present, adopt­ing the ensem­ble that momen­tar­i­ly bridges the gap between her eter­nal con­di­tion and the fleet­ing plea­sures of the mor­tal world.

With the act of remov­ing price tags—dismissive of the cost in a lit­er­al and metaphor­i­cal sense—Addie silent­ly com­mem­o­rates her birth­day. Stand­ing before the mir­ror, she sees not just the reflec­tion of a woman clad in mod­ern attire, but a defi­ant cel­e­bra­tion of her unyield­ing spirit—a nod to both her resilience and her soli­tude in the vast tapes­try of time. “Joyeux anniver­saire,” she mus­es, a soli­tary acknowl­edg­ment of her com­plex jour­ney through the cen­turies, embod­ied in the sim­ple act of don­ning new clothes, a tem­po­rary salve for an eter­nal exis­tence.

In the sec­ond chap­ter of “The Crime of Sylvestre Bon­nard,” the nar­ra­tor reflects fur­ther on the con­cept of time and life, empha­sis­ing the pre­cious­ness of time allot­ted to us and his desire to accom­plish his work before death. He intro­duces Madame de Gabry, who enlivens break­fast with tales of the chateau’s ghosts, notably the “Lady-with-three-wrin­kles-in-her-back.” The set­ting pro­vides a glimpse into the decay and resilience of the chateau, jux­ta­posed with the narrator’s efforts to cat­a­log man­u­scripts in the vast library, hint­ing at themes of preser­va­tion and the relent­less force of nature.

Amid his schol­ar­ly pur­suits, the nar­ra­tor is drawn into an unex­pect­ed­ly whim­si­cal encounter with a fairy, who, despite her diminu­tive size, exudes an impos­ing pres­ence and grandeur. The fairy’s attire and actions, blend­ing mag­nif­i­cence with mis­chief, enchant the nar­ra­tor. Her humor­ous and some­what irrev­er­ent inter­ac­tion with him, involv­ing toss­ing nut shells and tick­ling his nose with a feath­er pen, high­lights a stark con­trast between the mun­dane and the mag­i­cal.

This encounter with the fairy sym­bol­is­es the intru­sion of the fan­tas­ti­cal into the narrator’s ana­lyt­i­cal, schol­ar­ly life, offer­ing a moment of reflec­tion on the impor­tance of won­der, imag­i­na­tion, and the unseen aspects of the world that defy ratio­nal expla­na­tion. The fairy’s pres­ence and actions chal­lenge the nar­ra­tor’s usu­al reliance on log­ic and evi­dence, invit­ing him into a realm where curios­i­ty, charm, and the inex­plic­a­ble reign supreme.

Despite the ini­tial shock and the humor­ous indig­ni­ties he endures, the nar­ra­tor per­ceives the encounter as an hon­our, indi­cat­ing his open­ness to the won­der and mys­tery sym­bol­ised by the fairy. This expe­ri­ence sug­gests that life’s rich­ness is not sole­ly found in schol­ar­ly achieve­ments or the mate­r­i­al world but also in the unex­pect­ed and the mag­i­cal, enrich­ing the human expe­ri­ence with depth and enchant­ment.