One More Morning

Derry, Maine – February 11, 1985 – 8:07 a.m.

The backyard was a glittering white chaos.

Richie Tozier sprinted across the snow in exaggerated slow-motion terror, arms windmilling, scarf flapping behind him like a cape gone wrong.

“No! No no no! Monster! Monster’s loose! Somebody save meeeee!”

Behind him—small, relentless, dusk-blue coat flapping open—Stella charged with both arms outstretched, fingers curled into mock claws.

“Rawrrrrr!” she bellowed, voice high and gleeful. “I’m gonna eat the funny man!”

Richie threw a dramatic glance over his shoulder, eyes wide behind fogged glasses.

“You’ll never take me alive, tiny terror! I’m too gamey! I taste like burnt toast and regret!”

He pretended to trip—went down in an extravagant belly-flop into a snowbank—rolled once, then lay flat on his back, one arm flung over his eyes.

“Do your worst, kid. Just… make it quick.”

Stella pounced.

She landed square on his chest with a triumphant “Gotcha!”—knees pinning his arms, small hands planted on his shoulders like she’d just conquered Everest.

Richie cracked one eye open.

“You cheated,” he wheezed. “You totally teleported that last three feet. I saw the sparkles.”

Stella grinned down at him—cheeks pink from cold and victory, dark hair sticking out from under her knit hat in wild tufts.

“Did not,” she said primly. “I just… ran really fast.”

“Uh-huh. Sure. Next you’ll tell me you didn’t float the last snowball either.”

From the back porch Bev’s voice carried across the yard—warm, amused, edged with the familiar mom-tone that always cut through the nonsense.

“Richie! Stella! Inside before you both turn into snowmen. Pancakes are ready—and I’m not reheating them!”

Stella’s head snapped toward the house.

“Pancakes!” she crowed, scrambling off Richie’s chest so fast he wheezed again.

Richie groaned theatrically and sat up, brushing snow out of his hair.

“Saved by breakfast. My hero.”

Stella grabbed his hand and yanked—small but determined.

“Come on, funny man! You’re too slow!”

He let her drag him toward the porch, both of them laughing, boots crunching, snow flying in little clouds around their legs.

Inside the kitchen smelled like maple syrup, butter, and fresh coffee.

The table was already set: tall stacks of pancakes steaming on plates, a pitcher of orange juice, a bowl of blueberries, a bottle of syrup with a sticky ring around the neck.

Bev stood at the stove in her apron, flipping one last pancake with practiced ease. She glanced over her shoulder as they burst in—snow still clinging to their coats, cheeks flushed, Richie mock-limping like he’d been mortally wounded.

“You two look like you fought a war out there,” she said, smiling.

“Stella’s a cheater,” Richie announced, hanging his coat. “She used monster powers. I demand a rematch.”

Stella climbed onto her chair—knees first, the way she always did—and beamed at Bev.

“I won,” she declared proudly.

Bev laughed softly and set a plate in front of her: three perfect golden pancakes, already buttered.

“Of course you did, little star.”

Stella reached for the syrup bottle with both hands, tongue poking out in concentration. She tilted it carefully over Bev’s plate—the one Bev hadn’t touched yet—and began to draw.

Slow, deliberate loops and swirls.

A heart.

A little stick-figure girl with wild hair.

A bigger stick-figure woman with long red scribbles for hair.

And above them both, in tiny careful letters:

love you

The syrup pooled and glistened in the morning light coming through the window.

Bev’s eyes softened. She set the spatula down, leaned over, and kissed the top of Stella’s head.

“I love you too,” she whispered.

Stella looked up—eyes bright, ordinary brown again, no sparks, no orange.

“Extra blueberries?” she asked hopefully.

Bev laughed and reached for the bowl.

“Extra everything.”

The past few days had slipped by in a strange, gentle hush.

No red balloons drifted past windows. No wet chuckles rose from storm drains. No children vanished. Patrols came back empty-handed every night; the walkies stayed silent. Derry felt almost… ordinary again. The kind of ordinary that felt borrowed, fragile, like a snow globe someone had forgotten to shake.

They had let themselves live in it.

Mornings of too much coffee and too many pancakes. Afternoons of snowball fights that ended with everyone soaked and laughing. Evenings around the fire where Richie told terrible jokes, Eddie complained about sugar crashes, Ben sketched portraits of them all, Mike read quietly from old library books, Bill practiced his stutter-free lines for imaginary scripts, and Stan folded origami cranes until the coffee table looked like a flock had landed.

Stella had been everywhere at once—helping Bev hem a coat, riding on Richie’s shoulders through the yard, drawing crayon pictures with Ben, asking Mike endless questions about stars, folding paper birds with Stan, listening to Bill read stories with wide-eyed wonder.

She had laughed more in those few days than she had in all the weeks before.

And every night, when the house grew quiet, she had crawled into Bev’s bed, pressed her small body against Bev’s side, and whispered the same thing before sleep took her:

“Tomorrow we keep being us.”

Bev had always answered the same way.

“Tomorrow we keep being us.”

Now, as the kitchen filled with the rest of them—Eddie scolding Richie for stealing blueberries straight from the bowl, Ben sliding a fresh sketch of Stella-as-monster across the table, Mike quietly pouring more coffee, Bill and Stan arguing good-naturedly over who got the last piece of bacon—the normalcy felt almost too bright. Too perfect. Like the last page of a story no one wanted to turn.

Stella finished her syrup painting, set the bottle down, and looked around the table at all of them—really looked.

Her small face was calm, serious, older than it should have been.

She reached for Bev’s hand under the table and squeezed once—gentle but firm.

“Tomorrow,” she said quietly.

The word landed soft, but it carried.

The laughter faltered for half a heartbeat.

Richie paused mid-bite, fork hovering. Eddie’s hand stilled on his mug. Ben looked up from his sketchpad. Mike met her eyes across the table. Bill and Stan exchanged a glance.

Stella didn’t elaborate. She didn’t need to.

She simply picked up her fork again, speared a blueberry, and popped it into her mouth.

“These are the best ones,” she said, voice bright once more. “Extra sweet.”

Bev squeezed her hand back—once, twice—then let go and reached for the syrup.

“Tomorrow,” she echoed softly.

The kitchen filled with chatter again—Richie launching into an awful pun, Eddie groaning, Ben laughing, the others piling on.

But under the table, two small hands stayed linked.

One more morning.

One more breakfast.

One more promise.

Outside, snow kept falling—soft, relentless, quiet.

For now.