Page 88 of Veil of Ashes

“I want it to be permanent,” she murmurs. “Something nobody erases.”

I finish my coffee before answering.

“You will,” I say. “Whatever you make—it’ll stay.”

We talk about paints and ladders and shade patterns. About permission slips and whether she’ll need to bribe the bakery owner with cinnamon rolls. I tell her I’ll help sketch the outlines. She tells me I’d better not touch the shading.

Her laugh cuts through the room like a promise.

It’s light.

Warm.

Lived-in.

I never mention the letter.

Never tell her about the children, or the aliases, or the final act of a man she’s already buried.

Not because she couldn’t handle it.

But because she doesn’t have to.

Some truths aren’t lies.

They’re choices.

And I choose peace.

The fire outside is gone now. Nothing left but a trace of gray in the breeze. A scent of ink and old paper if you’re close enough to breathe it in.

Forgiveness doesn’t always need a witness.

Sometimes, it’s enough to let the past rest in ash.

Chapter 30 – Sylvara

I lock the shop door with one hand and let the key hang from the ring on my finger.

The sun’s nearly down, bleeding copper into the alley between our garage and the back of the old bakery. The sky stretches wide and honey-colored, pulling long shadows between the walls like silk laid across brick. Wild jasmine winds along the fencepost, blooming just enough to scent the breeze.

I glance back over my shoulder.

He’s wiping grease off his hands with a rag, standing half in shadow, forearms streaked from the day’s work. Shirt clinging to him like it’s as tired as he is. His hair’s messed from pushing it back too many times, and his focus is down on the cloth like the rest of the world doesn’t need to exist until he’s done cleaning up.

“Hey,” I say, voice low, just enough to cut through the hum of the warm night.

He looks up.

I crook a finger.

“Come with me.”

He watches me for half a second longer than necessary. Then tosses the rag on the hood of the truck and follows.

The alley behind the shop is narrow, quiet, half-forgotten by everyone except us. The sun paints the brick in gold, and I lean back against it, the heat still caught in the stone. My back arches just enough to feel it through my tank top. I tug him closer by the front of his shirt.

He doesn’t resist.

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