The Blue Bird

Chapter Four: Shades of Blue

Flashes of the journey blurred in my memory—the soft hum of the bus engine, the endless stretch of highway, and the occasional sound of laughter from students around me. It all felt distant, like a half-forgotten dream. Every time I tried to focus, my mind wandered back to the same place—the mountains, the blue bird, that piercing song I had memorized, the way the sun melted into the horizon. Nevada. Freedom. Escape.

I’d never been good at holding on to the present. Not when the past clung to me like a shadow.

Through the haze of my thoughts, a soft voice pulled me back to reality.

“I think you’re going to need this.”

Startled, I looked up and found myself staring into the gentle eyes of Mrs. Aurora. She was holding out a steaming cup of coffee, its rich aroma filling the air between us. Her smile was warm, but there was something more beneath it—an understanding, maybe even a quiet concern. I hadn’t expected that.

“You dropped this,” she said, handing me the cup. “Don’t worry, I didn’t read it. I just love the color.”

She was talking about my diary. I could feel the weight of it, still tucked safely into my backpack. Blue suede. Just like the bird. It wasn’t just a diary to me—it was a lifeline, a place to pour everything I couldn’t say out loud.

“Blue’s my favorite color too,” I replied, my voice quieter than I intended.

Her eyes softened, and she nodded like she understood something I hadn’t even said. There was a dignity about her, a quiet strength. She carried herself with an air of confidence that didn’t feel forced or per formative. It was as though she knew exactly who she was, and nothing could shake that. I admired that about her.

“Few more minutes and we’ll be at the ski resort,” she said, stepping back toward the front of the bus. She didn’t linger, didn’t pry. She just offered a quiet comfort and left me to my thoughts.

The bus slowed as we approached the ski lodge, tires crunching over gravel and patches of snow. The sky had begun to darken, casting the towering mountains in shadows. In the distance, I could see the snow-capped peaks glowing under the fading light. It should’ve been beautiful—breathtaking, even—but I could barely feel it. The weight in my chest, the gnawing emptiness, it dulled everything. The magic of the place, the excitement that buzzed through the other students, it all seemed to pass me by.

As soon as we pulled up, teachers began organizing the chaos. The students were divided—boys on one side, girls on the other. We lined up like we were back in high school, each person being checked off by staff. I stood quietly in line, barely listening as they called out names.

“Everyone accounted for,” one of the teachers announced. “Grab your room keys, drop off your bags, and meet us in the main hall for lunch. We’ll go over the activities and projects for the weekend.”

The students shuffled inside, excited chatter filling the lobby. Ski gear clinked and bags thudded against the floor as everyone rushed to their rooms. I walked slowly, my room key dangling loosely from my fingers. I knew the drill—drop off my stuff, meet for lunch, and then be thrown into some team-building activity or icebreaker that I wanted no part of. I wasn’t here for any of this. I was here because I had to be.

My room was small and basic, but it didn’t matter. I didn’t plan on spending much time there. I tossed my backpack onto the bed and sat down for a moment, staring out the window at the expanse of white snow outside. For a second, I allowed myself to think of the blue bird again. I could almost see it, perched on the tallest mountain, its black eyes watching over me. That thought gave me a little comfort—just enough to hold on to.

I should’ve gone to lunch. I knew that. The teachers were expecting everyone to attend, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I couldn’t sit there with the others, pretending I was part of something when I felt so far away. My head pounded just thinking about the noise, the laughter, the forced smiles. Instead, I pulled out my diary and flipped it open, running my fingers over the pages, trying to find some words to spill onto the paper. But nothing came. Just a blankness.

I knew if I stayed here, I’d spiral, so I grabbed my jacket and slipped out of the room, heading toward the back of the lodge where I hoped I could find some quiet. The snow crunched beneath my boots as I wandered away from the building, into the cold embrace of the mountain air.

For a moment, everything was still. The wind brushed against my face, biting but refreshing. I felt a strange mix of loneliness and peace. The mountains stretched on forever, towering over me, vast and indifferent. I liked that about them. They didn’t care who I was or what I’d been through. Out here, I didn’t have to pretend. I didn’t have to explain.

I found a bench near the edge of a small hill and sat down, staring out at the endless white. The snow sparkled faintly in the fading light, and for the first time since arriving, I felt a small measure of calm.

But then, my thoughts drifted back—back to that road trip, back to Shania’s smile, and then further, deeper into memories I didn’t want to revisit. Flashes of hospital rooms, sterile white walls, the beeping of machines. The faces of doctors, all of them too familiar, all of them carrying the same tight-lipped expression.

I clenched my fists, trying to push the memories away, but they slipped through the cracks. It was always like this—any moment of peace shattered by the past creeping in. I couldn’t shake it. Couldn’t escape it. The weight of it bore down on me, heavier than the snow around me.

I heard footsteps crunching behind me, but I didn’t turn around. I didn’t want to talk. Not now.

“You missed lunch.”

Mrs. Aurora’s voice was soft, but there was no mistaking the edge of concern in it. I glanced up as she approached, her figure outlined against the backdrop of the snowy mountains.

“I’m not really hungry,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

She didn’t say anything at first. She simply sat down beside me, her presence surprisingly unintrusive. She didn’t force conversation, didn’t ask why I wasn’t at lunch or why I was out here by myself. Instead, she just looked out at the mountains, letting the silence stretch between us.

“I used to hate the snow,” she said after a while. “Always found it too cold, too harsh. But over time, I learned to appreciate its quiet. It’s peaceful, isn’t it?”

I nodded slightly, not trusting myself to speak.

“You know,” she continued, “sometimes, the best way to clear your mind is to just sit in the stillness. Let the world move around you and stay quiet for a while.”

I glanced over at her. Her face was calm, but there was something in her eyes—a kind of knowing. It was like she could see past everything I tried to hide.