Chap­ter 26 begins in a qui­et, snow-draped Decem­ber, where Saint receives a vin­tage Nikon cam­era from her grand­moth­er as a thought­ful Christ­mas gift. It’s an old mod­el, worn with his­to­ry, but beau­ti­ful in its own right. With it comes only a sin­gle roll of film, along with a gen­tle warn­ing: “Choose your sub­jects care­ful­ly.” That advice lingers in Saint’s mind like a qui­et echo as she ven­tures into the win­try woods near her home, ready to cap­ture the fleet­ing beau­ty of the cold sea­son. Trees look sculpt­ed under ice, and birds—house finch­es, cedar waxwings, and a red-tailed hawk—flutter into her viewfind­er. As she frames each shot, Saint feels con­nect­ed to some­thing larg­er, as if she’s doc­u­ment­ing time before it slips away.

The new year looms, and Saint finds her­self both embrac­ing and resist­ing it. The posters of the boy with the eyepatch—once plas­tered across storefronts—have been tak­en down. Most peo­ple have moved on, but she hasn’t. One of those posters ends up in her pos­ses­sion, stored on a high shelf like a secret she refus­es to dis­card. Her fix­a­tion on what hap­pened and who was lost leads her down a new path: sci­ence. Saint begins read­ing about trau­ma, foren­sic meth­ods, and how even trees can pre­serve fin­ger­prints. These dis­cov­er­ies feel like bread­crumbs in a mys­tery she’s des­per­ate to solve. When she shares her find­ings with Chief Nix, hop­ing for a spark of inter­est or maybe even val­i­da­tion, his down­cast expres­sion near­ly breaks her spir­it. He’s seen too much. She sens­es that in him.

Life in town con­tin­ues its slow churn, and Saint’s thoughts turn to Ivy, who’s sink­ing deep­er into hard­ship. Her job search has failed, and her home feels like it’s cav­ing in from neglect. Saint, though now dis­tant from her friend, still leaves fresh bread or muffins on Ivy’s porch. The offer­ings remain untouched, gath­er­ing frost. When word spreads about Ivy fac­ing evic­tion, Saint makes a dif­fi­cult deci­sion. She emp­ties her sav­ings jar—coins from babysit­ting, birth­day bills, every­thing she’s hoarded—and pass­es it anony­mous­ly to some­one who can help. It’s a qui­et act of love, even if Ivy nev­er knows who gave it.

At her week­ly piano lessons, Saint finds some­thing close to peace. Mrs. Shaw, her teacher, allows her to play freely now, rec­og­niz­ing that Sain­t’s inter­pre­ta­tion car­ries emo­tion that sheet music alone can’t teach. On one par­tic­u­lar day, as she plays Debussy’s “Arabesque in C Major,” she notices Chief Nix out­side through the frost-laced win­dow. He’s shov­el­ing snow around the okame cher­ry tree, the same one he’s cared for since the boy’s dis­ap­pear­ance. They share a short exchange. His words are few but heavy—he wish­es he could bring some­one back for her. She knows he means it.

Lat­er, unable to sit still, Saint takes her cam­era and wan­ders toward the reser­voir. She catch­es sight of a belt­ed king­fish­er perched near the water, its feath­ers flar­ing in con­trast to the gray sky. She snaps the pho­to, heart swelling with the kind of beau­ty that only comes in silence. But her feet car­ry her far­ther still, uncon­scious­ly pulling her to a place marked by tragedy. She stops at the site—where every­thing changed. The air is cold, but she doesn’t cry this time. Instead, she lets the weight set­tle in her chest and choos­es to stay present. There’s pow­er in remem­brance, even if it hurts.

The chap­ter clos­es on a soft but sig­nif­i­cant note. Saint, though bur­dened by sor­row and unan­swered ques­tions, finds threads of mean­ing in her actions—through her pho­tos, her music, and her care for oth­ers. She’s no longer the girl who hides behind grief; she’s begin­ning to shape her own sto­ry from the pieces of loss. Snow con­tin­ues to fall, qui­et­ly cov­er­ing the world in a blan­ket of still­ness, but with­in that still­ness, Saint dis­cov­ers clar­i­ty and a spark of resilience that wasn’t there before.