You are all crowded around the little table, holding hands, and the girl who owns the good candles keeps whispering for everyone to be serious. Someone snorts. Someone else swears they felt the table move.
I want to tell you: it does not matter whether anything answers.
Look at whose hand you are holding. Left side, the friend with the cold fingers who is trying so hard not to laugh. Right side, the one you will lose touch with by spring and never quite explain why. You are all so close together in the dark that you can hear each other breathe. You will not be this close to these particular people again. Not because anything goes wrong. Just because that is how it goes.
You asked the empty air to send you a sign. You wanted proof that the people who leave don't really leave.
Sweetheart. The proof was the six of you, gripping hands so no one drifted off, calling out to the dark together because none of you wanted to call out alone.
Hold on a second longer than you think you need to. The candle is doing that soft flicker. Somebody's about to break and start giggling.
I would give a great deal to hear that giggle again.