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To understand why he did it—to know what was going through his mind as he fell—that became my purpose. To be able to look at his grave and see beyond the cold grey marble, beyond the grass and dirt and flowers, down deep into his soul, his heart—that became my goal. It was something I needed; closure, of sorts. A reason not to cry when I think about him.

Staring up at the rooftop, toward the clouds and the wide railing on which he stood—those were the final moments of my life, even if I wasn't physically dead. Forever captured in my gaze, emblazoned on my mind for an eternity, blocking out memories I had shared with him, the scene would haunt my dreams until I joined my brother in the ground.

I clearly remember the day, just like the cliché that it was yesterday. My mind refuses to let me rid my conscious of it, so I try to ignore it. I try to ignore the bright sun that day, surrounded by puffy white clouds that promised no rain. Inadvertently, I remember how normal the day had started out: Elijah was hitting on all the girls he saw while I followed beside him, exactly like him in every way except personality. That may be the reason I never noticed the slight changes that I remember now—the way he hugged me before we went into our homeroom; the way he gave his girlfriend one last, long kiss; the way he paid attention to his surroundings, a wide smile on his face as he gazed around himself. I never noticed, and I never knew the difference until one of his friends came to find me after lunch.

Elijah stood on the railing atop the main school building, five stories up. A crowd had assembled below, their faces turned upward as I fought my way through them to look. Crying out his name, I ran up the stairs, and when I got to the roof, he was still there. It wasn't a matter of balance that made him fall; the railing was flat on top, half a foot wide. It wasn't the wind, either, even so high up. It was his own problem—his secret internal battle—that sent him over the edge, no matter what I said to him. My mind shut it out, and it took me a few hours to remember it, but he was crying, the tears streaming down his face and falling five stories to the ground. The last thing he said to me was, "We'll be together again."

Then he spread his arms and let himself fall forward.

I remember the sickening smack as his body hit the concrete, and the screams from down below. I rushed back down the stairs in a daze, the deluded idea that he had survived clouding all other thought. There was no way my brother—my twin—had just committed suicide.

My memory doesn't show me any blood, but I'm sure there was a lot of it. I vaguely remember a wet, sticky substance on my hands and clothes as I held the body, waiting for help to arrive—I can only assume it was blood. That, or it was the life I used to live falling through my grasp.

It is impossible to say how many people offered their condolences on my first day back to school. I had retreated into myself in the days since the funeral, and I barely spoke or ate anything. When someone approached me, I stopped out of what little sense of politeness I had left, then walked away as soon as they had finished without saying a word. My teachers all seemed to pity me, but I could see behind their saddened eyes that they would rather have had their precious Eli remaining instead of me.

There were notes taped to my locker—and even more on Elijah's. I couldn't help but stare bitterly at the metal door every time I passed it. The lock had been cut off so Elijah's things could be removed, and even though it would probably be turned over to a new student soon, it had become a shrine of sorts.

At lunch, the cafeteria quieted as I walked in as students looked up to see someone who looked like their hero. Elijah wasn't the most popular kid in school, but he was well-liked, well-known, and respected by everyone. I was always by his side, less well-known but still as well-liked and respected by those who got to know me. However now, I wasn't interested in making friends or talking to any I used to have. They could all go to a Hell I no longer believed in.

I noticed as I passed that Elijah's chair was empty at our lunch table. But I kept on going past it, to the back corner, where the lesser-known kids sat. The ones who had no choice but to sit there. I sat at the end of one of the tables and pulled a sketchbook out of my bag. My right hand in my hair, cut stinging, I began to draw, not knowing where the picture was going or how it would turn out. As the period progressed, a tense feeling in my gut grew, causing my hand to tighten on my hair until I had a handful of it clenched in my burning fist. Elijah had killed himself just after lunch time. Walking the halls of the building was bad enough, but waiting for the exact minute when a friend had come to find me wore on my nerves to the point where I wanted nothing more than to run home and never return.

"You are an amazing artist," someone said from across the table. I was so numb that I didn't even jump or react in any way; I simply looked up quickly at the girl who had spoken before returning my eyes to the drawing. It had turned into a mountainous landscape, complete with volcanoes and fire—an angry picture.

At the first touch of the girl's fingers on my cheek to brush my hair back, I dropped my pencil on the table and sat back in my chair. "Don't touch me, okay?" I said harshly, putting my hands up as I shook my hair back.

"I'm sorry," the girl said, a shocked tone in her voice. I stared at her hard. She had shoulder-length ash-blonde hair and eyes so green it was almost unnerving. Her expression matched her tone: shocked and frightened. Beside her was a boy, possibly my age, with the same green eyes and sculpted features, but with brown hair. No doubt they were related. And they were new, too.

I began to close my sketchbook, wanting to get away from that table. I pulled out my wallet and took out my hall pass to go to the nurse or the guidance office or somewhere I could be alone. As I began writing on the pass, the boy said, "We can get your brother back."

"That's it," I said, standing without finishing what I was writing. I pulled the shoulder strap of my backpack over my head and stood, tucking my sketchbook beneath my arm. What they were doing wasn't fair to me. I turned away and began toward the door.

"Wait, please." The girl ran after me, her sneakers smacking on the ground. She grabbed my elbow and I stopped, not turning around. "Let us explain," she went on. "We know you're hurting―"

"You know nothing." I whirled around. "You don't know me, you didn't know my brother. Stop giving us all false hope that you can bring him back. He isn't coming back." The last sentence came out louder than I had expected. The students at tables along the aisle we stood in had stopped to listen to us, curious as to what had upset me enough to say something like that aloud.

"I know you don't know us," she said, "but we knew Elijah―"

"How could you have known him?" I yelled. She opened her mouth to say something, but I cut her off: "Stop it. Just…stop. Don't make me hurt any more than I already am." My eyes dropped to the floor as I turned and continued walking toward the door.

"Simon…" The girl grabbed me by the elbow, and I quickly shook her hand away. "We know why he did it."

I stopped, frozen where I stood, torn between my curiosity and my fear. I bit my lip to hold back any reaction that may escape my careful barriers if the girl went on. What could she possibly know about what had happened? How could she know, but not me?

"If you'll give us five minutes of your time," she went on, her words careful as she stood behind me with her hand on my elbow again. "What could it possibly hurt to just listen? Judge us later, but right now, try to hold out long enough to hear how we can get Elijah back."

Turning slowly, I looked at her, then at her brother, farther up the aisle. I could think of a long list of things it would hurt, but I had the feeling that they were going to be persistent until I listened.

"When we're done, you can decide. If you want, we will disappear." The girl's green eyes were soft, but her words struck me as odd. I was too tired, too sick of everything to decline, so I instead brushed past her back to the table, where I dropped my bag and laid my head down.

"I would rather do this in private," the boy said, taking his seat again. He looked at his sister as if for backup, then returned his eyes to me, obviously realizing that this would be their only chance to talk to me. Folding his hands on the table, he said, "My name is Adam Vaeden. This is my sister Danielle. We have been speaking with your brother for some time now."

"'Have been' implies that you still are," I pointed out glumly.

Adam rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Okay, you're right. Sorry. Before Elijah's death, we had been in contact with him for quite some time." I realized for the first time that the two of them were calling my brother by his full first name—something only those closest to him knew he preferred. A swell of anger crept up inside me.

"You probably won't be very eager to hear this," his sister continued, "but we believe that Elijah killed himself because of something we said to him, in order to keep you safe." She drummed her fingers on the table nervously and sighed. "I guess what I'm trying to say is that it is partially our fault that he is dead. When we saw what happened, we wanted to try and make it right."

"Get to your point or I'm leaving," I muttered, staring up at them from the tabletop. My head and my heart hurt badly enough to waste too much time with the two siblings.

"As Dani said before, there is a way we can get him back. Don't think we're lying to you—we would never do that, especially when this whole ordeal stemmed from something we told him. If you would agree to help us get him back, we will tell you what we told him. It's up to you."

"Stop being so f**king cryptic." I sat up and reached for my bag. "If you want my help getting back at me, at least give me a better reason to agree. If not, leave me alone. None of us need two lying strangers claiming they can raise the dead." Without bothering to push in my chair, I began moving toward the front of the room.

"Listen," Danielle said, walking parallel to me on the other side of the table. "It's not raising the dead. To be honest, we don't know what would happen—but something will happen if you come with us." She stopped me with her hands on my shoulders when we reached the end of the table. "We don't want to hurt you, but you must believe us for this to work."

"You said I should listen, so I did. You said I could decline, and I am. Now disappear like you said you would." I pushed past her and got my pass signed by a teacher, then went to the guidance office for a few minutes of blissful silence.

I walked to the park after school that day. To find a plain patch of grass beneath a tree and do my homework was a nice escape. Around me, the world was white, dotted by young children and their parents out playing in the snow. I didn't doubt that Elijah's grave was buried as well, the marble stone capped with a few inches of white powder.

My body didn't respond to the below-freezing temperature. I wore my coat, gloves, and scarf, but my face was uncovered, and I doubted that the lack of feeling was from the chill. The way my body responded to the cold was simply changing—I wasn't shivering as I sat there, my feet weren't cold even though I was only wearing sneakers. It was as if every function was slowly shutting down—first my appetite, now my response to the cold. Next my reasoning and soon on to a complete mental breakdown. I could sense it already.

Without emotion, I packed my bag and crossed my ankles, watching the children playing. I didn't allow myself to think about anything except focusing on the innocent people with so much life ahead of them.

Suddenly, I found myself twelve years back in the very same park. Two identical boys built two identical "snowmans" on the white field. Mine was on the right, Elijah's on the left. Together they stood, united on the icy front, ready to face almost anything.

They were gone the next day, knocked over by teenagers and melted by the meager sun.

I snapped out of my trance and found myself shaking. How could I have forgotten that? How could I have let myself come here to the park? Drawing my knees to my chin, I folded my arms against my body in an attempt to shrink into the tree behind me. I know my eyes were dead as I stared around one last time before heading home.

When I got there, I wished I had stayed at the park. I had stopped on the way to get something for dinner for myself, so I missed the meal at my house. Maybe if I had gone straight home, things would have gone differently?

My father was out for a few minutes, at the gas station to prepare for his commute to work the next day. I didn't call when I stepped through the door—maybe that would've changed things? The dog didn't come running and I didn't hear it barking from another room—maybe if I had thought something more of it, I could've stopped what happened next?

After hanging my coat in the closet, I started toward the stairs, glancing into the living room as I passed the doorway. My mother was sitting on the floor, her back towards me, and I had to do a double take before I noticed the furry brown body of the dog lying in front of her.

"Mom?" I said cautiously, stepping slowly into the room. I moved toward her until I could see over her shoulder, then froze. The dog was dead, its soft fur matted with blood. My mother was crying, a long kitchen knife in one hand, her nightgown stained with blood. Kneeling beside her, I took the knife from her hand and laid it on the carpet, checking her skin for any cuts beneath the dog's blood.

Reaching behind me on the sofa, I pulled a blanket off and used the corner of it to wipe her hands clean. Then I covered the dog's body with it, momentarily looking away from my mother.

"I couldn't stand to look at it anymore," she whispered shakily in that moment. Then there was a sickening crunching sound and a small yelp before something heavy fell forward on my shoulder.

When I twisted back around, my mother's body fell into my lap. Automatically, I pushed her away, onto her back, and then I saw the knife, stuck into her stomach. Her hands were still clenched around it with what little strength she had left. I kept repeating one word as I frantically tried to do something, as I searched the room for the phone to call 9-1-1: "No." This couldn't be happening. Not again. Not now.

I knew she was going to die as soon as the 9-1-1 operator answered the phone. The reality of the situation sunk in as I was hysterically trying respond to the questions asked, and by the time the important questions were out of the way, I was reduced to a shell of emptiness, seemingly filled to the brim with tears. I could no longer function, and it took all I had to keep my hands firmly on the handset instead of reaching for the knife myself.

My father came home just as I hung up the phone, unable to talk to the operator any longer when my mother was dying in front of me and the sound of sirens drew ever closer. He left the front door open and rushed straight into the living room having heard the awful sounds I was making as I stared at my mother's body. After a quick glance at her, he scooped me, his seventeen-year-old son, into his arms and carried me out to the kitchen, where he simply held me as he waited for me to calm down.

Never in my life had I been that close to my father. Both Elijah and I had never been the type to run to our parents for help or comfort—we always went to the other twin instead. But with Elijah gone and my mother following close behind, I only had my father to lean on.

He didn't let the paramedics or police speak with me, which was probably for the better. I probably wouldn't have been able to say anything anyway, even after I had clamed down. They took my mother to the hospital, where she died an hour later. I said nothing to my father and he said nothing to me, but I just knew she had gone.

I got no sleep that night. It was nearly two in the morning when I decided to give up trying to fall asleep, but it took me another half-hour before I parted with the solemn darkness around me and turned on a light.

Sitting on my easel, in the same place as the last one, there sat another envelope.

At first, I thought it was the same envelope, that I had left it there before. But then I remembered that I had thrown out the first envelope when I had thrown out my angry reply to the letter it held. Then I thought that one of my parents had put it there, but neither of them had been to my room since Elijah's death.

Cautiously, I stood and walked to the easel and picked up the envelope with trembling fingers. My name was written on the front of it again.

Simon,

I realized this would be hard for you, but I didn't realize it would be this hard. I understand your anger, but you still don't understand what I am saying. As much as I want to explain everything, you must be willing to accept it, and me writing it down would not please you. Adam and Dani Vaeden told me they spoke with you, but that you didn't listen. If anything comes out of you reading this letter, I hope it is your belief in impossible things.

I never expected Dad to cry over me. I just…I'm sorry for making you go through that—for making you go through all of this. Please, though, Simon, give Adam and Dani another chance. They are my only chance. I'm not the only one trapped here, by no means. You listen to them—you do as they say—and things will change. Only for the better, though, I promise you that. I know my word means nothing to you now (as you said, this paper will burn easily), but one last time, trust me. Adam and Dani wouldn't lie to you to hurt you; what they say is the absolute truth.

Elijah

My mouth was hanging open as I read the letter. Before I fell over, I backed up until I sat on my bed. How could the letter be there? It was definitely Elijah's handwriting, but he had said some things in response to my questions from the trashed letter I had written.

I had promised myself hours before that I wasn't going to cry again. If I cried, I would only be thinking about the fact that my brother and mother weren't around anymore. However as I read the letter a second and third time, I found my grip on the paper as tight as my throat.

When I had controlled myself, I sat at my desk and wrote another letter to Elijah, more to let more of my grief out than as an intended response.

Elijah,

What is going on? Why am I tormenting myself by replying to this letter? I must be dreaming all this—I'll wake up in the morning, and my hopes of speaking with you would have been useless. Except, I don't feel like I'm asleep.

Mom's dead, Elijah. She's dead. She killed herself and the dog tonight. I could do nothing to save her—it's my fault she's dead. I could have stopped her, but I was ignorant. I'm still so numb from your death, but now she's gone, too. Dad is…He's not taking this very lightly. He and I are the only ones left now, and we're both so weak. I don't want to sit here doing nothing, but I can't bring myself to go anywhere. Everywhere I go, I remember a time when you and I were there. I can barely stand the walk to school. But I can't bring myself to do anything differently: I can't stand to drive myself to the building. I can't stand changing the route. I don't want to change because it would mean I would loose you.

Dani and Adam…It's not that I don't want to believe them. It's that I can't believe them. You're dead, and even though I somehow received a letter from you today, there is no way that you could possibly come back. There is now way dead people can ever walk this Earth again. The two of them are crazy, Elijah. They don't know what they're saying. They're delusional. I don't want false hope, and being around them gives it to me. I can't stand loosing you every time I walk away from them.

Simon

I left the letter laying on the desk this time, Elijah's beside it. Then I sat back in my chair and stared at the two of them—at the handwriting, one slanted to the left and the other to the right; at the names, one mine and one reminding me of my brother. I still couldn't believe that I was communicating with my brother—in the back of my mind, I thought it a cruel joke, but I found no way to justify that suspicion.

I considered going to Adam and Dani again, demanding the meaning of the letter. Their names were on it, right? Perhaps they were behind the joke? It was entirely possible—how else could they have claimed to know about Elijah and I? They were stalking us, and it led to Elijah's suicide, so now, in their sick and twisted minds, they believed they could bring Elijah back from the dead.

Entirely made-up and far-fetched, but it calmed me slightly now that I had someone to blame. The conclusion still didn't let me sleep, however.