Page 110 of Veil of Smoke

Birds stay quiet. The streets feel hollowed out, but this bridge holds steady, humming with its own presence. I breathe it in, ash and all.

My boots scuff the concrete, dust clinging to the laces. I feel every ache, every bruise, but I’m still here, standing.

Dario joins me, his limp slight but there, favoring his left leg. He holds a steaming cup of gas station coffee, the cheap kind that smells like burnt rubber.

He offers it, his bandaged hand steady. I take it, the heat seeping through the paper, warming my palms.

I sip. Grimace. “Tastes like regret.”

He grins, small and tired. “Better than guilt.”

I nod, handing it back. We don’t say anything for a stretch. Just stand there, breathing in the quiet, the river flowing dark beneath us.

The wind tugs at my hood, sharp and brisk. I watch the smoke twist, a ghost of what we burned down last night, and feel it settle, not heavy, just there.

“Do you think it’s really over?” I ask, voice low, my eyes still on the skyline.

He shifts, leaning beside me, his elbow brushing the rail. “No. But I think we get to decide what comes next.”

I turn to him, his face rough with stubble, eyes soft but clear. No promises in them, just truth, and I nod, letting it sink in.

My gaze drops to his bandaged hand, the knuckles red beneath the gauze. My own are bruised, purple blooming under the skin, and I flex them, feeling the sting.

“We could run a shop out of a jazz van,” I say, the words slipping out, half a joke, half real.

He laughs, slow and genuine, a sound that cuts through the haze. “Whiskey in the glove box, lilies in the back.”

I smirk, leaning closer. “And you? Security?”

“Driver,” he says, his grin widening. “Fast exits, no questions.”

Our fingers brush on the rail, rough skin catching rough skin. Neither of us pulls away.

I look out again, the sunrise painting the river gold. “I thought revenge would taste better.”

He takes a sip of the coffee, wincing at it. “It tastes like metal and memory. But freedom? That’s still cooking.”

I nod, feeling that, the bitterness fading into something else. Not sweet, but mine.

“So we build something else?” I ask, my voice steady, testing the idea.

He tilts his head, eyes on me. “Not a kingdom. Not a war. Just… a life.”

I let that hang, the wind carrying it off. No grand vows, no pretty lies, just us, here.

“A jazz van,” I say, grinning faint. “With peonies and bourbon.”

“We’ll sell out by noon,” he says, his laugh rumbling low, real.

I chuckle, the sound surprising me, light against the ash. The city stretches below, waking slow, and I feel the morning shift, a breath we’ve earned.

“I used to think I’d die out there,” I say, voice soft, tracing the rail with my thumb.

“You didn’t,” he says, his hand resting near mine, close but still.

“No,” I say, meeting his gaze. “I didn’t.”

The wind picks up, tugging at my hair, and I feel the dampness on my skin, the post-rain chill settling in. It’s sharp, but I don’t mind.

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