Page 87 of Veil of Ashes

She squeezes my hand, her skin warm against mine, and nods. “Together, then. Always.”

“Always,” I echo, lifting her knuckles to my lips, brushing a kiss there.

She smiles, leaning across the table to kiss me proper, her lips tasting of chocolate and home. I kiss her back, steady and sure, letting the warmth of her push the letter’s edge away, just for now. The truth can wait—it’s not going anywhere. But this, her, us—it’s here, real, and I’m not letting it slip through my hands.

The sun warms my hands before it touches my face.

It crests the rooftop across the street, filtering over the balcony railing in clean bands of morning gold. There’s no wind today. The spring air is calm. Still. Like it knows I need the quiet.

The small metal ashtray sits on the ledge beside me. Tin, dented, still bearing the logo of a gas station chain that doesn’t exist anymore. I found it in the garage months ago. Never used it—until now.

I hold the letter over it with both hands. Two corners pinched between my fingers. The paper’s stiff. Thick. High-quality.

It catches quickly.

The fire runs through the words in an instant, eating the truth like it was never meant to last.

Black curls ripple up toward the sky. The edges turn orange, then gray. Ash drifts into the air like dust from a distant war. I watch it go, slow and steady, until nothing remains but warped metal and memory.

Behind me, a window squeaks open.

“Want coffee?” Sylvara calls, her voice still scratchy with sleep.

I don’t turn at first. I let the last bit of black burn down.

Then I smile.

“Always.”

The kitchen smells like vanilla and dark roast.

Sylvara stands at the counter, barefoot, her T-shirt sliding off one shoulder. Her hair’s a mess, piled into a knot that’s holding on by stubbornness alone. She hands me a mug without asking how I take it. She already knows.

We sit on the floor, backs to the cabinets, our legs stretched out across the kitchen tiles.

She tucks one foot under my thigh.

No words at first.

Just the fan turning lazily overhead, the faint gurgle of the coffee pot still finishing its cycle, and the world outside easing into itself like a dog curling up on its porch.

Then she speaks.

“I’ve been thinking about the wall behind the bakery,” she says.

I sip and raise an eyebrow.

“That blank stucco slab that catches the afternoon light,” she adds. “It needs color.”

I nod. “Mural?”

She smiles. “Big one. Maybe a desert bloom. Or a spine of old roses.”

“You ever painted that wide before?”

“Not yet.”

She shrugs and leans into me.

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