Page 17 of Veil of Ashes

I step closer. The machinery’s hum fills the space behind us.

“Truth is just a forgery everyone believes,” she says. She picks up another stylus. “The key is knowing which lie to sell.”

“And which ones to burn.”

That earns a slight tilt of her mouth. Almost a smile. She closes the book, gentle, like laying someone to rest.

We’re close now. Inches apart. The UV light cuts between us, sharp and thin.

I could touch her. Pull her in. I don’t.

Her gloved hand rests on the ledger. The air feels thick, charged with something unspoken.

“You’re good at this,” I say. “Better than good.”

“Practice.” She peels off one glove, flexing her fingers. “Years of it.”

I nod at the book. “That’s not just skill. That’s art.”

“Art’s a luxury.” She sets the stylus down. “This is survival.”

Her voice stays even, but there’s weight in it. I feel it pull at me, like gravity I can’t shake.

“How long did it take?” I ask. “To build this place?”

“Long enough.” She turns, facing me fully. “Every piece is mine.”

The room stretches around us, all steel and shadow. Tools line the walls, organized, purposeful. Her world, her rules.

“You don’t trust anyone with it,” I say. It’s not a question.

“Trust gets you caught.” She steps past me, brushing close. “I learned that early.”

Her shoulder grazes mine. Heat sparks where it shouldn’t. I turn, following her movement.

She stops at a metal cabinet, pulling out a small case. “What about you?” she asks. “What keeps you coming back?”

“You.” It slips out, raw and true. She freezes, just for a second.

Then she opens the case. Inside, a stack of blank IDs gleams under the light. “Flattery won’t get you a discount.”

I laugh, short and rough. “Wasn’t fishing for one.”

She sets the case on the bench. “Good. I don’t give them.”

Her tone stays sharp, but her eyes flick to me again. That pull tightens, tugging harder now.

I step closer. “You don’t have to be alone in this.”

“I’m not alone.” She nods at the ledger. “I’ve got my ghosts.”

“They don’t talk back.”

“Maybe I like that.” She crosses her arms, leaning against the bench. “Less mess.”

The UV light catches her face, highlighting the faint scar above her brow. I’ve seen it before, but it hits different now.

“You’re not as dead as you think,” I say. “Not to me.”

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