Page 83 of Veil of Ashes

I didn’t expect peace to feel this still.

But it’s not empty.

It’s enough.

The girl can’t be more than fifteen.

She stands outside the shop for a while, pretending to fiddle with the chain on her bike, but her eyes keep bouncing between the sign over the garage door and the open front office. She’s wearing a hoodie with the sleeves cut off and her hair buzzed short on one side. A faded red backpack hangs crooked off her shoulders.

When she finally steps inside, her voice is steadier than her hands.

“You guys fix bikes?”

Kieran doesn’t look up right away. He’s elbow-deep in the Mustang’s engine again, fingers wrapped around a socket wrench. He glances toward the girl over his shoulder.

“Depends what’s wrong with it,” he says.

She nudges the bike forward. “Chain popped off. I tried to get it back on, but it’s jammed.”

“Easy fix,” he mutters, grabbing a rag and walking over.

She follows him to the edge of the garage, still clutching the handlebars.

I step around the reception desk and nod toward the little fridge behind the counter.

“Want some water?” I ask.

She hesitates, then shrugs. “Sure.”

I hand her a bottle and watch as she cracks the seal and takes two fast gulps. Her eyes flick around the shop. She doesn’t look afraid—just hungry for something she hasn’t quite named yet.

Her gaze stops on my sketchbook, still open on the desk beside the coil machine.

“You draw all those?” she asks.

I nod. “Yeah.”

She sets the bottle down carefully and moves closer, peering at the designs.

One page shows a phoenix coiled around a dagger. The wings are flame-thin, trailing down into smoke. The blade is buried in the creature’s chest, but the bird still rises.

She reaches out and touches the edge of the page with one finger.

“That’s cool,” she says. “My mom wouldn’t let me get one. Says tattoos are trashy. But I think they mean something.”

“They always do,” I reply.

She looks up at me like she’s checking whether I believe it.

I do.

Kieran finishes resetting the chain, wipes his hands on a rag, and gives the back tire a spin.

“Good to go,” he says. “Might want to oil the crank. It’s dry.”

She nods and pulls the bike toward the door.

“Thanks,” she says, still looking at the sketchbook. “You guys from around here?” she asks.

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