My part of the story is pretty much finished. There only remain a few threads to tie up. Both Raven Aorla and I would like to thank the readers who have given such kind and enthusiastic reviews. You will have already read "Silent Spirit", Spy's part in the telling of Myra's life, so you already know what happened, years later. There were many happy years after became a music teacher at Xavier's Institute for the Gifted, however. The students came to overlook my lack of mutation, and I became one of the staff. It was very much like having a large family, with many younger siblings. The bitterness of previous experiences was forgotten, and the present was full of joy. Of course there were headaches, and several times when we were all in danger, but it was worth the life we had.

After Myra graduated, however, she wanted to not just forget the unhappy part of her life, but make sure that it never happened to anyone else. She, Spy, Jim, and I eventually merged into normal society again. We helped, but it was my sister who was a major inspiration for what became "The Mutant Freedom Movement". I dedicated myself to this, believing that if I could be convinced of the humanity of mutants, others could as well. I helped Myra write protest songs and organize ways we would lobby for anti- discrimination laws. She changed her name and, with the help of a device that Professor Xavier invented and Jim perfected, disguised herself to look "normal" when necessary. Another friend of Myra's is thinking about writing up an account of this period, more in detail. I think it can't come fast enough, but Raven Aorla is also busy with other stories.

It still hurts to remember when my sister was shot, though it was the day when we had our victory. However, to fully finish my own tale, I must return to it. You see, I never saw my foster parents again after I left their house. Until then, that is.

The season was spring, the time of beginnings, but the day of an end. The funeral service was over. Everyone had left, even my girlfriend. I sat alone in the first row, fingering my guitar, staring into space. They had asked me to bring it to her funeral, to play some of the songs she wrote and I spread. Even when I played, there were no tears. I was in a dream again, and felt a sense of unreality.

Like in that dream I had years ago, I was staring at her tombstone next to Mom and Dad's. Our real parents lay there, and they would be together forever. Authorities, long ago, hadn't buried my father next to his wife, but Spy used her clairvoyance to find his body, and Myra and I moved him there. Myra had told me that he wanted it that way. Flowers were heaped on my sister's grave. I, however, wanted to give her something else.

I cleared my throat. "For you, kitten," I whispered, tuned my guitar, then began to sing.

"You tried so hard, my dear, to show me that I was your every dream

"Yet I was afraid each thing you did was just an evil scheme

"A memory from my lonesome past kept us so far apart

"Thank you for freeing my doubtful mind and melting my cold, cold heart.

"Another love before your time made my heart sad and blue

"And so your heart was paying for things you didn't do

"Yet with your love and sacrifice you brought us back to the start

"Thank you for freeing my doubtful mind, and melting my cold, cold..."

An elderly man and woman walking up to me interrupted my singing. I gasped. "Mom? Dad?" That was what I had called them, but it didn't feel right. "I mean, Mr. and Mrs. Stevens? That doesn't sound right either..." And it was this moment, the most absurd feeling I'd had all day, that I burst into tears.

They were taken aback and couldn't think of what to say while I sobbed. My foster parents eventually sat down on the folding chairs, next to me.

"Oh man," I whispered. "Today is just messed up...good and bad, finding and losing. I bet you two are really mad at me. I don't know you. You don't know me." It was too hard to look at them, so I buried my face in my hands. "I don't know anything any more."

The man I had once called "Dad" spoke first, awkwardly. "Ryan, why did we never hear from you?"

Wrong thing to say. I cried even harder. "I didn't know what to say if I did contact you. Everyone knows about that school now, but back then I couldn't tell you where it was. I had to stay with her! She was the only one I had left. And now she's gone."

"What are you talking about?" asked Mrs. Stevens. I realized that they still didn't know that Myra had been my sister.

The answer had to wait until I calmed down somewhat. "It says it on the tombstone. Read it. 'Myra Sing'. Look next to it. That's my family. She was my sister." Eventually I told them all that has been written in this story, but in broken pieces. I ended with, "How did you find me?"

"We read the news about the death of this...woman..." explained Mrs. Stevens, with difficulty. "It mentioned your name. We came, but were late. We thought you were gone until your father saw you sitting here."

"You're not my parents," I said quietly. "They are."

Mr. Stevens sounded hurt. "But they can do nothing for you. They never did. We can help. It isn't too late. We'll take you back. We can start over. We'll even try to understand your activism."

"I didn't know you cared that much," I murmured.

Said Mrs. Stevens: "Absence does make the heart grow fonder."

I shook my head. "No. Thank you for your kindness, but I can't go back. And you're wrong. That girl, lying there, did everything for me. I owe her...a lot. Seven years were right because of her."

We sat in silence for a while. I had said all I needed to say to them, but they didn't know how to tell me what they needed. One of them – I don't remember which – finally asked something. "Who was this sister then, to make you so heartfelt, to change you so much?"

They could try, but they would never understand. One more reminder of our separation, how we had always been separated. How does a person sum up another, someone fully dear to them, in ways that a near stranger can understand?

Closing my eyes, I conjured up my memories, both the ones I retrieved for her sake and the ones she gave me. First came the long forgotten life, my memories from age three to seven. Anew I felt the joy, the love, and eventually, the heartbreak that came with it. I reflected on the life I had with the two people sitting next to me. They were ten years of a very different life, with prejudiced and clouded eyes looking out upon the world. There was a moment of my first love, the love that ended in tragedy, because of this blindness. Then I thought about my running away, the bus driver who had guided me and, finally, the car crash. I recalled the weeks of suspicion and unwillingness to remember the past, then the shock and fear that slapped me in the face. After that came the new life, the age of love and friendship and fulfillment. I had known where I belonged then, and had reveled in it. Finally came the struggle for rights, not for me, but for Myra and her kind.

All of it had been entwined with this girl, this girl now before me, down below my reach. All the happy parts of my life had been with her, when I included her in my days. I was deeply thankful that her powers had proved to me that she was now with our mother and father, and that someday we would be together. The reason why I cried was that I would miss her in the meantime. I didn't know how to manage without my sister, my little sister, who knew so much more than I did.

But how to tell them this? How could I possibly honor this relationship? How could I explain why she had affected me so, and why I had loved her enough to give up my ambitions and fight for her freedom?

All I could say was: "She asked for nothing but that I let her love me. And she gave me truth in return."