The sun was setting, the stars were beginning to shine, and the moon was peeking out from where it hid throughout the day. A gorgeous evening. But Thomas could not be truly happy. Not when so many of his friends weren't there. Everything that he saw reminded him of the sacrifices his friends had made. The marble in the cliffs reminded him of Chuck's little statue. The golden sun on the ocean was the colour of Newt's hair. The softness of the leaves in the trees reminded him of Teresa's lips that night on the burning rooftop. Anytime a rock fell it would make the same sound as the gun that Winston shot himself with. The tiny doll, the vial of serum, and the letter. All that was left. Just those tiny keepsakes. They were locked in a box that sat on Thomas' shelf in his hut. Aris had turned out to be surprisingly artistic, and he sketched almost lifelike images of the friends that had never made it to see their goal. A set of footsteps crunched softly through the sand. Minho.

"Hey man. Are you thinkin' about them again?" His voice was gentle, knowing.

"Yeah. Can't get them off my mind." Minho nodded slightly.

"I miss them too. But we gotta move on. It's what they would've wanted."

"Do you mean forget about them? Minho, they all died in horrible ways! One of them trying to save you!" Minho jumped back at Thomas' sudden outburst.

"I didn't mean it that way. We can't bring back the dead, so there is no point pretending we can. Try to get some sleep." But sleeping was the worst thing that Thomas could do. It might be an escape into a dreamland for others, but for him, sleep was when the dead came back. How many times had he felt Chuck push in front of him, gurgling out his last words. How many times had he watched Teresa fall to her death, from a burning building, unable to do anything but yell. How many times did he see the light fade from Newt's eyes, and crumple to the ground. Alby's last words, the gunshot that put Winston out of his misery, the screams of his friends as they were attacked by the Grievers. All that came back to haunt him in the night.

Thomas went to his hut, and unlocked the little box. He removed the vial, the letter, the carving, and held them close to his heart. Then it all came rushing back. Just the small things. Teresa's grand entrance, her throwing rocks from the fort. Chuck bringing him food that night in the pit, running around gathering supplies for the day they were going to escape. Newt's warm smile, his determination to hold onto friendship and save Minho. Thomas smiled, his first genuine smile since the first night at the bonfire. He wished he could live in these memories forever. There, his friends would never die. He clasped the objects in his hand and curled up on his cot, and a piece of optimism hit. Maybe, just maybe, they weren't all dead. It was childish, but there was a hint of a possibility. Wasn't there? No, there was no way in hell.

I hope that chapter was a tug at your heartstrings. If you are a major Thomas-fan, then I hope I made you want to give him a huge hug.