Page 86 of Veil of Ashes

But he risked everything to do it.

Even devils bleed redemption, sometimes.

F.M.

I let the page drop to the table, my fingers lingering on the edge. Ettore’s voice echoes in my head, unbidden—a memory from years back, him leaning against a pew, saying,

“There’s always two stories, Kieran. The one we tell, and the one we hide inside the cracks.” I never knew what he meant until now.

The cartel sheet stares up at me next, yellowed and worn, like it’s been folded and unfolded a hundred times.

Codes dot the lines—initials, route numbers, exit ports—mixed with Spanish so clipped it reads like a shout. I don’t speak it fluent, but I catch enough.

One word jumps out, repeated twice:

VERITAS. Truth, in Latin. A name, a code, a ghost.

I fold the paper again, once, twice, until it fits in my palm, small and contained. Then I just sit there, mug cooling between my hands, the fan clicking overhead.

A year ago, I’d be pacing, tearing through questions—What do I do with this? Who do I tell?—but now, I stay put.

The answer isn’t mine to chase. Not today.

The door swings open thirty minutes later, and Sylvara steps in, arms wrapped around a paper bag, hair tangled from the wind.

“Didn’t expect you to be awake,” she says, nudging the door shut with her hip. “Figured the coffee would wear off and you’d be sprawled out napping by now.”

I smile, just a tilt of my lips, enough to feel real. “Thought about it.”

She crosses the room and presses a kiss to the top of my head, her lips warm against my hair, then sets the bag on the counter. “Got the stamps. They’re hideous—some kind of fish design. Who picks these?”

I nod, watching her unload—milk, a loaf of bread, that awful chocolate she loves with the orange bits in it.

My eyes drift to the letter, still resting on the table, and I reach for it, sliding it behind a book on the shelf above the sink. Some truths you don’t bury deep, but you don’t fling them into the daylight either. You let them sit, let them settle, until the time’s right.

She turns, leaning against the counter, arms crossed loose. “You okay? You’ve got that look—like you’re chewing on a puzzle.”

I lean back in the chair, stretching my legs out, feeling the tile under my heels. “Just thinking. Nothing big.”

Her brows lift, skeptical, but she doesn’t push. “If you say so. Want me to heat up that coffee? It’s probably stone cold by now.”

“Nah, I’m good.” I pat the chair next to me. “Sit with me a minute.”

She grabs the chocolate bar from the bag, peeling it open as she drops into the seat. “Only ‘cause you asked nice,” she says, breaking off a piece and popping it in her mouth.

She offers me a chunk, grinning when I shake my head. “Your loss. This stuff’s heaven.”

“Smells like cough syrup,” I say, wrinkling my nose, and she laughs, bright and easy, the sound cutting through the haze in my head.

We sit there, her chewing, me sipping cold coffee, the morning unfolding around us. The fan clicks, the breeze rustles the newspaper, and the town hums beyond the window—dogs, voices, a car horn two streets over.

It’s normal, steady, the kind of life I never thought I’d get.

Sylvara’s foot nudges mine under the table, pulling me back. “You’re drifting again,” she says, voice soft but firm. “Talk to me, Kieran. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

I meet her eyes, green and sharp, cutting through the fog like they always do. She’s my anchor, my fire, and I don’t want to drag this shadow between us.

“Just old ghosts,” I say, reaching for her hand, lacing my fingers through hers. “Nothing we can’t handle.”

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